Boozehound (16 page)

The drink still needed a new, less offensive name, however. I was stumped. My experimentation happened around the time we learned of John Hughes’s death in August 2009. That weekend, I ended up watching a bunch of his great 1980s teen films. At a certain point during
Sixteen Candles
, the name of my nicer, fresher, more sophisticated—but still redheaded—drink became obvious.

THE MOLLY RINGWALD

Serves 4

1 large yellow peach, peeled, pitted, and cut into small chunks

2½ ounces sweet vermouth

1 ¼ ounces Campari

3 dashes peach bitters

3 ounces brandy

Muddle the peach chunks in a mixing glass until most of their juice has been released. Add the vermouth, Campari, and bitters. Shake well. Strain through a fine-mesh strainer, using the muddler to press as much liquid as possible through the strainer, and transfer the mixture to a small pitcher, jar, or other glass container. You should have about 6 ounces of liquid.

Pour 1½ ounces of the peach mixture into each of 4 old-fashioned glasses. Add 2 or 3 small ice cubes and ¾ ounce of brandy to each glass. Stir well.

NOTE:
If you like, you may substitute bourbon, gin, Calvados, or another spirit for the brandy.

CHAPTER 5

BITTER IS BELLA

WHO HAS NEVER TASTED WHAT IS BITTER DOES NOT KNOW WHAT IS SWEET
.

—
German proverb

W
HEN INTRODUCING
new and strange drinks to people, I find that some libations can be a harder sell than others. Italian bitters, or
amari
, are always among the most challenging. Take, for instance, Cynar. The picture of the artichoke on the bottle does not help. Neither does the fact that the name shares four letters with the word
cyanide
. But I try to spread the good word on Cynar anyway. Here’s how the conversation usually goes:

Friend:
What the hell is that?

Me:
Cynar.

Friend:
Cynar?

Me:
Yes! You must try Cynar! Do yourself a favor!

Friend:
What does it taste like?

Me:
Um, it’s a 33-proof liqueur that’s distilled from artichokes, but also lots of other herbs and stuff.

Friend:
Artichokes? WTF? It’s not one of those bitter Italian things you’re always trying to get me to drink, is it?

Me:
Well, yes. But this one is sort of bittersweet.

Friend:
Is it at least pretty in a martini glass?

Me:
Well, it’s kind of like a dark brown. But you can maybe call it sepia or mahogany or burnt sienna if that makes it seem better.

That’s when they usually make a face, just as you may be doing right now. Cynar doesn’t sound very promising, does it? I won’t lie. Cynar—perhaps like anchovies or modern jazz or certain sexual positions—takes a bit of effort, at first, to enjoy. But I implore you: make the effort.

Yes, I’m one of those irritating Italophiles who long ago acquired the seemingly unacquirable taste for those bitter herbal liqueurs that Italians drink before and after dinner. Over the years, I’ve found that nothing flummoxes the average American drinker more than an aperitivo like Campari or an amaro like Averna or Ramazzotti served as a digestivo.

Some of the unease surely stems from the concept itself. An aperitivo is meant to stimulate the appetite—literally to “open” the stomach before a meal. The higher-proof amaro (bitter) is traditionally consumed as a digestivo, or digestive aid. Let’s be honest: these ideas can seem a little gross. The word
digestivo
, in particular, is one place the Italian language, generally so poetic and mellifluous when it comes to food and drink, veers sharply into the prosaic and unpretty. Few Americans really want to think about digestion, or to ponder the relationship of our before- or after-dinner beverages with our stomach enzymes.

Italians, on the other hand, are obsessed with the digestive process. For instance, beware of a drink that’s too cold: it will block digestion and cause the dreaded
colpo di freddo
, which according to many Italians can cause cramps—and possibly even death! In Italy, there are many apocryphal stories of people being rushed to the hospital for taking too cold a drink on a hot summer evening. When I was living in a northern Italian village as a nineteen-year-old exchange student, my host father was always very concerned about my digestion, especially after I’d gorged myself into a food coma on my host mother’s delicious cooking. His surefire cure (of which he partook with me) was a shot of amaro.

Once, after a lavish wedding in a restored fourteenth-century convent, an American friend, finding nothing else to drink, chugged half a bottle of Campari. A little while later, he proceeded to vomit all over one of the convent’s walls, which just happened to be painted with a fresco that dated to the fourteenth century. In the morning, when the owners understandably freaked out, he said, “I think that Campari opened up my stomach.” Ah, they said, of course! Only an American would drink Campari after a wedding feast! He wasn’t quite forgiven for the thousand dollars of damage he’d caused, but at least he’d provided them a reason beyond simply “I am a jackass.”

In fact, there does seem to be some validity to the therapeutic reputation of herbal bitters. A 2001 study published in a Swiss medical journal said they “sensorially stimulate” stomach secretions and digestive glands “at even very small concentrations.” But medicinal value, of course, isn’t our main concern when it comes to spirits.

