File Under: Stuff With Gin, Limes, Rum And Crème De Cassis

Latest cocktails tried . . .

Solomon Sling (Mr. Boston, page 95): six parts gin, three parts lemon juice, two parts simple syrup, two parts Kirschwasser, one part Cherry Heering, one dash Angostura bitters. Good.

Angel’s Share (Mr. Boston, page 171): six parts bourbon, two parts Amaro, one part crème de cassis, one dash orange bitters. Overlooked this recipe in the book for a while because I don’t know why. We used Amaro CioCiaro and this old cassis sort of forgotten in the liquor cabinet. This was good, too; worth returning to.

Junior (PDT, page 154): eight parts rye, three parts lime juice, two parts Benedictine, two dashes Angostura bitters. We had a bunch of limes in the fridge so I put them to use. Was OK, if memory serves.

Romeo y Julieta (PDT, page 228): eight parts rum, two parts sweet vermouth, two parts Campari. Like a Left Hand but with more rum. Definitely didn’t add the four spritzes of diluted Aftel Tobacco Essence, though, so who knows.

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There’s a cocktail in the PDT book called the Nouveau Carré that’s a riff on a Vieux Carre/homage to New Orleans post Katrina. It’s six parts tequila, three parts Lillet, one part Bénédictine and three dashes Peychaud’s. I finally bought some Lillet in part (or mostly because) there are a bunch of cocktail recipes using it. This one was pretty good. What Lillet actually is is described in this unhelpful Wikipedia entry. It uses phrases like this: “The mix is then stirred in oak vats until perfectly blended. During the ageing process, Lillet is handled as attentively as any great Bordeaux wine (undergoing fining, racking, filtering etc.). Lillet belongs to a family of aperitifs known as tonic wines because of the addition of Quinine liqueur.”

Like Fucking Robert Palmer Or Something

Jen’s been on a rum kick — last night we didn’t have cocktails at the Tiki-themed Chinese restaurant, so we resolved to have them at home. Now I don’t know the first thing about festive tikiness, and I much prefer the tang of bourbon to the treacle of rum, but I’m assuming I just haven’t had the right cocktail. Last night it was the time capsule cocktail the Unisphere. Not very tiki. Tonight it was the Irresistible (Mr. Boston, page 117): Six parts white rum (I was told this rum was probably not white), two parts sweet vermouth, one part Benedictine and one part lemon juice. It was complex tasting — the secondary ingredients melted into each other in a pleasant way.

As sweet as this tasted, it was surprising there wasn’t any sugar. Must be the the rum. I mean, I guess? I’m determined to make a month’s worth of rum cocktails, just as a challenge.

Here’s A Cocktail Named After A 1960s-Era Sculpture In Flushing Meadows Corona Park

So Jen wanted a rum cocktail this evening and I was flipping through the Jones’ Complete Barguide, going back and forth between the index and names of things that didn’t sound too ridiculous (you assume “Goat’s Delight” will be heinous but it’s actually much less bizarre than the “Mae West,” which is brandy, sugar, cayenne pepper and an egg folk — no, seriously) and I stumbled — not “literally” but out of nowhere just alighted on it — on the Unisphere cocktail: six parts rum, one part grenadine, two parts lime juice, one part Benedictine and one part Pernod (I used a pastis substitute, full disclosure). As you might expect, the anise flavor is present, though it kind of recedes after a while. Why it’s the Unisphere, I have no earthly idea: that said, they made them during a ’64-’65 World’s Fair commemoration in 2008.

We both thought the taste seemed a little thin, and wondered if a little simple syrup would help sort of fill out the texture. It’s a strange combination but even so, we both liked it . . . maybe tweak, who knows.

When Cocktails Are Like Sex With Bad Pizza

The great thing about the Mr. Boston book is that there are loads of cocktail recipes that are included and it’s not completely clear whether they’re there because they exist or if there is some kind of endorsement. I assumed it was the former, that the book was intended to be a dictionary of stuff. At the same time, the nod toward curation in the accompanying text makes you wonder if they’re serious about some of these drinks. And what I like about it is that there are no “bylines,” unlike a lot of books, so it’s never really clear what’s new and what’s old.

At any rate, I would like to say that the Guadalajara (page 137) seems like a flabby, uninspired cocktail. It’s got tequila (four parts), dry vermouth (two parts) and Bénédictine (one part) and yet nothing really comes forward from that. I didn’t use a lemon twist as was called for, and maybe that would make a difference, and it’s silly for me not to have done that because there are a bunch of lemons in the fridge, but at the same time, I have such an aversion to dismembering fruit that it’s hard for me to think to go over and do such a thing.