Besides being a temperamental jazz genius and an expert in toilet-training cats, Charles Mingus was famous for his eggnog. We have often in past years marveled at his ostensible recipe (transcribed in a phone call with his friend and biographer Janet Coleman), but this year we decided to actually take a crack at it.
The imprecisions of Mingus' directions, including disclaimers like "it depends on how drunk I get while I'm tasting it," present some challenges to any foolhardy enough to follow his lead. We can, however, report that our effort was a success on the most obvious terms: Within an hour or so of presenting our brave guests with a large punch bowl of the high-octane concoction, we were down to the dregs.
We cannot reliably report on the exact quantities of much in our mix, though we did faithfully match each egg with one ounce each of brandy and 151-proof rum. Beyond that, we used milk, whipped heavy cream and sugar in doses sufficient to counter the harshness of the liquor and produce a pleasingly smooth texture. (Folding in whipped egg whites gave the punch a surprising lightness, contributing for better or worse to its easy drinkability.)
It's probably no coincidence that a band leader who thrived on collective invention left a lot to the inspiration of the moment. As his widow, Sue, said of his nog recipe, "There's plenty of room for improvising!"
Happiest of holidays from all of us at Libacious! See you in the new year.
The Tom Collins is one of the world’s perfect cocktails (indisputable fact). The combination of liquor, citrus, and sweetener is just about as fundamental as it gets, and the carbonation serves to both lengthen the drink and add refreshing effervescence. It’s simple, it’s classic, and it has about a half-dozen different origin stories. The recipe first appeared in writing in 1876, in Jerry Thomas’ seminal Bar-Tender’s Guide, but it had already been served in European and American bars for decades by then.
The presiding creation myth gives credit to one John Collins, who managed the Prince of Wales Coffee House at Limmer’s Hotel in London from 1807 to 1843. The Coffee House was a dive bar in the truest sense, and Collins presided over a colorful clientele that included soldiers, sailors and sportsmen. These customers particularly loved Collins’ gin punch, and his service was immortalized in a poem by Frank and Charles Sheridan:
My name is John Collins, head waiter at Limmer's,
Corner of Conduit Street, Hanover Square,
My chief occupation is filling brimmers
For all the young gentlemen frequenters there.
Now, whether Collins invented the punch that he served is disputed, and research suggests the dour American Stephen Price, who headed up London’s Garrick Club, was the drink’s actual creator. Price was not the boisterous personality that Collins was, however, and his creation was credited to the flashier gentleman.
Despite its London origins, gin punch would not have been made with the London Dry Gin that we’re familiar with today. Instead, the slightly sweeter Old Tom style of gin -- or even its predecessor, Dutch genever -- would have been used. The use of Old Tom gin is one explanation for why we call it a Tom Collins instead of a John Collins. While not as ubiquitous as London Dry, both Old Tom and Dutch genever are still available today, and it’s worth seeking them out if you’re interested in what a Tom Collins would have tasted like in 19th-century London.
The John Collins story sounds plausible, but I’m not convinced, as there is no mention of anything other than “gin punch” in connection with Limmer’s. The link between that punch and the drink that appeared in Jerry Thomas’ book a couple of decades later is not concrete.
There are several other Mr. Collinses to whom the drink’s creation is attributed, but the other major origin story involves something called The Great Tom Collins Hoax of 1874. While no more credible than any other tale, it’s far odder and gives a fascinating glimpse into how people entertained themselves in the late 19th Century.
The hoax is well-documented, as it swept the United States to the extent that newspapers helped propagate it through cheeky coverage. The Gettysburg Compiler explains it for us in an article titled “Have You Seen Tom Collins”:
If you haven't, perhaps you had better do so, and as quick as you can, for he is
talking about you in a very rough manner-calling you hard names, and
altogether saying things about you that are rather calculated to induce people
to believe there is nothing you wouldn't steal short of a red-hot stove. Other
little things of that nature he is openly speaking in public places, and as a
friend-although of course we don't wish to make you feel uncomfortable--we
think you ought to take some notice of them and of Mr. Tom Collins. This is
about the cheerful substance of a very successful practical joke which has been
going the rounds of the city in the past week. It is not to this manor born, but
belongs to New York, where it was played with immense success to crowded
houses until it played out.
Long and short of it, your friends told you that Tom Collins was next door at the bar saying rude things about you and you should go confront him. When you stormed into the bar, everyone laughed at you. How does this translate to a cocktail? Well, the story goes that bartenders started feeling bad for the butts of the joke, and rewarded them with a free drink to ease their embarrassment.
The Gettysburg article says the hoax originated in New York, but it sure didn’t stay there. I’ve found articles in newspapers from Vermont to Illinois to Nevada, and pretty much every state in between. Memphis and Chattanooga were in on the fun, too. So the next time you hear someone lamenting ridiculous trends like planking or The Mannequin Challenge, you can remind them we weren’t really much more mature 150 years ago.
