Bourbon on ice. For the days when you can’t be bothered to make a Sazerac or a Mint Julep.
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One thing this country has always enjoyed is a good drink. Whether it was rum on the Atlantic, bourbon at the races or that Bloody Mary at Sunday Brunch, alcohol is the American Drink.
Once upon a time at my neighborhood bar …
Amanda, a friend of American Drink, was sipping a whiskey after work when a guy sat down next to her and smiled.
Him: “What are you drinking?”
Her: “A Powers.”
Him: “What’s in a Powers?”
Her: … “Ice.”
Amanda then excused herself and found a seat at the other end of the bar, where she and her Powers lived happily ever after.
The end.
The Mint Julep - Refreshing Whiskey Drinks
A proper drink at the right time—one mixed with care and skill and served in a true spirit of hospitality—is better than any other made thing at giving us the illusion, at least, that we’re getting what we want from life. —David Wondrich, Imbibe!1
That is an apt description for any cocktail but it applies especially well to the Mint Julep. It is one of the oldest cocktails around. In Ye Olde Tymes, a “julep” was medicine. At some point in the early 19th century, Americans stripped the word of its boring clinical connotations and bound it to the happy, fun-time of “daddy’s medicine.” Traditionally, it’s served in a tin cup but glass is just fine.
The Mint Julep
1-2 tbs simple syrup
8-10 fresh mint leaves
3 oz bourbon
Lots of crushed iceGently muddle the mint leaves in a Julep tin or old fashioned glass, rubbing the oils around. Add simple syrup and about half the bourbon. Don’t be afraid to go mid to top-shelf here. Elijah Craig, Makers Mark, Buffalo Trace work well but Jim Beam is just fine. Add crushed ice to just below the top of the glass. Stir well until the glass gets frosty. Add the remainder of the bourbon and stir again. Top with crushed ice and garnish with mint. Serve with cocktail straws or sip right out of the glass. Get your nose down in that mint. Playa.
This drink is meant to be sipped. Take your time with it. Enjoy.
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Since I started drinking at 30 it’s been Jameson on the rocks, though the Jameson ad campaigns on the subway have made me think maybe I should switch, since those ads clearly convey that if you drink Jameson you’re an asshole or a corporate tool. Or perhaps I’m being dense and this was the way I was supposed to discover I’m an asshole and a corporate tool.
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A good drink evokes a sense of space, reminds you of a place and time. The best are iconic to a location and timeless — the cool urbanity of a whisky, vermouth and brandied cherries or the gentility of bourbon, mint and chilled silver.
New Orleans is a town that is equally steeped in liquor and history and no drink serves its home like a Sazerac. The Hurricane services addled tourists just fine even though they’ll stow and forget those souvenir glasses before their flight delivers them home. The Sazerac endures, rises above the crowd and the noise with a quiet nobility.
Though I claim North Carolina when people ask, the truth actually starts much deeper south. My earliest memories are datelined with Gulfport, Mobile and Houston, fed by shrimp, crab and oysters, hot slow summers punctuated by thunderstorms and the occasional hurricane. I first met Bourbon Street on my dad’s shoulders on my fifth birthday but mostly remember the zoo.
New Orleans is a mutt of a town, proud of its varied history and neglected by its more boastful siblings. It’s a study in contrast, wealth and poverty, simpleness and complexity, pride and neglect, sweet and savory. An expertly crafted Sazerac evokes all of these, first improvised out of the cultural gumbo that is the Big Easy.
The ingredients belie this — American Rye whisky, Peychaud’s bitters born in the Caribbean, a lump of sugar, a hint of French absinthe and a cut of lemon peel. Stirred with ice to temper the whisky but strained not to water it down, the chilled glass condensing the humid night. I almost never make them myself as it’s rare I ever have all of the ingredients on hand.
Don’t be embarrassed to put on some Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet or Dixieland Jazz Band to strike the proper tone. Personally, I’ve never much cottoned to Zydeco, but it’ll do in a pinch.
Fill an old fashioned glass with ice and set to the side.
