CVIndependent

Wed11252020

Last updateMon, 24 Aug 2020 12pm

Last week, a co-worker flabbergasted me with a thank-you gift for doing something that I considered a routine part of my job. It was a truly unexpected, generous gesture—and what she gave me was a surprise, too.

At first glance, I sized up the tall, sparkly gift bag and assumed it contained a bottle of wine, always a welcome present. When I opened it, however, I found a large bottle filled with a coffee-colored liqueur that, when I unscrewed the cap, smelled leathery, minty and herbaceous all at once.

That’s how I came to fall in love with Fernet-Branca.

The aroma that emanated from the bottle reminded me of both root beer and iced tea—if the drinks were filtered through my grandfather’s aftershave. Its taste, which I waited to get home to discover, was astringent and almost uncomfortably bitter. It reminded me of some dark spoonful of medicine served by my childhood physician, and I screwed up my face as I swallowed. Then I poured a second glass of the amaro liqueur—which, according to most bartenders, is best served neat. I tried to discern the flavor profile, but with 40 herbs, roots and spices on the ingredient list, it’s complicated.

Unlike most apertifs and digestifs, Fernet-Branca is very low in sugar. It’s also one of the only amari liqueurs to be aged for a full year in oak barrels, a process that adds intensity and complexities to the final result. Distilled in Milan, Italy, since 1845, its ingredients include the familiar and the exotic: Chamomile, peppermint, saffron, myrrh, Chinese rhubarb, aloe ferox, angelica, colombo root, cinchona bark and orris root are just a sampling of the herbs that go into the mix using both hot and cold infusion processes. The actual recipe is known by only one man, Niccolo Branca, the great-great-grandson of Bernardino Branca, who invented the liqueur and originally promoted it for its health benefits, allegedly battling flatulence, overeating, gas pains and hangovers.

Today, Fernet-Branca remains popular in Italy, as well as in Argentina, where it’s drunk with a Coca-Cola mixer. The liqueur is catching on in Germany, where the preferred drinking method is Fernet-Branca and Red Bull. On this continent, it’s most frequently consumed as a bracing shot. It’s also turning up as an ingredient in many craft-cocktail recipes.

I was intrigued by a cocktail I found online called the Hanky Panky—a version of which can be found at Truss and Twine in Palm Springs (which is currently closed, alas). The drink, a version of which is pictured here, first appeared in 1925, making its debut at the American Bar at the Savoy Hotel in London. Today, it’s making a comeback—likely due to its simplicity and its complexity. The classic Hanky Panky only has three ingredients: 1 1/2 ounces of gin (I used Beefeater’s), 1 1/2 ounces of sweet vermouth, and 2 dashes of Fernet-Branca. You simply stir the liquids with ice in a mixing glass or cocktail shaker, then strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish the glass with a twist of orange peel if you like, and sip.

I also sampled what Argentines refer to as “ferne con coca” or “Fernecola”—an ice-packed glass with a few fingers of Fernet-Branca topped with sugary Mexican Coke. While the sweetness of the cola hardly subdues the bitterness of the liqueur, the bubbles make the drink particularly intoxicating. During World War II, a Fernet-Branca distillery opened in Buenos Aires—today, it and Milan remain the only places in the world where the liqueur is made. The International Wine and Spirits Record, which monitors the world’s beverage-alcohol market, not long ago declared that Argentina consumes three-fourths of the world’s Fernet-Branca.

But be warned: Fernet-Branca is not for everyone’s tastes. I recommend taking the liqueur for a test-spin before committing to a full bottle. Ask your favorite bartender to pour you a shot or order a Fernet-Branca-based cocktail if you see one on the menu.

A version of this piece was originally published in the Memphis Flyer.

Published in Cocktails

Here are two passages from The New York Times’ summary story on the Breonna Taylor case.

A grand jury indicted a former Louisville police officer on Wednesday for wanton endangerment for his actions during the raid. No charges were announced against the other two officers who fired shots, and no one was charged for causing Ms. Taylor’s death.

Brett Hankison, a detective at the time, fired into the sliding glass patio door and window of Ms. Taylor’s apartment, both of which were covered with blinds, in violation of a department policy that requires officers to have a line of sight.

He is the only one of the three officers who was dismissed from the force, with a termination letter stating that he showed “an extreme indifference to the value of human life.”

Second:

Ms. Taylor and her boyfriend, Kenneth Walker, had been in bed, but got up when they heard a loud banging at the door. Mr. Walker said he and Ms. Taylor both called out, asking who was at the door. Mr. Walker later told the police he feared it was Ms. Taylor’s ex-boyfriend trying to break in.

After the police broke the door off its hinges, Mr. Walker fired his gun once, striking Sergeant Mattingly in a thigh. The police responded by firing several shots, striking Ms. Taylor five times. One of the three officers on the scene, Detective Brett Hankison, who has since been fired, shot 10 rounds blindly into the apartment.

Mr. Walker told investigators that Ms. Taylor coughed and struggled to breathe for at least five minutes after she was shot, according to The Louisville Courier Journal. An ambulance on standby outside the apartment had been told to leave about an hour before the raid, counter to standard practice. As officers called an ambulance back to the scene and struggled to render aid to their colleague, Ms. Taylor was not given any medical attention.

Can someone explain to me how these two passages jibe? Can someone explain how a woman, who had been sleeping in her own bed, can be shot five times, and then ignored, in violation of standard police practice—with nobody held accountable? How is this justice?

More news from the day:

• If you want to follow more news on the aftermath of the Breonna Taylor announcements today, I recommend checking out the Louisville Courier Journal website. There’s a lot of good stuff therein.

• An update: The Riverside County Board of Supervisors yesterday voted 3-2 to delay by two weeks a decision on whether to push ahead with its own reopening plan—which would mean disregarding the orders from the state. Key quote, from the Riverside Press-Enterprise: “Supervisors also want more details on exactly what state funding would be at risk should the county defy Sacramento’s reopening guidelines. And they seek more clarity on when different types of businesses could reopen.

• Gov. Gavin Newsom signed an executive order today banning new gasoline-powered cars in California within 15 years. Hooray for the environment—although there are justifiable concerns over the fact that electric cars are more expensive, among other possible issues. Our partners at CalMatters explain.

Disneyland is crabby that theme parks have not yet been allowed to reopen. In the theme park’s defense, the state has been taking its own sweet time (read: many months) in issuing any guidance whatsoever on theme parks. There’s also this key quote from the Riverside Press-Enterprise: “No COVID-19 outbreaks have been reported at Disney, Universal, SeaWorld, Busch Gardens, Six Flags, Legoland and Cedar Fair parks in Florida, Texas, Illinois, Pennsylvania, Ohio, New Jersey, Virginia and Michigan, according to state health agencies and theme park officials.” (The key word there may be “reported.”)