The Original Tom Collins
from The Bar-Tender’s Guide by Jerry Thomas. (1876)
Take 5 or 6 dashes of gum syrup (sugar syrup)
Juice of a small lemon
1 large wine-glass of gin
2 or 3 lumps of ice
Shake up well and strain into a large bar-glass. Fill up the glass with plain soda water and drink whilst it’s lively.
Jeffrey Morgenthaler's Tom Collins
2 oz. London Dry or Old Tom gin
3/4 oz. fresh lemon juice
1/2 oz. 2:1 simple syrup
2 oz. chilled club soda
Combine all ingredients but soda in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake until ingredients are combined and chilled. Add soda water to shaker. Pour over fresh ice in a tall glass and garnish with a lemon peel.
I recently received an email from one of the myriad beverage e-newsletters I subscribe to with the subject "The Most Overrated Cocktails". Clearly this was clickbait, and what can I say? -- it worked. I'm generally wary when anyone calls something overrated, so I opened the article with a healthy amount of skepticism. The author had interviewed a handful of prominent bartenders, asking each of them what they thought was the most overrated cocktail that their customers ordered. While there were a few who singled out a drink or two, I was pleased to see that many of them seemed as unimpressed with the question as I. Lots of responses were along the lines of, "If a customer enjoys it, who am I to say it's overrated?"
We at Libacious believe that judgement of drink orders has no place in a bartender's job description. We reserve our judgement for picking the best ingredients and the best presentation. "Snob" is not a moniker any of us aspire to. Cocktails, coffee, tea and other beverages are one of life's pleasures, and why in the world would one want to place judgement on something if it makes a person happy?
After reading that article, I immediately went and made one of the drinks an interviewee had declared overrated. Sure, the Jungle Bird has seen a resurgence in popularity in the last few years, but that's because it's simple to make and delicious to drink. Neither of those things is reason to incur any disdain, as far as I can tell. If someone who has never before explored the world of cocktails finds entrée via a Cosmo or a Mojito, what's the problem? You might stop with your Moscow Mule, or it might be the first step towards a lifetime of libation exploration. We're always excited to suggest drinks we think you'll like trying, but as far as we're concerned, if it's what you want, it's good with us. Cheers, indeed!
The Jungle Bird
This is one of the simplest tiki drinks around, so it's a great jumping-off point if you've been wanting to add a little bit of the tropics to your repertoire. It originated at the Kuala Lumpur Hilton's Aviary Bar in the 1970s, and these days you can find a bevy of riffs on the sweet-bitter-fruity combo. The mix of flavors really is something: from the tart lime, to the molasses-y depth of the dark rum, to the unmistakable hit of Campari herbs, this bird sings all the way down.
1 1/2 ounces dark rum (Jamaican or blackstrap)
3/4 ounce Campari
1/2 ounce lime juice
1/2 ounce simple syrup
1 1/2 ounces pineapple juice
Shake and strain over crushed ice or one big cube. Garnish with a pineapple wedge.
It has been a summer of British anniversaries: Sgt. Pepper's at 50, OK Computer at 20, the death of Princess Di. Less recognized but maybe culturally as important, today is the 47th anniversary of Black Tot Day -- the final day that the Royal Navy served its sailors their daily ration of rum.
The ration, or tot, dated back to the 17th century, when rum replaced beer as the Navy's choice of crew libation. Beer kept better than water on board, but it was also heavy to carry and could turn sour. Caribbean slave plantations that produced sugar and rum had recently come under British control as part of its ongoing tussle with Spain, and those plantations were more than happy to tout the merits of a government-mandated rum ration.
The initial ration was a half-pint of rum a day. For predictable reasons, including an explosion in popular culture portrayals of drunken sailors, the ration was eventually reduced, and reduced again. It was only an 8th of a pint a day (about two ounces) by the time the military pulled the plug in 1970, on the grounds that the increasingly complex and expensive technology the Navy was deploying was incompatible with the hands that held the tot. The final serving was known as the Black Tot, and many sailors wore black armbands for the ceremony.
This actually left the British government in a bit of a quandary, since under normal purchasing plans they had already stockpiled a fair amount of rum, which they, now had no legal use for. The leftover rum became known as the Black Tot "Last Consignment," and it has been gradually released commercially. In 2010, to mark the 40th anniversary of Black Tot Day, some 6,000 bottles were sold off, at $1,000 a bottle. There are bars in London, New York and elsewhere that list Black Tot Rum on their menus, selling shots for high double-digits. (This for rum that was by all best guesses distilled in the 1940s.)
