Imbibe! (20 page)
Authors: David Wondrich
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
Though Jerry Thomas and the
Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual
both favor “cider brandy” or applejack, the great Willard, whose iced version is one of four of his recipes to survive, preferred plain grape brandy. If you can only get the blended applejack Laird’s sells, use Calvados instead, or listen to Willard (preferably with a nice VSOP cognac); if you can get one of Laird’s fine straight apple brandies, proceed with that. Whatever you use, it’s worth bearing in mind what the
Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual
stated in 1869: “This drink ought never to be made with a suspicion of weakness. It is only drank [sic] in cold weather, and needs to be a little strong to be satisfactory to the epicurean” (its recipe called for a full 4 ounces of hooch).
Though Jerry Thomas and the
Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual
both favor “cider brandy” or applejack, the great Willard, whose iced version is one of four of his recipes to survive, preferred plain grape brandy. If you can only get the blended applejack Laird’s sells, use Calvados instead, or listen to Willard (preferably with a nice VSOP cognac); if you can get one of Laird’s fine straight apple brandies, proceed with that. Whatever you use, it’s worth bearing in mind what the
Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual
stated in 1869: “This drink ought never to be made with a suspicion of weakness. It is only drank [sic] in cold weather, and needs to be a little strong to be satisfactory to the epicurean” (its recipe called for a full 4 ounces of hooch).
Half an apple per drink should do. Just peel and core the apples, wrap them in wet brown paper as Willard suggests (otherwise they’ll fall apart) and bake them in a 350-degree oven for 30 to 45 minutes, until completely soft (or, as Willard suggests, roast them in the embers of a fire). For sugar, see the notes on ingredients for Hot
Toddy (page 141); whichever kind you use, use 1 tablespoonful as Thomas indicates; this is no place to skimp on the sweetness. In his 1869
Cooling Cups and Dainty Drinks
, the Englishman William Terrington suggests using boiling cider instead of water; that might just be a bit too much apple.
Cooling Cups and Dainty Drinks
, the Englishman William Terrington suggests using boiling cider instead of water; that might just be a bit too much apple.
NOTES ON EXECUTION:
Put the sugar in a heated mug or heavy tumbler, add a splash of boiling water and stir (use a toddy-stick, if you’ve got one, or a muddler); add the spirits and the apple and stir some more until its pulp is dissolved. Fill with another 1 or 2 ounces boiling water, stir and grate nutmeg over the top.
Put the sugar in a heated mug or heavy tumbler, add a splash of boiling water and stir (use a toddy-stick, if you’ve got one, or a muddler); add the spirits and the apple and stir some more until its pulp is dissolved. Fill with another 1 or 2 ounces boiling water, stir and grate nutmeg over the top.
WHISKY SKIN
Late one night in early 1855, one Richard Stark was tending bar at a sporting-life joint on Broadway at Howard Street in New York, when three men walked in. One of them, a yegg by the name of Richard McLaughlin—alias “Pargene”—stepped up to the bar and, as Stark later testified, “called for a whisky skin.” When the seventeen-year-old bartender slid it over to him, Pargene dashed it in his face, saying, “You son of a bitch—if your master was here I would scald his eyes out, too!” A few days earlier, you see, Pargene had bumped into the bar’s owner outside the Astor House and called him “a pretty son of a bitch.” In return, the man had laughed at him, and, as the
New York Daily Times
later recounted, “tapping him by the side of the nose, said, ‘I’m too sweet for you,’” and turned his back on him. The comment rankled. A couple months later, Pargene and a few other toughs managed to catch up with Stark’s master at another Broadway bar, the Stanwix Hall, which was right across the street from the Metropolitan Hotel, where Jerry Thomas would soon be working. They didn’t scald him with a Whisky Skin, either—after some tussling, they ended up shooting him three times. Thus ended the life of William “Bill the Butcher”
New York Daily Times
later recounted, “tapping him by the side of the nose, said, ‘I’m too sweet for you,’” and turned his back on him. The comment rankled. A couple months later, Pargene and a few other toughs managed to catch up with Stark’s master at another Broadway bar, the Stanwix Hall, which was right across the street from the Metropolitan Hotel, where Jerry Thomas would soon be working. They didn’t scald him with a Whisky Skin, either—after some tussling, they ended up shooting him three times. Thus ended the life of William “Bill the Butcher”
Poole, of
Gangs of New York
fame; his last words, “I die a true American.” Jerry Thomas must have approved.
Gangs of New York
fame; his last words, “I die a true American.” Jerry Thomas must have approved.
The Whisky Skin is nothing more than a Hot Toddy with a strip of lemon peel in it. As a name, it came on the scene in the mid-1850s, with the drink dashed in poor young Stark’s face being only the second known attribution (the first is from the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
in 1854). The drink itself is surely Irish, a small version of the almost-lemonless punch popular there. According to Thomas, who only gave the Scotch version, it was also known—in Boston, anyway—as a “Columbia Skin.”