• The Washington Post, via SFGate, looks at a new study showing how the coronavirus has mutated since the pandemic began. Key takeaway: It may be changing to become more contagious.

Dr. Deborah Birx is unhappy with how things are going as the coordinator of the White House coronavirus tax force, according to CNN.

The headline on this piece from The Atlantic is scary … and the words that follow are even scarier: “The Election That Could Break America: If the vote is close, Donald Trump could easily throw the election into chaos and subvert the result. Who will stop him?”

• Good news: The self-response rate for the Census, both statewide and locally, is picking up. Bad news: A whole lot of people still haven’t responded, and the Census deadline is the end of the month. If you have not yet responded, please head to https://my2020census.gov/ and do so.

How will we know when a vaccine is safe and ready to go? A professor of medicine from the University if Virginia, writing for The Conversation, explains.

• A new CDC study shows that more than 90 percent of Americans remain susceptible to COVID-19. Translation: We’re nowhere close to herd immunity, despite what the president and Rand Paul want to believe. Key quote, from CBS News: “(CDC Director Dr. Robert) Redfield said the CDC is currently conducting a ‘very large’ study in an effort to determine how the country has been affected by COVID-19. He said that some states are seeing infection rates of 15 percent to 20 percent—with one as high as 24 percent—while others are seeing a less than 1 percent infection rate.

Texas Sen. Ted Cruz blocked a ceremonial U.S. Senate resolution honoring Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Why? (Other than the fact that, you know, he’s Ted Cruz?) He objected to a mention of Ginsburg’s dying wish, as reported by family members, that the current president doesn’t select her successor.

• The swamp is alive and well in Washington, D.C., if this lede from NBC News is any indication: “The consulting firm where the wife of acting Homeland Security Secretary Chad Wolf is an executive has been awarded more than $6 million in contracts from the Department of Homeland Security since September 2018, according to records on the federal government website USA Spending.”

• Despite the recession and the pandemic, Palm Springs has been a darling of the airline industry over the last month. Simple Flying sums up the new airlines and flights that are coming to our li’l Coachella Valley.

• Since movie theaters finally opening here this weekend, here’s the Independent’s review of Tenet, including a now-out-of-date headline.

• Finally, Independent cocktail columnist Kevin Carlow is developing a bar program for a Palm Springs hotel, and in the process, he’s been trying to answer the question: Is there such a thing as a midcentury-modern, Palm Springs golden era cocktail? Here’s what he’s come up with so far.

Be safe out there, everyone. If you have the means, please consider becoming a Supporter of the Independent. The Daily Digest will be back on Friday.

Published in Daily Digest

Midcentury-modern cocktails. “Palm Springs golden era” cocktails.

Is there such a category? I get asked this all the time.

Tiki first comes to mind. It began as a mix of escapism and cultural appropriation—that’s not a dig, as I grew up eating at “Polynesian lounges” and love Tiki—but it became a subculture in its own right. But what were Americans drinking when they weren’t at Trader Vic’s or Don the Beachcomber?

Margaritas were all the rage, of course, while Ol’ Blue Eyes favored his Jack Daniels; martinis were awfully dry by that point; and the old fashioned was fruit salad. But there must have been some other interesting stuff out there, right?

It seems that nobody has really done the heavy lifting on this era, so as a bar manager and cocktail writer, I am mostly on my own—and the best research I can do begins with my own memories. The bartenders I “trained with,” like there was training back then, were all older guys, so it makes sense that the drinks they made were likely popular in the ’50s and ’60s.

How about a sloe gin fizz? The closest I could get to finding any “history’ on this one was Sipsmith Gin’s promotional page, which states that the drink was popular in the ’60s. Cool. The Savoy Cocktail Book has a “Sloe Gin Cocktail” which sounds like an absolute horror: It was two parts sloe gin, and one part each French and Sweet vermouth; hopefully the sloe gin was drier back then! Beyond that, I found nothing from before the middle of the century with a recipe, but it’s in every Mr. Boston guide I had “growing up” as a barman. It’s a pretty drink, and when well-balanced, it’s pretty tasty, too. I basically make it like a Tom Collins, just with sloe gin:

  • 2 ounces of Plymouth Sloe Gin
  • 1 ounce of lemon juice
  • 3/4 ounce of simple syrup

Build tall, or shake and dump into a Collins glass; top with soda.

Ironically, I was going to say that’s not the recipe from Mr. Boston … but it pretty much is now; they’ve come a long way. Notice there’s no egg white in there; I’m pretty sure that’s because bars had stopped using eggs behind the bar by then, or used sour mix with the latest miracle of science: Powdered egg white already included for the modern bartender! I was always taught to make it with sour mix, because we never had fresh ingredients back in the early ’00s. Crazy. Sometimes we’d add some regular gin, too (which is still a good move), since the only sloe gins available were the cheap, artificial ones. Was that a fizz, though? Not on your life.

What about that famed and currently super-popular Brown Derby? Nothing says Old Hollywood drinking like “Brown Derby,” because the drink was named after the movie-star hangout. Word around the campfire, by way of Robert Moss, is the drink was cribbed from earlier books and renamed. Such is the peril of cocktail trademarking. Wherever and whenever it was invented, it’s quite likely that the Palm Springs set was knocking them back in the mid-20th century. Heck, Dale DeGroff re-popularized it after seeing it in a book called Hollywood Cocktails from the 1930s. Sadly, this one went out of fashion at some point, probably due to the scarcity of fresh juice at bars, as drinks became more cost-effective and, well, lousier. It’s easy to make at home, and it’s a go-to cocktail for my bar guests looking for something different:

  • 2 ounces of bourbon
  • 1 ounce of grapefruit
  • 1/2 ounce of lemon juice
  • 3/4 ounce of honey syrup

Shake; serve up with a grapefruit twist.

Since we’re at it, here’s a David Wondrich discovery of a drink from midcentury bartenders, the “Airmail.” Keep that honey syrup handy! It’s kind of a French 75 variation, which is kind of a Collins variation, which is … well, they’re all delicious.

  • 1 1/2 ounces of gold rum
  • 3/4 ounce of lime juice
  • 3/4 ounce of honey syrup

Shake; strain into a coupe; top with dry sparkling wine. No garnish.