The Last Consignment may or may not be worth the price -- I like this equivocal review -- but you don't need Black Tot Rum to mark Black Tot Day. Any rum drink will do. In the summer, we're partial to the Dark 'N' Stormy, made with Gosling's Black Seal Rum. (This is the rare trademarked cocktail, meaning nobody is allowed to serve something called a Dark 'N Stormy unless they use Gosling's rum. Fortunately, Gosling's is delicious in this drink.) It's simple, just some good ginger beer and some Gosling's, in a 3:2 ratio. Some recipes call for fresh lime juice, but we prefer a lime garnish, which gives you a squeeze without overpowering the drink. However you like it, remember to toast the sailors and their rums gone by.
Today, according to whoever decides these things, is National Tequila Day in the United States. We could argue that it's odd to have a national day for a liquor that can't be legally produced in this country, but why quibble when you have an excuse to drink tequila?
Tequila has a fascinating backstory, well worth appreciating while you're slurping a margarita or sipping a glass of fine anejo, neat (the way most Mexicans drink it). It is derived from the blue agave plant, which is, for the record, not a cactus. It's a succulent with large, spear-like leaves that grows in west-central Mexico. It is one of many varieties of agave in Mexico, which collectively were known to the Aztecs as maguey plants. Maguey were an important source of both food and drink in pre-Columbian cultures, who squeezed the plants' nubbly cores (the pina) to extract sap that they fermented to produce a mildly alcoholic drink called pulque. The Aztecs were so enamored of the plant and its products that they assigned it its own deity, Mayahuel, the goddess of the maguey. The sap of the agave was her blood.
Into this sacred relationship of people and plants came, of course, the Spanish. While conquering and colonizing in the 1500s, the invaders tended to run dry on whatever hooch they had brought with them across the Atlantic. Looking for locally sourced intoxicants, they seized on pulque -- and found it not nearly potent enough for their tastes. So they applied their alcoholic know-how and distilled the milky liquid to its essence. The result was the smoky kick in the head we call mezcal. The spirit derived from the blue agave in particular had its own distinct distillation process and flavor profile, and eventually took on the name of the largest city in its growing region: Tequila.
Tequila is now a geographically protected "appellation of origin" product, meaning it -- like Champagne or Rioja -- can only be produced in its native territory. (This primacy was even recognized in the North American Free Trade Agreement.) Its subsequent adoption as the party drink of choice of generations of U.S. vacationers and college students is well known, with the requisite salt and lime acquired along the way. Recent years have seen a growing appreciation here for the full range of tequilas, which are distinguished primarily by how long they are aged. The cocktail commandos at Death and Co in New York City even brought the drink back to its spiritual origins with an agave bar named for Mayahuel. Sadly, that bar will be closing next month, a victim of rising Manhattan rents.
Fortunately, you can pay tribute to the goddess in your own fashion. We at Libacious suggest a siesta, pictured above, which adds grapefruit and Campari for a brisk summer cooler. ¡Salud!
Welcome to The Muddler! We'll be using this blog to tell stories, share bits of knowledge and history, and generally celebrate the world of mixed drinks.
As a first entry, we'll get this perennial puzzle out of the way: When should you shake a drink, when should you stir it, and what difference does it really make?
A quick Internet search will give you a range of opinions on this subject, but most people agree on a few general rules:
Simple enough, but why? In both cases, you are really trying to accomplish two different things -- blending the ingredients for consistency throughout the glass, and (when there's ice involved, which is usually) chilling the drink and drawing off a little water from the ice for dilution, which helps smooth your mixture.
In a drink with all clear liquids, for example a Negroni (gin, vermouth and Campari), stirring will be sufficient to bring them together. Anything rougher will aerate the drink and give you bubbles that will turn it slightly cloudy, detracting from its crisp appearance. With liquids of different weights or acidity, the more vigorous action of the shake will ensure a thorough blend -- and in some cases, say in a drink with egg whites or dairy, you need the aeration to give you the foam or fizz you're looking for.
My favorite experiment on this topic comes from the adventurous souls at Booze Nerds, who a few years ago decided to put the conventional wisdom to the test. You can read all about their results here, but the bottom line is that the rules held up.
But wait, you say -- what about James Bond? In Ian Fleming's books and the movies derived from them, the spy who loves martinis almost always orders them "Shaken, not stirred." That's a clear-liquid drink that any bar manual will tell you ought to be stirred over ice and decanted. How could the suave defender of Her Majesty's honor make such a blunder? There are assorted theories, none definitive. There is some evidence that Fleming, a dedicated day drinker, preferred his martinis prepared with a shake. There is also the suggestion that it was a way of signifying Bond's rough-and-tumble roots -- he's more of a brawler than a gentleman. Whatever the reason, it has no doubt led to generations of first-time martini drinkers giving the same instruction to indulgent bartenders the world over. And why not? At Libacious, we'll give you our best advice on drink preparation, but we're happy to make it your way.