Boozehound - Jason Wilson [43]
I wanted to get rid of the peach schnapps, cranberry juice, and Jägermeister yet still retain some memory of the fruit, the herbs and spices, and the color, which is a sort of ginger color like … red hair. The first ingredient was easy. I hate peach schnapps and it happened to be peach season, so I was going to use fresh yellow peaches in whatever I made. The second ingredient was also a cinch to lose, because the cranberry juice wasn’t doing much of anything in this drink except adding color. The third was trickier. I actually like Jägermeister now and then. But maybe Jägermeister as a mixer isn’t always a good idea. It can overpower.
Still, Jägermeister has a flavor profile similar to the Italian amari that so many trendy “mixologists” use. And I’d read about an interesting experiment using peaches and Punt e Mes vermouth on a blog called Cocktail Notes. Punt e Mes’s flavor lies somewhere between sweet vermouth and Campari. I liked it, but Punt e Mes is brown, and I wanted this drink to be red. So I mixed sweet vermouth and Campari with muddled peaches. Once I had my vermouth-Campari-peach mixture, I was in business. I combined this mixture with all sorts of spirits, but found it worked best with brandy or bourbon.
The drink still needed a new, less offensive name, however. I was stumped. My experimentation happened around the time we learned of John Hughes’s death in August 2009. That weekend, I ended up watching a bunch of his great 1980s teen films. At a certain point during Sixteen Candles, the name of my nicer, fresher, more sophisticated—but still redheaded—drink became obvious.
THE MOLLY RINGWALD
Serves 4
1 large yellow peach, peeled, pitted, and cut into small chunks
2½ ounces sweet vermouth
1 ¼ ounces Campari
3 dashes peach bitters
3 ounces brandy
Muddle the peach chunks in a mixing glass until most of their juice has been released. Add the vermouth, Campari, and bitters. Shake well. Strain through a fine-mesh strainer, using the muddler to press as much liquid as possible through the strainer, and transfer the mixture to a small pitcher, jar, or other glass container. You should have about 6 ounces of liquid.
Pour 1½ ounces of the peach mixture into each of 4 old-fashioned glasses. Add 2 or 3 small ice cubes and ¾ ounce of brandy to each glass. Stir well.
NOTE: If you like, you may substitute bourbon, gin, Calvados, or another spirit for the brandy.
CHAPTER 5
BITTER IS BELLA
WHO HAS NEVER TASTED WHAT IS BITTER DOES NOT KNOW WHAT IS SWEET.
—German proverb
WHEN INTRODUCING new and strange drinks to people, I find that some libations can be a harder sell than others. Italian bitters, or amari, are always among the most challenging. Take, for instance, Cynar. The picture of the artichoke on the bottle does not help. Neither does the fact that the name shares four letters with the word cyanide. But I try to spread the good word on Cynar anyway. Here’s how the conversation usually goes:
Friend: What the hell is that?
Me: Cynar.
Friend: Cynar?
Me: Yes! You must try Cynar! Do yourself a favor!
Friend: What does it taste like?
Me: Um, it’s a 33-proof liqueur that’s distilled from artichokes, but also lots of other herbs and stuff.
Friend: Artichokes? WTF? It’s not one of those bitter Italian things you’re always trying to get me to drink, is it?
Me: Well, yes. But this one is sort of bittersweet.
Friend: Is it at least pretty in a martini glass?
Me: Well, it’s kind of like a dark brown. But you can maybe call it sepia or mahogany or burnt sienna if that makes it seem better.
That’s when they usually make a face, just as you may be doing right now. Cynar doesn’t sound very promising, does it? I won’t lie. Cynar—perhaps like anchovies or modern jazz or certain sexual positions—takes a bit of effort, at first, to enjoy. But I implore you: make the effort.