I would be remiss if I forgot the rusty nail, that “grampa drink” that I absolutely had to know how to make when I first started, because the old guys would test me. It might have been called something else previously, but it’s been the rusty nail since the ’60s, and that’s the era we’re talking about. It’s another case of why good drinks need great names to catch on. This one is so easy, it’s criminal: Just stir Scotch and Drambuie (Scotland’s esteemed honey and herb liqueur) in a glass with ice. I used to make it with a 2-to-1 ratio, respectively, but these days, I would probably go with 2 ounces of Scotch and 3/4 of an ounce of Drambuie. I would pick a nice, smoky blended malt for this; save your Islay single malts, or you’ll lose the Drambuie. And don’t use a mellow commercial blend; you want some body and peat!

I am going to continue digging into this under-loved era of drinks. There are plenty more of note, but I have already covered many of them recently—the mai tai, the margarita, the Army Navy, etc. I am inspired by the simplicity of many of these drinks as I continue to do research for the midcentury-inspired drink program I am putting together at the Cole Hotel in Palm Springs. Finally—a chance for everyone else to critique my inventions!

I’m pretty excited about tackling the challenge of updating some of these forgotten midcentury drinks, so feel free to come over, and let me know how I am doing—while following all applicable ordinances, of course.

Kevin Carlow can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

It’s back to work for yours truly. Not that I haven’t stayed busy—more on that in another piece—but I haven’t been bartending, per se. Am I excited to go back to work? Let’s just say this guy is going to make a great retiree someday—but I am excited to tend bar the way it used to be, whenever I can do that.

I was half-tempted to write a good old-fashioned rant about the state of the industry right now, and the conflicted way I feel about people who are currently traveling and going out for cocktails. “Conflicted” may not actually be the accurate term, but a guy’s gotta pay the rent, so I will leave that alone.

I am grateful to have employment to return to, and for a lot of other things these days. But I am out of practice, as I figure most of us are—so I think a refresher course is in order. For you bartenders, home bartenders, servers and barbacks lying on your résumés to get a bar job, and anyone else who might need a touch-up, here is the world’s shortest bartending manual.

One, let’s set some ground rules. Never face your shaker at anyone; always shake to the side. If you don’t understand why this is the first thing I am requiring, then you’ve clearly never doused anyone with a whiskey sour. When you shake, make sure that both parts of the shaker are firmly sealed before starting. This is especially important with dry-shaking, where ingredients are shaken without adding ice. Even I still end up wearing something I dry-shake on occasion, when I get cocky.

Two, measure. Oh, I know, your free-pour skills are top-notch; you can tell a millimeter per second’s difference with your internal clock. The Riverside County Department of Weights and Measures has a sticker on your rump. Still, use a jigger. This is something I never want to butt heads about with any new hire again. A lot of us (unfortunately) are going to be job-hunting and competing with each other soon, so get a leg up, and practice your jiggery.

Three, put ice in the shaker or the pitcher. I know you think you put ice in, but you really put only half a scoop in there. That’s why your stir looks bad (at least partly), why your shake sounds anemic, and why your drink is sad. Fill it up two-thirds of the way with ice, after you pour your ingredients.

Four, work on your stir. I get a twisted pleasure out of having people stir a drink in an interview. It has three possible outcomes: a confident and expert stir that’s silky smooth (rare); a spoon that rattles back and forth across the pitcher (extremely common); a tipped-over and/or broken pitcher, because the person has no idea what they’re doing (far too common). It takes practice, but it’s not hard! Buy a pitcher and a bar spoon, if you don’t have one, and put ice in it (see above); add a little water; and stir for 10 minutes at a time. You can binge old episodes of The Office while you do it for all I care; just have one hand stir for 10 minutes. Change the ice when needed. The stir technique is deceptively simple: It’s a push-pull. You want to keep the outside curve of the spoon against the inside of the pitcher, and the handle of the spoon between your middle and ring finger, with the thumb and index finger pinching further up the spoon for support. With your hand steady, simply push and pull with the fingers while keeping the top of the spoon still, and the spoon firmly against the walls of the pitcher. The ice should spin gracefully around the liquid, and there should be no jostling. It’s like the moon in orbit: The spoon should always show the same face as it orbits the center of the glass. You could have redrum carved into your forehead, but if your stir and shake look good, I will consider you for hire.

Five, build the drink with the smallest ingredients first, and the main spirit last. That way, if you screw up, it minimizes the loss.

Six, learn the basics. I don’t care if you don’t know how to make a Ramos gin fizz, although these days, that is borderline basic knowledge, but there are some drinks you just need to know how to make the “right” way. I don’t have the space to cover all of them in detail in this edition, but here’s a good little list to get you started.

One spirit, stirred:

Old Fashioned: 2 ounces of bourbon; teaspoon of superfine sugar or 1/2 ounce simple syrup; four dashes of bitters. Stir on plenty of ice; garnish with an orange peel.

One spirit, shaken:

Daiquiri: 2 ounces rum; 1 ounce lime; 1/2 to 3/4 ounce simple. Up; lime garnish.

Gimlet: 2 ounces gin; 1 ounce lime; 1/2 to 3/4 ounce simple. Up; lime garnish.

Bee’s Knees: 2 ounces gin; 1 ounce lemon; 3/4 ounce honey water. Up; lemon twist garnish.

French 75: 1 1/2 ounces gin; 3/4 ounce simple; 3/4 ounce lemon. Up; top with sparkling wine and a lemon twist.

Collins: 2 ounces gin (or vodka); 1 ounce lemon; 3/4 ounce simple. Tall over ice; top with soda and a lemon garnish.

Mojito: 2 ounces rum; 1 ounce lime; 3/4 ounce simple; separated mint. Light shake; dump; tall with soda and “slapped” mint.

Two spirits, stirred:

Martini: gin, two parts; dry vermouth, one part. Up; lemon twist or olive.

Manhattan: rye, two parts; sweet vermouth, one part; two dashes of bitters. Up; orange twist or cherry.

The ever-present vodka martini is just shaken vodka with an olive, since I am tired of getting them sent back for having vermouth. I am convinced most vodka dirty-martini drinkers either don’t want to taste alcohol or have some kind of salt-craving adrenal issue, so don’t be afraid to use a whole ounce of olive brine!

Two spirits, shaken:

Margarita: tequila, two parts; triple sec, one part; lime juice, one part. Rocks; salt; lime garnish.

Sidecar: brandy, two parts; triple sec, one part; lemon juice, one part. Up; sugar half rim.

Cosmopolitan: 1 1/2 ounces vodka; 3/4 ounce triple sec; 1/2 ounce cranberry juice; 1/2 ounce lime juice. Up; orange twist.

