The Old Man and the Daquiri

An internet quip by my buddy Scott kicked it off: "Reading Hemingway just makes me want to drink."

I can relate. Over the winter, I was working my way through A Farewell To Arms. Poor Frederic, nursing his wounds in the hospital in Milan or fleeing the authorities, he kept finding his solace in a bottle of vermouth. As I read, I felt compelled to join him.

Now, on the cusp of the slow crawl of spring, I thought it time to revisit his signature drink: the Hemingway Daiquiri. Supposedly this drink, or a variation of it, was Mr. Hemingway's go-to cocktail several times each day at El Floridita Bar in Havana, calling it Papa Doble- 'Papa's Double." The specific ratios of 'Hemingway's Daiquiri' seem to be a bit obscured by the vagaries of time (and the fuzzy memory of mixological history- an unsurprisingly common occurrence) so the recipes range from sweet and light to boozy and sour. At it's core though, the drink is an elaboration on the traditional daiquiri with a splash of grapefruit juice and a touch of maraschino liqueur.

I started off with a contemporary spin on the Papa Double, as concocted by Dale Degroff:

Hemingway Daquiri:
1.5 oz light rum (Mt. Gay Eclipse)
.25 oz maraschino liqueur (Luxardo)
.5 oz fresh grapefruit juice
.75 oz simple syrup
.75 oz fresh lime juice
Shake with ice, strain into a cocktail glass



Bam. This drink is a killer. After a winter spent sipping strong, aggressive, booze-heavy drinks, this tastes like a sweet, dainty flower. Unlike most sours where the citrus seems to be the main contender, this guy melts together with a light sweetness that is refrshingly quaffable. The slight bitter note of the grapefruit prevents it from straying too far into sugar-overload. Maybe still a touch sweet for my taste, but this could be a delightfully dangerous concoction come July.

Tasty as it may be, ol' Ernest probably wouldn't be caught dead sipping one of these guys. He had a thing with sugar, didn't really care for it. Not surprising, considering his writing, or his, shall we say, delicate style with journalists.

He's also said to have preferred his drinks frozen, either over crushed ice or blended up. I pulled out my roommates trusty Cyclo-trol Eight to take a stab at something a bit more suited to the tastes of the man himself.

Frozen Hemingway Daquiri
3 oz light rum (Mt. Gay Eclipse)
1 oz maraschino liqueur (Luxardo)
1.5 oz fresh grapefruit juice
1.5 oz fresh lime juice

Yessir. Double the rum, nix the sugar. Toss it in a blender with ice and let 'er rip

The result? An icy blended libation, perfect for the most unbearable of summer's days: stiff, sour, boozy, yet strangely refreshing. I couldn't think of a better characterization of the man's writing. For every day drinking, I think I'd hang with the first recipe (and admittedly, Cyclo-trol Eight wasn't quite up to the task). But for the dog days of summer, a rum-heavy Hemingway original just might do (allegedly, he took nearly four ounces of rum per cocktail). Lost Generation indeed! If only ol' Ernest had the foresight to attempt some painting and exercising too...

Martini & The Scofflaw

Winding down a chilly Sunday evening, I threw two drinks together tonight. Neither revelatory, both informative.

Martini

Yes, I've made a million of these. Yes, with a decent vermouth they're still heavenly. This was less about the drink, more about process.

2 oz. Gin (Hendricks, naturally)

1 oz. Dry Vermouth (Boissiere)

dash of Pernod

lemon twist

Construction: Acting on a few tidbits of wisdom I'd picked up in the last few weeks, I stirred it in a metal mixing tin instead of a glass, and cracked the ice instead of leaving it cubed. Big mistake: in the place of the serene, effortless glide of a normal stir, it clumsily rocked around the tin like a bowl of gravel. My new beloved julip strainer was no match for the width of the tin, and large shards of ice tumbled into the glass. And the lemon, a precious Meyer lemon I received a few weeks ago, was clearly past its prime and the peel snapped repeatedly as I tried to wrestle the oils into the glass.