In a tall glass or shaker, drop in the sugar lump and add three dashes of Peychaud’s bitters. Don’t substitute Angostura bitters here, Monsieur Peychaud invented the cocktail, you owe the old creole apothecary the dignity of mixing it correctly.
Muddle to break up the sugar, then add one and a half ounces of rye whisky, not bourbon, which lacks the spice of rye.
Fill the shaker with ice then stir, don’t shake, for twenty seconds.
Discard the ice from the old fashioned glass, add just a sip of absinthe and roll the glass at a 38 degree angle to coat the inside. Toss any lingering absinthe.
Strain the whisky into the old fashioned glass, twist the lemon peel over the top to release some of its oils then run it along the rim of the glass. Throw out the lemon peel, it only gets in the way.
[EDITOR’S NOTE]: As some of you know, our special guest, @jimray announced his engagement to @phillygirl last Friday. So, from everyone here at American Drink: Congratulations, Sadie and Jim!
The infamous Suntory Whiskey scene from Lost in Translation, an American Drink favorite. It’s obvious in the movie that Bob Harris’ director was delivering far more than the interpreter could translate, and it turns out that the scene has an interesting back story.
You Might Ask Yourself has posted the dialogue from a New York Times article (2003) that gives a full translation of the scene. It states that Sophia Coppola got the idea for the mixed-message montage after promoting The Virgin Suicides in Japan. She recalls speaking to reporters, only to hear the reporter’s translator carry on for far longer than she had spoken. Inspired by the experience, she wrote the scene in English and translated it into Japanese.
Enjoy.
DIRECTOR (in Japanese to the interpreter): The translation is very important, O.K.? The translation.
INTERPRETER: Yes, of course. I understand.
DIRECTOR: Mr. Bob-san. You are sitting quietly in your study. And then there is a bottle of Suntory whiskey on top of the table. You understand, right? With wholehearted feeling, slowly, look at the camera, tenderly, and as if you are meeting old friends, say the words. As if you are Bogie in “Casablanca,” saying, “Cheers to you guys,” Suntory time!
INTERPRETER: He wants you to turn, look in camera. O.K.?
BOB: That’s all he said?
INTERPRETER: Yes, turn to camera.
BOB: Does he want me to, to turn from the right or turn from the left?
INTERPRETER (in very formal Japanese to the director): He has prepared and is ready. And he wants to know, when the camera rolls, would you prefer that he turn to the left, or would you prefer that he turn to the right? And that is the kind of thing he would like to know, if you don’t mind.
DIRECTOR (very brusquely, and in much more colloquial Japanese): Either way is fine. That kind of thing doesn’t matter. We don’t have time, Bob-san, O.K.? You need to hurry. Raise the tension. Look at the camera. Slowly, with passion. It’s passion that we want. Do you understand?
INTERPRETER (In English, to Bob): Right side. And, uh, with intensity.
BOB: Is that everything? It seemed like he said quite a bit more than that.
DIRECTOR: What you are talking about is not just whiskey, you know. Do you understand? It’s like you are meeting old friends. Softly, tenderly. Gently. Let your feelings boil up. Tension is important! Don’t forget.
INTERPRETER (in English, to Bob): Like an old friend, and into the camera.
BOB: O.K.
DIRECTOR: You understand? You love whiskey. It’s Suntory time! O.K.?
BOB: O.K.
DIRECTOR: O.K.? O.K., let’s roll. Start.
BOB: For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.
DIRECTOR: Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! (Then in a very male form of Japanese, like a father speaking to a wayward child) Don’t try to fool me. Don’t pretend you don’t understand. Do you even understand what we are trying to do? Suntory is very exclusive. The sound of the words is important. It’s an expensive drink. This is No. 1. Now do it again, and you have to feel that this is exclusive. O.K.? This is not an everyday whiskey you know.
INTERPRETER: Could you do it slower and ——
DIRECTOR: With more ecstatic emotion.
INTERPRETER: More intensity.
DIRECTOR (in English): Suntory time! Roll.
BOB: For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.
DIRECTOR: Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! God, I’m begging you.