(A little simple syrup helps this category of drinks; I like 1/4 ounce.)

Three spirits, stirred:

Negroni: gin, sweet vermouth, Campari, equal parts. Rocks; orange twist.

Boulevardier: rye, sweet vermouth, Campari, equal parts. Up; orange twist.

If you want more, check out this column’s archives. I recommend learning the three-spirit drinks (Last Word, Corpse Reviver No. 2, Paper Plane, Naked and Famous), the Mai Tai, the New Orleans classics (Vieux Carré, Ramos Fizz and, of course, the Sazerac!), and the Aviation, El Diablo, and Vesper (which are popular oddballs that don’t fit a clear template).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to practice reading lips through a mask.

Kevin Carlow can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

You’re all cut off.

Look, when I wrote about bars being an important part of our society, I didn’t say you should all run right out to them the second they reopened—while forgetting all the things we’ve learned over the last several months. This is why we can’t have nice things!

I’ve heard a lot of people recently say: “I have been drinking so much more during quarantine!” I get it. Some of us (like me!) are still unemployed; those who are employed have few options for entertainment outside of the home; and the supermarkets sell booze in California. Cthulhu knows I’ve had a couple of unhealthy binges during this nightmare.

So … let’s all sober up for a minute, and talk about non-alcoholic cocktails—and, more specifically, the herbs that can make them delicious.

If you are a regular reader of my hodgepodge of history, recipes and rants, you know I think herbs are pretty great. They give my favorite type of hooch (amaro) its signature flavor, and I think they might be helping keep this unreasonably abused body of mine functioning at an acceptable level. They can also make things without alcohol pretty tasty, too, so let’s raid the pantry, and get kitchen-witchy!

But first, a disclaimer: I am definitely not a doctor; this is not medical advice; and you should check for contraindications with prescription medications, pregnancy or existing health conditions for anything beyond the culinary use of any herb. Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let’s start with rosemary and thyme, because, why not? I keep these around, fresh, much of the time. They last, being woodier than, say, cilantro. They work with chicken or vegetables with ease. They are also really great for you!

I love thyme, and I use it often. It’s antimicrobial and can help tame a productive cough. It also has carminative properties, helping with gas and bloating, and it can ease digestion. Rosemary has been valued for millennia, and it, too, can also help with digestion. It has benefits for the nervous system and can help kick-start the liver. Both also work fabulously for making infused syrups and vinegars. Making the vinegar couldn’t be easier: Just take a quality apple-cider vinegar, preferably from a local producer to show some love, and drop the herbs into a sterilized jar before covering with said vinegar. Give it at least a few weeks to really get the mojo working—and then you can use it lots of ways. Take a spoon directly, or add a little local honey and hot water, or perhaps soda water. If you sweeten it, you basically have a shrub, a once very-trendy cocktail ingredient that doesn’t get enough love these days.

To make a syrup, just heat sugar and water, in equal parts, until the sugar is dissolved. I usually don’t go all the way to full boil, but many people do. Just let the syrup cool, and throw in a handful of whatever herb(s) you want to use. Rosemary and thyme are great for this and play well together; feel free to use any woody or dried herb. Avoid leafy herbs like fresh mint, cilantro or basil, as they will just wilt in the hot syrup. Save those for an aromatic garnish. Once the syrup is cooled, remove the herbs; strain; filter through cheesecloth if you’re fancy; and make some lemonade. There are other uses, of course, but it’s 117 degrees outside, so just make the darned lemonade—with equal parts fresh lemon juice and syrup, adding water to taste. I like it strong, so I go equal parts all the way, and let the ice melt a bit for the extra dilution. This is normally where I would talk about how to put it in a pitcher or punch bowl with fresh herbs and thinly sliced lemons to serve at your next party—preferably with ice balls frozen with herbs inside them, you domestic deity, you—but parties aren’t a thing right now. If you want fall off the wagon, you can spike with vodka, gin or tequila.

Elderflower is another herb that is popular in cocktails. I haven’t always been kind to requests for elderflower cocktails in recent years (it’s a personal problem; I am working on it!), and you don’t need a commercially made liqueur to enjoy it. However, if you want to make a syrup with it, and you do, it is a slightly different process. You’ll want to make a strong tea with the flowers in the water first, then pour it through a cheese cloth, before adding in the sugar in equal parts to finish the syrup. Try it tall, with soda and lemon. You can also use the tea, consumed hot, to break a fever, and it has many other benefits for immunity as well. I believe a tincture made from the ripe, dried berries can help reduce the severity of a flu if taken early, and it’s easy to make, too. It can be as simple as adding the berries to some neutral grain spirits and leaving them for some weeks—or just buy one from a reputable store. I’m not sure if elderflower helps with COVID-19, but I can say that believing that it did would be safer than taking medical advice from a certain president.

Dried seed herbs are also excellent in syrups. My favorite is coriander, but cumin or fennel—or all three together—are fantastic, too. Just make a strong tea, as with the elderflower, and follow the rest of the process. The tea made from all three is great for digestion; I have been enjoying it regularly as of late. I made a coriander-lime soda as a bar special once; if you don’t have a carbonator to play with, you could probably come close with a quality mineral water, a slice or two of jalepeño, fresh cilantro and a little lime juice.

Did you know you can make non-alcoholic bitters? They can be made with glycerin—food-grade, of course. I have some I have prepared in my pantry, and they’ll be ready in a couple of weeks. I am not going to get into recipes here, but I am currently working with things like blue cornflower, dandelion root, orange peel, chamomile, fennel and coriander. Will it work? I will let you know in a future column.

Until we can meet again, stay safe out there, people.

Kevin Carlow can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

Anyone else feel like an escape right now?

I have written about Tiki here and there in this column. Cocktails from Bootlegger Tiki in Palm Springs have been featured occasionally, and my colleague Patrick did a profile on The Reef—all well-deserved, but Tiki hasn’t come up substantially in two years now. So, I have been remiss in my responsibilities—this is a Tiki town, and I have left the subject woefully under-represented!

Partly, that is out of respect. Tiki is its own subculture that goes beyond cocktails—it has its own clothing, music and lifestyle. Exotica, floral-print shirts, shorts, goatees and classic cars are things I am not into personally, but Tiki people also spend their free time looking into lost and ancient cocktails, and I can certainly get into that!

Now that I’ve made it clear that I am not a Tiki authority, I feel like there is one Tiki drink that every bartender should know how to make—the timeless mai tai.

