I think we can all agree that tropical fruit juice is a very good thing. Likewise, rum. So why does the combination of the two so often go horribly, embarrassingly wrong?
I’m not saying the frozen piña colada doesn’t have its place. It belongs on the dessert menu at an all-inclusive beach resort. It belongs in the rented slushy machine at a retirement home pool party. It just doesn’t belong at your neighborhood bar.
That said, it is entirely possible for a tropical drink to transcend its umbrella status and achieve something pretty close to respectability.
If there’s any place you’d expect to find such a drink, it’s the bar at the venerable Mauna Kea Beach Hotel in Hawaii. The hotel was founded by Laurence S. Rockefeller in 1965, and it looks like a sixties millionaire’s notion of Hawaiian opulence—somehow classy and tacky at the same time. The elegant lobby is decorated with Hawaiian antiquities. The bar has wall coverings made of nautical rope. Its wealthy patrons display a fondness for hibiscus-print clothing.
Jay the bartender is the Mauna Kea personified: he’s been around a while and he really knows his booze, but he doesn’t shy away from the blender. He grimaces when customers order a Blue Hawaiian. When they ask about an island vodka whose gimmick is that it’s made with deep-sea water, he says, “Honestly? It’s shite.” But if you ask him for a tropical drink that won’t make your fillings tingle, he is more than happy to accommodate the request.
His tip for those in pursuit of tropical flavors without the shame: salvation through whiskey.
When I was there last month, Jay made me a drink called the Frederico, named after a former guest. It’s a blended (yes, blended—get over it) mix of fresh juices (guava, passionfruit, pineapple, orange), añejo rum, and his secret ingredient: a shot of Jack Daniel’s.
To be fair, the fresh juice alone put this cocktail in an entirely different class than what passes for tropical on the mainland. But the whiskey was key. It balanced the fruitiness and gave the drink some depth. It eliminated the feeling that I should be wearing a muumuu and apologizing for my order. It didn’t taste like something my kid might like. It tasted like a real drink, plus sunshine.
According to Jay, the problem with tropical drinks isn’t the umbrella or the blender, it’s that juice and rum are just too sweet to stand alone. I’ve since tried the trick at home, and it stands up every time.
To review: Umbrella drink = bad. Umbrella drink + whiskey = good. It’s really that simple.
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