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
in 1854). The drink itself is surely Irish, a small version of the almost-lemonless punch popular there. According to Thomas, who only gave the Scotch version, it was also known—in Boston, anyway—as a “Columbia Skin.”
For a time Whisky Skin was a popular drink, celebrated on stage (it made a cameo in
Our American Cousin
, the play Lincoln was watching when he got shot) and in verse. It’s still a damned good one.
Our American Cousin
, the play Lincoln was watching when he got shot) and in verse. It’s still a damned good one.
(USE SMALL BAR-GLASS.)
1 WINE-GLASS
[2 OZ]
OF SCOTCH WHISKEY
1 PIECE OF LEMON PEEL
[2 OZ]
OF SCOTCH WHISKEY
Fill the tumbler one-half full with boiling water.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
The 1887 edition specifies “Glenlivet or Islay”—i.e., a mellow, rich malt on the one hand, or a briny, peaty one on the other. Both will work just fine. It also adds an
Irish Whiskey Skin
, which is made the same way, but with the necessary substitution. If you can get the pure pot-still Redbreast, do so. Neither Thomas nor the 1869
Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual
call for sugar in their Skins; others disagreed. Personally, I like 1 teaspoon of Demerara sugar in mine; call me what thou wilt. As for the lemon peel—a long strip pared away from the fruit without any of the white pith is what’s wanted here. It’s worth the effort.
The 1887 edition specifies “Glenlivet or Islay”—i.e., a mellow, rich malt on the one hand, or a briny, peaty one on the other. Both will work just fine. It also adds an
Irish Whiskey Skin
, which is made the same way, but with the necessary substitution. If you can get the pure pot-still Redbreast, do so. Neither Thomas nor the 1869
Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual
call for sugar in their Skins; others disagreed. Personally, I like 1 teaspoon of Demerara sugar in mine; call me what thou wilt. As for the lemon peel—a long strip pared away from the fruit without any of the white pith is what’s wanted here. It’s worth the effort.
NOTES ON EXECUTION :
Proceed as for the standard Hot Toddy. The lemon peel should go in with the sugar, to ensure maximum extraction of flavor.
Proceed as for the standard Hot Toddy. The lemon peel should go in with the sugar, to ensure maximum extraction of flavor.
BLUE BLAZER
Perhaps the most colorful part of Herbert Asbury’s account of Jerry Thomas’s life is the bit where a “bewhiskered giant laden with gold lust with three layers of pistols strapped around his middle” stomps into the El Dorado and roars “Bar-keep! . . . Fix me up some hell-fire that’ll shake me right down to my gizzard!” The Professor measures his man and tells him to come back in an hour, whereupon, in front of a crowd filled with anticipation and booze, he proceeds to prepare a mixture of Scotch whisky and boiling water, light it on fire, and hurl the blazing mixture back and forth between two silver mugs “with a rapidity and dexterity that were well nigh unbelievable.” The mixture is a success. “Right down to my gizzard! Yes, sir, right down to my gizzard!” the miner finally manages to whisper.
That’s not how the Professor remembered it. As he told Alan Dale, he invented the drink while “in a fit of musing.” He was fiddling around one day with a cupful of Scotch, you see, and an
The Professor mixes a Blue Blazer. From
The Bon Vivant’s Companion
, 1862. (Author’s collection)
empty glass, and “dreamily” he just happened to light the whisky on fire. As he watched “the pale blue flame flickering and dancing,” he then poured it back and forth between vessels “until the whiskey was thoroughly burned.”The Bon Vivant’s Companion
, 1862. (Author’s collection)
Whatever the circumstances of its creation, considered from the un-sentimental perspective of mixology, the Blue Blazer is not much of an invention, being merely a Scotch Whisky Skin to which has been applied the bartender’s standard procedure for mixing cold drinks. And, of course, fire. No matter: That fire was enough to make this a spectacular barroom stunt, especially in those gaslit days. As Thomas wrote, “A beholder gazing for the first time upon an experienced artist, compounding this beverage, would naturally come to the conclusion that it was a nectar for Pluto rather than Bacchus”—and it was well worth taking credit for. Thomas even kept a photograph of him making one right over the bar (I assume the engraving found in his book was based on it).
One thing, though: In his 1867
American Bartender
, Charles B. Campbell, of San Francisco, includes a slightly more complex version of the drink with the comment, “This drink is solely my own.” Hmm.
American Bartender
, Charles B. Campbell, of San Francisco, includes a slightly more complex version of the drink with the comment, “This drink is solely my own.” Hmm.