Too much information about the digestive tract aside, there’s also the issue of amari’s bitter taste, which takes some getting used to. Humans, among other animals, developed a basic aversion to bitter so we didn’t accidentally eat poisonous plants—obviously, there’s a deep reason why it’s so hard to develop a taste for bitters. A bartender in Washington once told me about a cocktail in which he substitutes Fernet-Branca for Campari. “I want to push people outside their comfort zone,” he said with an evil chuckle. I can’t think of anything better than amaro to push someone out of his or her comfort zone. I did this to my own mother not too long ago when I served her Fernet-Branca, after dinner, for the first time. She took one sip, made that bitter face, and said, “Oh my god! It tastes like Vicks VapoRub.”

“Just remember,” I said, “at least your digestive tract is smiling.”

For me, acquiring the taste for bitter spirits happened simply and naturally. I was a nineteen-year-old living and studying in northern Italy, near Milan. Drinks with Campari and Aperol were what the
belle ragazze
who arrived at the café on their Vespas were drinking. I hoped to be riding on the back of one of those Vespas after happy hour. Taste acquired.

But I believe it’s possible to acquire a taste later in life, too. Because the Negroni and the Americano have slowly become cocktail menu staples, many Americans are familiar with bright red Campari. Another of Italy’s best-loved aperitivi, Aperol, was only introduced to the United States in 2006—even though the spirit itself dates to 1919. If Cynar is Campari’s homely cousin, Aperol is sort of like its hot younger sister. Bright orange in color and containing 11 percent alcohol (less than most wines), it’s a sweet and bitter blend of thirty herbs, spices, and fruits, like orange, rhubarb, and gentian. When Aperol came on the scene, Paul Pacult wrote in
Spirit Journal
, “If there is any justice, [Aperol] should become a favored pre-dinner quaff in aware U.S. households and restaurants.”

I find this endorsement interesting, as it shows how tastes evolve over time—even for an acknowledged expert. More than a decade earlier, Pacult had panned Campari as a two-star “Not Recommended” spirit, saying, “Quite candidly I’m not an avid fan of bitters.” Yet in 2007, he revisited Campari in his newsletter, upgrading it from two to three stars, and writing, “I didn’t fully appreciate bitters when I first reviewed this ubiquitous brand back in 1995. I’ve turned a corner since then and have come to admire their special place in the international spirits symphony.” Why the change of heart, I wanted to know? No one would argue that Campari’s nineteenth-century recipe has changed, so when I met Pacult, I pressed him on this revised opinion. “That was me, my palate, changing,” he admitted. “The first go-round with Campari, I really didn’t understand the bitter subcategory. I’ve learned a lot more since then.”

By now the cocktail geek crowd has embraced amari, experimenting wildly with many different brands (note how many of the variations of Manhattans I described in
chapter 2
called for them). Anyone who wants to show off how much of a cocktail person he or she is will probably make you a drink with, say, rye whiskey and at least one amaro. Diners are enjoying more bitter flavors—think radicchio and dandelion greens and extra-dark chocolate. But as for bitter drinks … well, certainly not everyone has got the memo yet. The Italians also haven’t got the memo that certain of us really enjoy these spirits, either, because so much of what they produce never leaves Italy. I’ve tried my damnedest to fix both issues.

On one of my recent trips to Milan, I stopped off at the distiller Illva Saronno, based in the town of Saronno, an otherwise forgettable stop on the forty-five-minute train that connects Milan’s Malpensa Airport with the city center. Illva Saronno’s main product is the superpopular Disaronno brand of amaretto, which is probably the most widely sold Italian liqueur in the United States. Surely, you remember the cheesy “Disaronno on the rocks” ads, wherein the woman licks her ice cube for the bartender? Well, anyway, I wasn’t there for the amaretto, which I usually find too cloyingly sweet. Instead, I was really visiting Saronno to talk about perhaps my favorite Italian aperitivo, Zucca. Specifically, I was there to make a special plea to the Illva Saronno people to start importing it to the United States. Zucca is a
rabarbaro
, a subset of amaro that is infused predominantly with Chinese rhubarb, among other herbs. I learned to love Zucca at the famous Caffe Zucca in Milan’s Galleria on the Piazza Duomo—which was actually the same café where Gaspare Campari introduced his famed red bitters in the 1860s.

First, I listened to the obligatory pitch on Disaronno (which is distributed by Bacardi). “We
are
the category,” said Ludovica Reina, whose family has owned the company for generations. She also told me the secret recipe was written by her grandmother by hand and she’s only been allowed a peek. “People think it’s almonds, but it’s not just almonds in the recipe.” (Perhaps apricot pits, I thought? The same thing used to make the local amaretto cookies?) If you’re looking for a romantic story, you can’t beat amaretto’s: In 1525, Leonardo da Vinci’s assistant, Bernardino Luini, was painting a fresco of the Madonna in Saronno’s church and found his inspiration in a young widow who became his model and lover. As a token of her affection, she steeped apricot kernels in brandy and presented the concoction to the artist.