First of all, let’s get the controversy and some misunderstandings out of the way: A mai tai does not have pineapple juice in it. It can have grapefruit juice in it, but then you’re drinking the Don the Beachcomber recipe, and not the Trader Vic’s recipe. (More on that in a bit.) It should never have a color that isn’t light brown to dark yellow; it should never have a cherry, or, heaven forbid, freaking “cherry juice”!

I confess that when I first started making mai tais, what I was really making was some sort of poor-man’s scorpion. Who knows what manner of dusty, spiral-bound, written “circa the year I was born'' cocktail book I got that recipe from, but it was probably from my dad’s old bar—and drinking mai tais at the many, mostly gone and sorely missed “Polynesian” lounges around the Boston area was no help whatsoever. I’m pretty sure they had the same book I had. Much like the daiquiri, the mai tai has taken a beating in the course of the drink “Dark Ages.”

Truth be told, the mai tai is a sort of gussied-up daiquiri. Trader Vic—so the much-told story goes—around 1944 wanted to create a drink that would become a new classic. He had some 17-year-old Jamaican rum (the storied and now-$50,000-a-bottle Wray and Nephew 17) lying around and wanted to use it. He added fresh lime to some shaved ice, along with the rum, a little double-simple syrup, some curaćao and finally orgeat; he then gave it a shake. The resulting cocktail was so amazing it reportedly had a Tahitian house guest exclaim, “Mai tai-roa aé!” (“The best, out of this world!”). A legend was born. Funnily, I heard (and repeated) this story long before I ever knew how to make a Trader Vic’s mai tai.

Here's where it gets juicy: A fellow with the pseudonym “Don Beach” had a place in Hollywood called Don the Beachcomber, and he accused Trader Vic (also a pseudonym, by the way) of taking “inspiration” from a rum punch he had on the menu. It was well-established that Vic had borrowed heavily from Beach’s business model and aesthetic; the two chains were busy becoming the basis for what we now call “Tiki.” According to Jeff “Beachbum” Berry (what is it with these guys and the nicknames?), Don had a cocktail on his menu called the “Mai Tai Swizzle” between 1933 and 1937, so there is that. It is also totally possible that Vic made up his drink on his own; who really knows?

Either way, Beach threw his hat in the ring and marketed his own mai tai recipe, and premixed versions of “the Original Mai Tai” to compete with Vic in the marketplace, prompting a lawsuit. Vic won the suit, and most bartenders (including this one) concede that whatever happened, Vic’s recipe is the better one.

Here it is, from the man himself, by way of Difford’s Guide:

  • One lime
  • 1/2 ounce of orange curaćao
  • 1/4 ounce of rock candy syrup
  • 1/4 ounce of orgeat
  • 2 ounces of Trader Vic Mai Tai rum; or 1 ounce of dark Jamaica rum and 1 ounce of Martinique rum

Cut lime in half; squeeze over shaved ice in a mai tai (double old-fashioned) glass; save one spent shell. Add remaining ingredients and enough shaved ice to fill glass. Hand shake; decorate with spent lime half, fresh mint and a fruit stick.

I would go with 3/4 of an ounce of lime, as size and juiciness vary. Rock candy syrup is an old-timey way of saying a syrup with two parts sugar to one part water. Good luck finding the Trader Vic Mai Tai rum, but the dark Jamaica and Martinique work great. Mix as above, using the best orgeat you can buy (or make); there are really good craft versions available now, for the first time in modern history.

Oh, and the Don Beach version? It’s good, too, but if the Trader Vic version is a tricked-out daiquiri, this one is more of a Hemingway daiquiri. From Don the Beachcomber, 1933, via Post Prohibition:

  • 1 ounce of gold rum
  • 1 1/2 ounces of Meyer’s Plantation rum
  • 3/4 ounce of lime juice
  • 1 ounce of grapefruit juice
  • 1/2 ounce of Cointreau
  • 1/4 ounce of falernum
  • 6 drops of Pernod or Herbsaint
  • 1 dash of Angostura bitters

Shake well with crushed ice; pour unstrained into a double old-fashioned glass; garnish with four mint sprigs.

Avoid the clear falernum on the market for this recipe; you’re gonna want something craft-made and spice-forward. Never mind that, though; unless you’re a serious cocktail geek, the Trader Vic recipe is all you really need.

However, if you find yourself at Bootlegger Tiki in Palm Springs (once it reopens), once the site of an actual Don the Beachcomber location, it’s totally acceptable to push Vic aside for a day. Escape from life the way your grandparents did; either version is pretty “mai tai-roa aé”!

Kevin Carlow can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

One advantage of living where I do is that I have access to a bartender.

Actually, our household has two (very bored) bartenders: Myself and longtime Coachella Valley barman Neil Goetz, the head bartender at Blackbook in Palm Springs. We’re resisting the urge to do what most barmen do in their downtime—it’s funny how little I feel like drinking now that I am not behind the bar—so we decided to do some research, and record some videos on basic cocktail making and such. I also sat down with Neil to talk about some of the things we researched and some random subjects as well.

If anyone wants to see the videos or hear the entire half-hour interview, where we go way off topic and tell some off-color stories, visit crypticcocktails.com.

KC: Let’s start with the martini. What are your thoughts on the martini?

NG: Still one of the best drinks ever—simple, two ingredients, and when made the right way, 2-to-1 (gin to vermouth), it goes down like nothing.

KC: In our research, we found that dry vermouth wasn’t really around until the end of the 19th century, making it a relatively new drink compared to, say, the Manhattan.

NG: Unfortunately, now we’re in that world now where most of the world thinks a martini is shaken vodka.

KC: I still have people coming in, asking, “What kind of martinis do you have?”

NG: In a true restaurant environment, I am basically OK with that. If you have three goofy drinks served up (called martinis), so be it. A properly made cosmo …

KC: Yeah, or a lemon drop; those drinks are basically daisies. (More on daisies later.) But back to proper martinis. I like a dry martini, with a 5-to-1 gin-to-vermouth ratio, at home.

NG: With a lot of gins, I would actually prefer a nice gin on the rocks with a lemon twist. I’m that guy, I guess. I like a super-light, citrus-forward gin on the rocks with a lemon twist.

KC: Let’s move onto Manhattans.

NG: Still probably the best cocktail ever. Virtually every whiskey drink is kind of derived from that. Let me rephrase that: The whiskey drinks that are popular today, they’re all just derivatives.

KC: Whiskey, fortified wine and a bitter component. The first person who added citrus to a whiskey cocktail must have felt like he discovered the zero—like, “Why hasn’t anybody thought of this before?!” People must have resisted at first.

NG: The best variation—I like to call it a Manhattan on steroids—is the Vieux Carré.