Whoever invented it, the Blue Blazer starts turning up in print in the late 1850s and enjoyed a certain amount of popularity through the 1870s, with bartenders doing to it what bartenders do—that is, making it with everything but Scotch (rum and brandy were particularly popular). Eventually, with the new, cool, spoon-twirling school of bartender taking over in the 1880s, bartenders lost the desire and skill to perform this dangerous and racy stunt. As one Kansas City bartender reminisced in 1883, “There used to be a dozen men in Kansas City who thought nothing of doing that, but you never see them now. Why a bartender on Main St. tried it the other day for fun and nearly burned his hand off.” He couldn’t say nobody warned him: It says right there in Jerry Thomas’s book, “The novice in mixing this beverage should be careful not to scald himself. To become proficient in throwing the liquid from one mug to the other, it will be necessary to practise [sic] for some time with cold water.”
(USE TWO LARGE SILVER-PLATED MUGS, WITH
HANDLES.)
1 WINE-GLASS
[2 OZ]
OF SCOTCH WHISKEY
1 WINE-GLASS
[1½ OZ]
BOILING WATER
[2 OZ]
OF SCOTCH WHISKEY
[1½ OZ]
BOILING WATER
Put the whiskey and the boiling water in one mug, ignite the liquid with fire, and while blazing mix both ingredients by pouring them four or five times from one mug to the other, as represented in the cut. If well done this will have the appearance of a continued stream of liquid fire.
Sweeten with one teaspoonful of pulverized white sugar, and serve in a small bar tumbler, with a piece of lemon peel.
SOURCE: JERRY THOMAS, 1862
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
If possible, I try to use a cask-strength single-malt whisky with this; the extra alcohol makes it much easier to set alight (the cask-strength Laphroaig works splendidly). Campbell calls for Scotch and Irish whiskeys mixed in equal parts. This is fine, but unnecessary. As with the Hot Scotch, I prefer a raw or Demerara sugar in this one.
If possible, I try to use a cask-strength single-malt whisky with this; the extra alcohol makes it much easier to set alight (the cask-strength Laphroaig works splendidly). Campbell calls for Scotch and Irish whiskeys mixed in equal parts. This is fine, but unnecessary. As with the Hot Scotch, I prefer a raw or Demerara sugar in this one.
NOTES ON EXECUTION:
The Blue Blazer is all about the execution. First off, the mugs: I use one-pint pewter tankards, tulip-shaped as in the engraving. The flared rim makes them pour more neatly; here, you really, really want that. Campbell suggests two “silver-plated mugs, with handles and glass bottoms” (eBay is full of pewter mugs, glass-bottomed or not; the silver plating is not strictly essential). The greatest trick here—besides not burning the house down, that is (I always make these over a baking tray full of water)—is to avoid putting the fire out. For that, I try to make them two at a time, with a little more whisky than water, putting the water and sugar in before the booze. This ensures a goodly amount of hot alcohol fumes to ignite. When pouring, be gentle and only pour about half the drink at a time, “being particular,” as Campbell says, “to keep the other [mug] blazing during the pouring process.” Then approach the tea cups or small, heavy glasses you have laid out in advance and prepared with a strip of lemon peel in each and—Campbell again—“pour mixture into glass blazing, and cover with [mixing] cup,” to extinguish it. Whatever you do, do it quickly—the handles have a habit of getting pretty damned hot, pretty damned fast.
The Blue Blazer is all about the execution. First off, the mugs: I use one-pint pewter tankards, tulip-shaped as in the engraving. The flared rim makes them pour more neatly; here, you really, really want that. Campbell suggests two “silver-plated mugs, with handles and glass bottoms” (eBay is full of pewter mugs, glass-bottomed or not; the silver plating is not strictly essential). The greatest trick here—besides not burning the house down, that is (I always make these over a baking tray full of water)—is to avoid putting the fire out. For that, I try to make them two at a time, with a little more whisky than water, putting the water and sugar in before the booze. This ensures a goodly amount of hot alcohol fumes to ignite. When pouring, be gentle and only pour about half the drink at a time, “being particular,” as Campbell says, “to keep the other [mug] blazing during the pouring process.” Then approach the tea cups or small, heavy glasses you have laid out in advance and prepared with a strip of lemon peel in each and—Campbell again—“pour mixture into glass blazing, and cover with [mixing] cup,” to extinguish it. Whatever you do, do it quickly—the handles have a habit of getting pretty damned hot, pretty damned fast.
Oh, and remember to dim the lights. It makes it easier to see the flames, both for your audience (and there’s no point in making this drink without one) and, of course, for yourself. You want to see the flames.