On Tippling: Aside from the ice shards, the drink itself was delightful as ever. The Pernod gave it a pleasant aromatic, but I think I prefer Orange Bitters to spice up this drink.

Takeaway: Once you have a tried and true stirring method, don't fuck with it.

The Scofflaw

Seeing as I had a half naked lemon sitting on my counter, I figured I should use it up before it was rendered unusable. And I LOVE the story of this drink: The Boston Herald held a contest to invent a new word to characterize the evils of the lawless boozehound; Harry's New York Bar in Paris immediately turned around and created this drink. And seeing as the Vermouth was already out on the counter, I thought I was a pretty clever guy. I should have ignored my thriftier instincts and retired the lemon to the recycling bin.

2 oz. Bourbon (Bulleit)

1 oz. Dry Vermouth (Boissiere)

.5 oz. Lemon Juice

.25 oz. Grenadine

dash Orange Bitters

Construction: Aside from the squirt of lemon juice that shot into my eye as I squeezed it (yow!), it's an ordinary drink to make. Shake, strain, suck it down.

On Tippling: Another fairly mundane sour, with some weird interplay between the lemon and the homemade grenadine. Both have been sitting in my refrigerator for some time, and the grenadine especially seems to have lost the electric tang of fresh pomegranate it once possessed. Even with the spirit-heavy proportions, the bourbon really gets lost- and that's one heck of a tragedy.

Takeaway: The word "Scofflaw" has come to mean "A person who flouts the law, especially an unsustainable one." I should respect my own maxim to stop flirting with old citrus. Might be tastier with a spicier rye whiskey. Also wondering about the proportions- online the grenadine/ lemon measurements range from a whopping .75 oz each to a piddling .25 oz lemon juice and a dash of grenadine.

Holidays with the Admiral

I've been blessed in these early winter months to find myself in some good company. Holiday potlucks are about throwing up your hands, shrugging off the trivial gains and losses of a year and hunkering down with the people you care about. They're more civilized than blowing off steam at the bar, a bit more raucous than a dinner party, and a proving ground for the most decadent, delicious snacks you could never justify in your own home. And let me tell you- my friends didn't disappoint in the kitchen this year.

For these celebrations alone, I'm thrilled to see the art of punch-making swinging back into vogue this year. Cocktail historian Dave Wondrich's brand new book "Punch: The Delights (and Dangers) of the Flowing Bowl" surely has a lot to do with this- his last boozy history lesson "Imbibe!" did no small part to push the classic cocktail into the limelight it enjoys today. But whatever the catalyst, sharing a huge steaming bowl of booze in the winter months with close friends is about as perfect a drink as you're gonna get.

This little concoction is a treat because it's about as simple as cracking a beer: no steeping, no blending, just dump in pot, heat & serve.

Admiral’s Rum and Brandy Punch

2 cups apricot juces

4 cups pineapple juice

1 cup grapefruit juice

1 cup light rum

1/2 cup brandy

Lime wedges

Mix the juices in a saucepan on medium & heat to a gentle simmer. Lower the heat, simmer for 2 more minutes & add the rum and brandy. Ladle into individual glasses with a lime wedge.

Yeah, I skimped on the quality of the brandy big-time, and didn't exactly go all out with the rum either. Didn't make a lick of difference. This hot blend of tropical flavors cut with the spice of the booze is unnervingly, sublimely warming. If it's going to be out for awhile, you might want to dump it into a crock pot to keep it hot- though we didn't have that problem.

We got to the party early and watched people shuffle in from the icy porch, reluctant to surrender their coats. After a few minutes of skeptical eyes surveying the steaming pot of orange-yellow liquid, mugs were filled and passed around the room. We drank it down to the last drop along with pulled pork tacos, bacon-wrapped figs, duck pates and homemade spinach pies. At the end of the night, the pot was dry enough that I had to run my finger across it just to verify some kind guest hadn't taken the initiative to wash and dry it.

Of course, they hadn't. And I'm glad- that's how a holiday potluck's supposed to go.