  • 1 ounce of rye or bourbon
  • 1 ounce of cognac
  • 1 ounce of sweet vermouth
  • 2 dashes each of Angostura and Peychaud’s bitters

Stir; serve on the rocks; top with a half-ounce of Benedictine.

KC: I feel like that’s one of those “throw everything in but the kitchen sink” cocktails.

NG: It’s a Manhattan, with “extra.” It’s a coolish weather drink in my brain. The Benedictine gives it that Christmas-y vibe.

KC: We also looked into the history of the margarita—how, despite all of the legends behind the naming of the drink, it’s a daisy, and was probably just named that, but in Spanish; once the tequila went in—voilá, “margarita.” The daisy template:

  • 1 part spirit
  • 1/2 part triple sec
  • 1/2 part lemon (or lime) juice

Shaken, served up (or sometimes tall with soda). A little simple syrup helps; it can be made with almost any spirit.

NG: I subscribe to that, too. The simple answer is usually the right one. I’m sure you’ve done it; I know I’ve done it: A girl comes in, usually a girl, sometimes a guy. You made them something that’s basically a margarita with a little something different in it. They’re like, “Oh my gosh, this is amazing. What do you call this?” And you say, “What’s your name?” And you name it after them.

KC: Oh god, you’re playing to the cheap seats! Yes, I am guilty of doing that once or twice, back in the day. That’s better than when they ask me what the drink is called, and I don’t have a name for it, and they tell me I should call it “The Kevin.” First of all, I would never name a drink after myself; secondly, “The Kevin?” What is it? A boring, suburban white guy? Besides, my drink is an over-proof daiquiri or a boilermaker.

NG: If you can find rum out here. I went looking for a decent clear rum at four different places the other day, and the “best” they had was (redacted) silver. I can’t believe I said that was “the best” out loud.

KC: Yeah, I pretty much get one if I see good rum and know the bar has fresh juice. It’s a shame, with all the Tiki and Tiki history in this town, there isn’t more rum available retail here. Let’s change the subject before we go down the tiki hole, though: How about a light-hearted question. Favorite bar snack?

NG: For sure: Pickled eggs. There is nothing better to see behind a bar than that big old jar of pickled eggs floating around in it. It’s perfection.

KC: Agreed. Anything pickled, even a pepperoncini. I am not a big Bloody Mary guy, but if they load it up with assorted pickles, I am in.

NG: One of my biggest pet peeves is someone who comes in and orders a Bloody Mary or a chavela at 9 p.m. It’s like, buddy, go (expletive) yourself.

KC: A lot of them are probably Canadian. They drink Bloody Caesars all night. But it’s cold up there, so maybe the salt keeps the blood from freezing or something.

NG: When I worked at the club at Fantasy Springs, people used to drink five or six chavelas in a row. It’s like, switch to a Bud Light or something; you’re dancing.

(At this point, the conversation spiraled off topic, so we’ll leave it here for now. Stay safe, everyone, and please don’t drink yourselves through this mess! If two bar-lifers can practice moderation and find some constructive things to do, you can too!)

Kevin Carlow can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

It’s not very often a cocktail columnist for a desert newspaper gets to pretend to be an “in the trenches” correspondent. It’s pretty chill here, and I write about drinks.

Now here we are.

It’s Sunday, March 15. I am sitting in an empty hotel bar with my computer, practicing social distancing, conversing about the situation with my buddy the bartender, as well as a tattooed stranger from L.A. We’re all at least six feet apart. The pool outside hasn’t slowed, however. Dozens of half-naked people still touch, breathe all over each other and swim in the communal water.

I just found out I am unemployed.

I was planning on writing a little piece about how moving Coachella to October would affect the bars and restaurants in this town. I was excited about that for a couple of reasons. Through some informal polling, I got some good takes on why that could, in the long run, be a good thing for the local economy.

Now I am being told, in real time, that I need to move from the empty bar to the pool area, which is crawling with people. It’s not the manager’s fault. They’re following the letter of the law, and I completely understand that. Nobody knows what to do.

Let’s flashback a few days. I had taken Wednesday off as a precautionary measure—I wasn’t feeling great, and though I had no COVID-19 symptoms, one can’t be too careful. I felt great Thursday, but due to slow business at work, I left around 8 p.m. and walked most of the way home to get a feel for things.

There was no VillageFest. A few people were walking around; a couple of the local dives were half-busy. It wasn’t eerily quiet or anything; I am used to Palm Springs being quiet at night. It’s part of the reason I like it here. It felt like a Tuesday instead of a Thursday—otherwise, not too jarring.

On Friday, I rode my bike into work. It’s a 25-minute ride, slightly uphill, and it was into a strong headwind, just in case anyone wanted to question my being healthy. (That sounds petty, but I didn’t want anyone at work to question that I would ever put their health in jeopardy over a shift or two.) I was scheduled at the restaurant, but the bar had two staff members stay home as a precaution, so we were a little short-handed overall. Only a few parties cancelled, and we stayed busy most of the night. People still fought over the limited seating at the bar—standing two deep behind the chairs, breathing and leaning all over each other. We can only do so much; if the guests wish to be unsafe, that’s their prerogative. Behind the bar, we used the strongest sanitizers, washing hands in between even the slightest possible contaminations. Our hands were chapped from the soap and hot water. We took the situation very seriously and parsed every possible vector of transmission. Do we toss the pens after each use? Do we sanitize them? What about the menus … do we recycle them after each use?

I went over to help next door at the bar. A wedding party of 40 had walked in, taking over a whole side of the room—hugging, sharing drinks, sneezing and coughing all over the place. To a co-worker, I referred to them as “plague rats” and “zombies,” and finally “plague zombies,” which felt the most accurate. Regulars were trying to shake hands with me and hug me; a couple of drinks makes the pandemic go away, after all.

On Saturday, there was a slight dip in the number of covers at the restaurant, and frankly, we three bartenders were beginning to get bored—but once 9 o’clock hit, the zombies were back. People were three-deep at the bar, breathing on each other, up close and personal. Regulars were sick of watching the news and coming in for a friendly face and a bite to eat—all jockeying for those precious seats.

I had mixed feelings. Not knowing how many shifts I would have left, the way things were going—or even if people would leave the house for two months—I felt fortunate that we were still busy. There are no easy answers here. A medical crisis or an economic one … who is right, and who is wrong? How the hell am I going to make money for the next month, or two, or year? Is it right to choose to save a small percentage from death only to put millions upon millions out of work? I started thinking of my college political-philosophy 101 classes and John Stuart Mill for the first time in decades.