To Enhance Flavor, Just Add Water - NYTimes.com
Why would you want to water down a perfectly good cocktail? To liberate the aroma molecules, says this guy.
If you like the taste of whiskey and gin but don’t care for the burn, this story may change the way you drink.
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Fans and judges of Scotch whiskies often sample their flavor by ‘nosing’ them, or sniffing the aroma that gathers in the glass. Nosers have long known that diluting the spirit with roughly the same amount of water reduces the alcohol burn. And at the same time, strangely, amplifies the aromas. How can water reduce one sensation and amplify another? Both alcohol and aroma molecules are volatile, meaning they evaporate from foods and drinks and are carried by the air to the odor receptors high up in the nasal cavity. Aroma molecules are also more chemically similar to alcohol molecules than they are to water, so they tend to cling to alcohol, and are quicker to evaporate out of a drink when there’s less alcohol to cling to. This means that the more alcoholic a drink is, the more it cloisters its aroma molecules, and the less aroma it releases into the air. Add water and there’s less alcohol to irritate and burn, and more aroma release.
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From Mad Men - Six Month Leave (Season 2, Episode 9)
Freddie Rumsen has a problem. He’s fingered as a drunk by hard drinkers after pissing himself before a client meeting.
Instead of firing him on the spot, Roger and Don take Freddie out for a night. Over drinks, they tell him that he’s on a six month leave, effective immediately. “There’s a line, Freddie… and you wet it.” They share a laugh, a toast— “To Monday morning… it’ll be here quicker than you think,”— and then they go big.
Like, really big. Another round of drinks (Old Fashioned, Martini, Canadian Club, neat) before dinner then they hit an illegal casino, order up a Canadian Club, neat, a Will Schmidt Gibson and Grand-Dad, rocks until Don punches out Jimmy Barrett and they have to leave.
After sending Freddie off, Don and Roger end up at another bar for some bro time.
Roger: That’s why I stick with the clear liquors—vodka, gin— I know where I stand.
Don: I’m the opposite.
Roger: So what do you think? Because you gave blood, the whiskey made you a little angry?
They talk about Don’s marital problems, love and moving on with life. Turns out, this is the last time they’re friendly for a season-and-a-half.
The next morning, Don promotes Peggy and gives her all of Freddie’s accounts. Roger tells his wife of 25 years that he’s in love with Don’s secretary and that he’s moving on with his life. Don clearly does not need this shit.
“I want her off my desk.”
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Yes, Canadian whiskey counts as whiskey. It’s a blended whiskey made with lots of lovely rye. Unlike many of the U.S. straight rye whiskeys, Canadian whiskey is aged for at least three years which smooths out the hardness. Like most things Canadian, it’s polite.
American Prohibition provided great economic stimulus for neighboring Canadian provinces which repealed their own Prohibition laws in order to meet vigorous demand from the States. Bootleggers and rum runners smuggled Canadian spirits into the U.S. by the metric shitload.
Not much is written about The New Yorker. Too bad because it’s a great drink. I suspect it has more to do with one of its ingredients—grenadine— than lack of interest. Grenadine is more closely associated with Shirley Temples and girly drinks than classic cocktails. Fresh grenadine is the key1.
The New Yorker
1 1/2 oz. Canadian Whiskey
1 oz. Lemon juice
1/2 oz. hot-process GrenadinePour all the ingredients into an old fashioned glass and stir. Add ice and garnish with a lemon peel.
That’s it. Quick, easy and surprisingly refreshing. For a tasty variation, take two to three half-inch chunks of rhubarb and muddle it with the grenadine until pulpy. Add the lemon juice and whiskey then strain into an ice filled old fashioned glass.
Next time you’re in Tacoma, Wash. stop by 1022 South, a craft bar with drinks that rival any big name bar. They have a Hilltop New Yorker on the menu sans grenadine with a red wine float. It’s served up in a chilled martini glass and there’s a couple other things going on in the drink which I haven’t been able to replicate at home. That’s fine, I’d rather have one there.
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Remember, throw that store bought bullshit away and make it fresh. It’s so easy. Plus it’s versitile. ↩
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