II. GIN, BRANDY, WHISKEY, AND RUM SLING, COLDAbout that quart of Toddy in Stearns’s
American Herbal
being for one person. The thing is, it might have been. Americans drank far too much in the early years of the Republic and days like Joseph Price’s May 11, 1802, with the three pints of whiskey, were far from uncommon. This gave his fellow Pennsylvanian Benjamin Rush pause. Signer of the Declaration of Independence, surgeon-general to the Continental army (well, part of it, anyway), Professor of Medical Theory and Clinical Practice at the University of Pennsylvania, etc., etc., Dr. Rush was one of those amazing do-it-all gents without whom America could not have been built. He was also no dope. While the rest of his countrymen were engaged on a national binge that would put a U of T fraternity to shame, he had reservations. Nor did he keep them to himself. In 1785—astonishingly early; the American temperance movement wouldn’t get into gear for another forty years—he published
An Inquiry Into the Effects of Spirituous Liquors Upon the Human Body
. While by no means coming out in favor of total abstinence, he did have qualms about Dr. Hamilton’s most healthful of drinks: “To every class of my readers,” he wrote, “I beg leave to suggest a caution against the use of Toddy.” Sure, he knew a few men who, “by limiting its strength constantly, by measuring the spirit and water, and . . . by drinking it only with their meals,” got off lightly. Others, though . . . Take the Philadelphia gentleman of Rush’s acquaintance, “once of a fair and sober character,” who took Toddy as his “Constant drink.” Toddy led to Grog (a simple mix of rum and water). Grog led to Slings, Slings led to “raw rum,” and next thing you know he was drinking “Jamaica spirits” with a tablespoonful of ground pepper in each glass (“to take off their coldness,” he averred). Then he died.
American Herbal
being for one person. The thing is, it might have been. Americans drank far too much in the early years of the Republic and days like Joseph Price’s May 11, 1802, with the three pints of whiskey, were far from uncommon. This gave his fellow Pennsylvanian Benjamin Rush pause. Signer of the Declaration of Independence, surgeon-general to the Continental army (well, part of it, anyway), Professor of Medical Theory and Clinical Practice at the University of Pennsylvania, etc., etc., Dr. Rush was one of those amazing do-it-all gents without whom America could not have been built. He was also no dope. While the rest of his countrymen were engaged on a national binge that would put a U of T fraternity to shame, he had reservations. Nor did he keep them to himself. In 1785—astonishingly early; the American temperance movement wouldn’t get into gear for another forty years—he published
An Inquiry Into the Effects of Spirituous Liquors Upon the Human Body
. While by no means coming out in favor of total abstinence, he did have qualms about Dr. Hamilton’s most healthful of drinks: “To every class of my readers,” he wrote, “I beg leave to suggest a caution against the use of Toddy.” Sure, he knew a few men who, “by limiting its strength constantly, by measuring the spirit and water, and . . . by drinking it only with their meals,” got off lightly. Others, though . . . Take the Philadelphia gentleman of Rush’s acquaintance, “once of a fair and sober character,” who took Toddy as his “Constant drink.” Toddy led to Grog (a simple mix of rum and water). Grog led to Slings, Slings led to “raw rum,” and next thing you know he was drinking “Jamaica spirits” with a tablespoonful of ground pepper in each glass (“to take off their coldness,” he averred). Then he died.
The funny thing about this
descensus Avernae
, if there is a funny thing, is Rush’s description of the Slings his unfortunate acquaintance had been drinking: They were “equal parts rum and water, with a little sugar”—in other words, merely a strong Toddy (in those days a Toddy was, it appears, made with two or three parts water to one part spirits). If there was any other important difference between them, nobody in on the secret seems to have seen fit to confide it to posterity. Even Jerry Thomas, with his vast knowledge and experience, could only come up with a rather arbitrary rule that Sling had nutmeg and Toddy did not (something the man who revised his book in 1887 promptly contradicted). No matter—the Sling, particularly the gin variety (first attested to in 1800), soon became one of the iconic American drinks, consumed morning, noon, and night everywhere American was spoken (Rush was a voice shouting in the wilderness, and the American wilderness was vast).
descensus Avernae
, if there is a funny thing, is Rush’s description of the Slings his unfortunate acquaintance had been drinking: They were “equal parts rum and water, with a little sugar”—in other words, merely a strong Toddy (in those days a Toddy was, it appears, made with two or three parts water to one part spirits). If there was any other important difference between them, nobody in on the secret seems to have seen fit to confide it to posterity. Even Jerry Thomas, with his vast knowledge and experience, could only come up with a rather arbitrary rule that Sling had nutmeg and Toddy did not (something the man who revised his book in 1887 promptly contradicted). No matter—the Sling, particularly the gin variety (first attested to in 1800), soon became one of the iconic American drinks, consumed morning, noon, and night everywhere American was spoken (Rush was a voice shouting in the wilderness, and the American wilderness was vast).
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