I had a guest sarcastically tell me my expensive undergrad degree was “doing me a hell of a lot of good” as a bartender recently. Well, pal, when you’re right, you’re right.

Coachella … who the hell cares right now?

Now it’s Sunday. I went for a ride on my bike to this hotel, to write in the dark and have a burger. Now it’s hard to write by this pool, although I am 20 feet from anyone. All of these skinny people here are from Los Angeles, escaping the grim realities of that city for a day or two. It’s hard to blame them. I am imagining them in six months, smashing store windows in Silver Lake for toilet paper and White Claws.

It’s hard to write this; I am worried for myself. I’m worried for my parents back in Massachusetts. Worried for the local economy. For my friends who work at bars, or own bars, or just work with the public at all.

My mind keeps going back to almost 10 years ago, when I was working at an outdoor bar in downtown Boston when the marathon bombing happened. Restaurant and bar managers were trying to make decisions on the fly as to whether they should close on the spot, or not. Everyone was looking suspiciously at strangers. Soon after, the governor and mayor told everyone to effectively shelter in place. We sat at home glued to the news, police scanners and social media.

That only ended up lasting a couple of days, and things got better. With California’s tourism-based economy, and this little desert realizing it has lost a desperately needed season, it’s hard to stay hopeful. We’d already lost a new bar, Glitch, in town before this hit, and many more are teetering as it is. I fear the landscape here is going to be bleak this summer. The labor crunch will be over, if there is a silver lining, as places go out of business and lay off workers. The corporate hospitality groups will feast on the remains, and I fear fast-casual brands will slide like hermit crabs into the dead shells of mom-and-pop places. Perhaps I am being too gloomy; a friend commented the other day that New Englanders panic better than anyone. Maybe this will all just blow over, and I will look like a Chicken Little. I certainly hope so.

Riding home, I have the Talking Heads’ “Life During Wartime” in my head. I’ve got some groceries, some peanut butter, to last a couple of days.

Now it’s late Sunday night, and we’re with a small group of friends saying goodbye to a local bar that fills a lovely niche space in this town. It didn’t take long for the fallout to start.

I’ll see you on the other side. Cocktail of the month, straight shot of whiskey.

Kevin Carlow can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

Spring is nearly upon us here in the desert—and it’s a great time for me and other transplants to remember how fortunate we are to have traded gray 40-degree days for 82 degrees and sunshine.

Granted, we now have to dodge double-decker buses packed with house-peepers, as well as land yachts piloted by frail and bespectacled nonagenarians; such is the trade-off, I suppose—and late winter/early spring is certainly a better time for my wallet. I don’t know if it was the extended chilly weather or the dilution of the clientele base caused by the frenzy of development, but “season” definitely came late this year for most of us craft bartenders. And as summer approaches, we’re gonna need some whiskey.

Specifically, we’re gonna need some Irish whiskey.

If there is one drink that pretty much every bartender has in common, it’s Irish whiskey—specifically, the stuff in the green bottle. I used to think it was a Boston thing, or an East Coast thing, as I grew up on the stuff, but the reality is that bartenders from coast to coast and beyond will revert back to it after they’re done pretending they’re all cool and esoteric.

Americans drink 40 percent of the entire output of Irish whiskey, which helped save it as a viable export, according to Forbes.com. It’s so easy to drink, and it gets you where you’re going without a lot of burn—so what’s not to love?

Without the Irish, we might not have had whiskey at all. As legend has it, Irish monks invented it. They saw that Muslim Moors were wasting the technology of alembic distilling on things like “medicine” and decided to give it a proper use! The resulting “uisce beatha”—pronounced something like how a Bostonian would say, “Ooh, whiskey bar” and meaning “water of life”—became the root of the word “whiskey.” Of course, their cousins the Scots didn’t take long to make their own “whisky” after the Irish showed them the process, and a bit of a rivalry began.

Irish whiskey was originally made in a pot still from malted barley, and could even be peated, like many Scotches are—but chances are the ones you’re drinking at most bars weren’t. There are four types of Irish whiskey, according to Whisky Advocate:

• Malt: One hundred percent malted barley, made in pot stills; if it’s all from a single distillery, it’s called “single malt.”

• Pot still (my favorite): At least 30 percent malted and 30 percent unmalted barley, and no more than 5 percent cereal grains.

• Grain: No more than 30 percent malted barley, distilled in a column still, with pretty much any other common cereal grain, like corn or wheat.

• Blended: A blend of two or more of the above styles.

The brands most people, including inebriated bartenders and/or Bostonians, drink are of the blended variety. This doesn’t make them inferior, necessarily, as some of the tastiest Irish whiskeys are blends; it’s one of the reasons people think of Irish whiskey as a smoother option than other whiskeys. However, I thoroughly advise branching out and trying some of the pot-still varieties: While still quite easy-drinking, they have a good deal more body and a fuller flavor. The recent rise in popularity of premium Irish whiskey (skyrocketing since 2002, according to the Distilled Spirits Council) has meant that finding smaller brands making a more craft-focused product has never been easier.

America has had a taste for the stuff for some time. As David Wondrich points out in Imbibe!, Irish whiskey was quite popular in The States in the 1800s, with bartenders as storied as Jerry Thomas recommending it in cocktails like the Irish Whiskey Skin and the notorious Blue Blazer. I will put the recipe for the Blue Blazer here, but my team of high-powered lawyers has advised me to state that this should not be tried at home. If you burn down your midcentury-modern house or singe the hair off of your eyebrows (and/or the skin off of your arms), I don’t want to hear about it.

  • Two silver-plated mugs with handles and glass bottoms (Wondrich recommends using ones with tulip-flared edges)
  • One teaspoon full of sugar
  • A wineglass of Scotch and Irish whisky mixed (one ounce each, Wondrich says)

Add one wineglass (1 1/2 ounces, per Wondrich) of boiling water; set it on fire, and while blazing, pour from each into the other mug, being particular to keep the other blazing during the pouring process. Serve in small bar tumblers; add a piece of lemon skin; pour the mixture into glass blazing; and cover with a cup.

Thomas recommends practicing with cold water to get the pour down first, as do I if you simply must try this despite my warnings.

Since the only purpose of the Blue Blazer is to show off, let’s do a safer cocktail instead, no? How about something boozy that uses a green ingredient (Chartreuse) and actually tastes good … right on time for St. Patrick’s Day! Come to think of it, I did a column on Chartreuse last month. I love it when a plan comes together. Here’s the Tipperary Cocktail No. 1:

  • 1 ounce of Irish Whiskey
  • 1 ounce of Green Chartreuse
  • 1 ounce of sweet vermouth

Stir and serve up!

This is basically the version in Hugo Ensslin’s 1917 (or 1916 … cocktail history, oof) Recipes for Mixed Drinks, but I adapted it from the Savoy Cocktail Book. I like adding a dash of orange bitters, since this is basically a Bijou cocktail with whiskey, and garnishing with orange zest. Pot-still stuff holds up nicely in this drink, but the blends give it a softer touch, which I prefer in this application.

A lot of bartenders favor the recently late and lamented Gary “Gaz” Regan’s Tipperary No. 3, which reduces the Chartreuse to a half an ounce and ups the whiskey by double. It’s a nice drink, to be sure, but I like it closer to the original. As for the No. 2, let’s just say it doesn’t work for this piece.

Feel free to substitute Irish whiskey into your Old Fashioned, of course, and your highballs and Collinses as well. There is even a shot we used to drink back in the day, a riff on the Washington Apple, called the Irish Apple: It’s two parts green-bottle Irish whiskey, and one part each of cranberry juice cocktail and sour-apple liqueur. Don’t judge me; those years are mostly a blur. But I might just order one on St. Patrick’s Day, to remember the days when I had to elbow my way through the throngs of drunken parade-goers on Dorchester Street on my way to a double shift downtown.

These buses and Buicks don’t seem so bad now, actually. Sláinte!

Kevin Carlow is a bartender at Truss and Twine, and can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

It’s the good ol’ plague time of year: If you haven’t been sick this month, you almost certainly knew somebody who was.

Seriously, people: If you would all stop “giving up” drinking after New Year’s Eve (or New Year’s Day brunch), I think we could all avoid this. Skeptical, are we? Well, allow me to expound the wonders of the miracle liqueur, Chartreuse!

If you read this column on a regular basis, you know I tend to avoid naming specific brands. This is an independent paper, and also the liquor companies don’t pay me. Sometimes, however, naming a specific brand is unavoidable—like when a spirit has such a unique flavor and proprietary process that there really are no substitutes. The king (pope?) of those brands is Chartreuse. It’s made under the supervision of monks, who follow mysterious protocols and recipes known only to them. It has been around long enough to have a color or two named after it, so that’s pretty OG. Most importantly to my theme: If you had been sick in the mid-to-late 1700s, had the means and happened to live a horse’s ride from a particular monastery in France, you probably would have been counting on it in some fashion for your recovery.

OK, enough of the fanboying and apocrypha: Let’s get to the bottom of the green bottle.

It turns out the history of this stuff is pretty interesting. If you want to read the entire thing, it’s available on the company website (Chartreuse.fr/en), but I will summarize it here. In 1605, Duc d’ Estreés gave the gift of a mysterious manuscript containing a recipe known as “The Elixir of Long Life” to a certain order of monks known as Carthusians (named after the Chartreuse Mountains, which became “Charter-House” to the English)—specifically, the ones residing in a small monastery outside of Paris. The order, founded by St. Bruno, encourages a life of silence and solitary living. I could go on, but since few people are as fascinated by the history of Western Monasticism as I am, let’s move along.

The manuscript was confusing and complex, but a certain brother “cracked the code” of the manuscript in 1764, creating the “Elixir Vegetal de La Grande-Chartreuse,” a version of which is still made today. Sadly, this version is not available in the U.S.—but if anyone wants to smuggle a bottle in from France for me, I will pay you handsomely. Anyway, this “elixir” became quite a local sensation, and the monks eventually came up with a more readily consumable version we know today as Green Chartreuse, which has an all-natural green hue. This version contains 130 herbs, and the secret to its color is closely guarded. However, due to a couple of centuries of revolution, intrigue, monastic orders being expelled from France, Napoleon, nationalization and later privatization, the recipe did pass through many hands at various points. All we need to know, for the purpose of this column, is that in 1840, the monks made a sweeter, less-potent Yellow Chartreuse—and ignited arguments among cocktail geeks 160 years later as to which version was the “real” one for the cocktail recipes of antiquity.

The monks are back in charge of production, with two brothers entrusted to mix the herbs. As for the herbs, I covered a few of the key ones in a recent column—but I know you’re here for the drinks. So here are a few of my favorite modern recipes using each type of Chartreuse. (If you wonder why I left out the Last Word cocktail, well, I’ve been doing this column since 2016, and that would be beating a dead horse at this point.)

The Greenpoint

  • 2 ounces of rye whiskey
  • 1/2 ounce of sweet vermouth
  • 1/2 ounce of Yellow Chartreuse
  • 1 dash each of angostura and orange bitters

Stir; serve up with a twist of lemon. This one was created for the bar Milk and Honey by Michael McIlroy. This was one of the first of the New York “rye-revolution” drinks I encountered, right around the time I tried the Redhook. They had a theme going here: Manhattan variations named after Brooklyn neighborhoods. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s made with the green stuff; if they try, slap them away with a slice of greasy pizza.

The Naked and Famous

  • 1 ounce of mezcal
  • 1 ounce of Aperol
  • 1 ounce of Yellow Chartreuse
  • 1 ounce of lime juice

Shake; serve up; and it’s pretty enough without a garnish. I featured this one in a column last year on “four-part drinks” if you want the history, and it’s still in my regular rotation. People just can’t seem to get enough mezcal these days, so I thought I would mention it again.

The Chartreuse Swizzle

  • 1 1/2 ounces of Green Chartreuse
  • 1 ounce of pineapple juice
  • 3/4 ounce of lime juice
  • 1/2 ounce of falernum

Mix in a tall, Collins-style glass with crushed ice using a swizzle stick, if you have one; otherwise, a barspoon works fine. You want the outside of the glass to be frosty; for easy handling, you can wrap a bar napkin around the outside. (I like to make mine look like a bandanna, but that’s optional, of course.) I like a mint garnish, but anything goes, including a lime wheel, pineapple or even basil, to switch up the aromatics. This one is from Smuggler’s Cove in San Francisco and is on the short list of “drinks I wish I’d invented,” but the credit goes to Marco Dionysos. Order one, and watch your bartender get giddy (or perhaps run to the back to Google it … no judgment; I’ve been there). If you make it at home, I suggest buying a spice-forward falernum, and not Taylor’s lighter version. Taylor’s will work in a pinch if you don’t want to make your own falernum. It’s better, though, to find yourself a bar with the “real stuff”; it makes for a much-more interesting cocktail.

I am not a doctor, and the preceding does not constitute medical advice. Besides, everyone knows only hot toddies cure the common cold. Enjoy some Chartreuse anyway!

Kevin Carlow is a bartender at Truss and Twine, and can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Published in Cocktails

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