Imbibe! (22 page)

 

NOTES ON EXECUTION:
Dissolve the sugar in the water, lightly press the mint leaves in the resulting syrup, add the spirits and the ice, and stir. If desired, you can add another hedge of mint to the top. And have at it with a straw.

 

NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
For the
Brandy Julep
, the
Gin Julep
, and the
Whiskey Julep
, omit the fruits and dashes of rum. For a Julep “scientific style,” with “the latest New Orleans touch,” as tantalizingly described in a memorable passage in Mayne Reid’s 1856 novel
The Quadroon
, add a slice of orange and one of lemon and see below.

 

NOTES ON EXECUTION :
Pressing the mint renders it rather bedraggled; I prefer to discard it and use a couple of fresh sprigs at the end, rather than reinserting the pressed ones. The “scientific julep” is shaken back and forth between two glasses, mint, “ice, brandy, lemons, and all,” and then the rim of the glass it rests in is wiped with “a thin slice of pineapple . . . cut freshly from the fruit.” This has the double effect of clearing any undissolved sugar or bits of mint from the rim of the glass and leaving the fruit’s “fragrant juice to mingle its aroma with the beverage.” You can of course use a Boston shaker here, serving the drink out of the mixing glass.

 

NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
For the maraschino, use the liqueur, not the polymer in which “cherries” are suspended. The old gin would be a Hollands. For sparkling Moselle, substitute something sweetish and sparkling; I like a rosé champagne in this.

 

NOTES ON INGREDIENTS:
The sugar should be superfine. As for spirits: The Brandy Smash was by far the most popular, followed in later years by the Whiskey Smash (bourbon or rye). The Gin Smash also appears from time to time. As with the Gin Julep, Hollands is indicated.

The orange-and-berry ornamentation (which goes on at the end) is not strictly necessary, and in fact Thomas’s Whiskey Smash omits it.

 

NOTES ON EXECUTION:
Dissolve the sugar in the water first (or, of course, use 1 teaspoonful or so of gum), then shake. This, however, yields a drink that is less than pleasing visually, so some mixologists of the drink’s heyday preferred to stir it. I still like to shake mine, but I’ll strain it over fresh ice (cracked) and insert a new sprig of mint at the end.

Sangaree—the name comes from the Spanish
sangria
, which pretty much gives us the origins of the drink—is a concoction of strong wine (usually port, but also sherry and Madeira), sugar, water, and nutmeg that was drunk in Britain by gentlemen and sea-captains and in America by infants, invalids, and Indians. Now, it’s possible that I’m exaggerating a bit. When it came to infants and children, I have to concede that there were those who considered giving them Sangaree an “unreasonable and dangerous practice.” But the very fact that this condemnation, published in the
Journal of Health
in 1830, was deemed necessary speaks volumes. For invalids, at least, it was just fine—even for ones being treated for alcoholism, if
Harper’s Monthly
is to be believed (see the February 1864 issue). And for Indians, well, supplying them with the drink was positively doing them a kindness, if we can judge by the visit a delegation of important “red men of the woods” made to a cannon-foundry near Washington in 1824. After the tour, refreshments were served, “cautiously prepared in the form of sangaree, lemonade, etc.” The Indians might perhaps have preferred whiskey, the
National Journal
opined, but “this weaker sort of drink is better for [them].”

Examined chronologically, this “mild and gentlemanly foreigner,” as one Jackson-era newspaper dubbed it, might as well have been a native. While it first appeared in the English-speaking world in London in 1736, when the
Gentleman’s Magazine
noted “a new Punch made of strong Madeira wine and called Sangre,” just seven years later we find our old friend Dr. Hamilton dispatching a bowl of it—the Spanish “sangre” already corrupted to “sangaree”—in suburban Baltimore. That’s an unusually quick transatlantic crossing for a drink—unless, as is entirely possible, it was already over on this side of the pond; unless Mr. Gordon got his “Sangre” from the Caribbean, where Spaniard and Englishmen mixed with great frequency. Early evidence is lacking, but by the early 1800s Sangaree (usually based on Madeira) is a constant feature in travelers’ tales of the Caribbean. Wherever it was born, Sangaree was an American before there
were
Americans. But it never quite settled in here; never took out citizenship papers, cleared itself a patch of woods and set about putting in rows of corn. It’s indicative that there’s no “Whiskey Sangaree” in Jerry Thomas’s book. Brandy and gin, yes. But whiskey, no.

By the Civil War, Sangaree was getting a little long in the tooth. Not that it disappeared entirely, mind you; it just sort of went into a pleasant retirement. As longtime East Coast bartender Jere Sullivan recalled in 1930, “In the Author’s experience it was found principally the order of the elderly business man, after the counters were closed in the late afternoon.” But not every drink has to play the classic American go-getter, all youth and drive and swagger. The Sangaree maintains a certain Old-World courtliness that has its appeal.

 

NOTE ON INGREDIENTS:
This is not the time to break out that crusted vintage port. Plain old ruby port of a decent quality is what you want here. Thomas also suggests a
Sherry Sangaree
, made exactly the same way. Should you give the variation a spin, adjust the amount of sugar you use according to your sherry: more for a fino or an amontillado, less for a cream or a Pedro Ximenez. Likewise, if you want to get all eighteenth century with a
Madeira Sangaree
, the dry Sercials and Verdelhos will require a bit more sugar than the sweeter Buals and Malmseys. Whatever wine you use, the
Steward & Barkeeper’s Manual
suggests 4 ounces of it rather than Thomas’s 3; a sound suggestion that should not be ignored.

One variation that had enough currency for Jerry Thomas to deem it worth mention involves replacing the imported Iberian wines with rather the more quotidian tipples, porter, or ale. The venerable
Porter Sangaree
, alias “Porteree,” was a “good and very wholesome Beverage” (as the
Boston Intelligencer
dubbed it in 1819) of English origin—wholesome enough for the
Journal of Health
to approve its administration to children. After the Civil War, one sees little of the Porteree outside of plagiaristic bartender’s guides. As late as 1906, though, its sibling the
Ale Sangaree
had enough charm for one nostalgic toper to remember it as “the finest summer preparation that ever went down a man’s throat.” He recommended that the “divine, amber-colored fluid” be made with Scotch ale, noted for its mild creaminess (in other words, avoid the heavily hopped American microbrews). The thing of it is, he wasn’t entirely wrong. While I might deny the Ale Sangaree the superlative
finest
, it’s at least worthy of the comparative
finer
—it’s a surprisingly delightful testament to the transformative power of sugar and nutmeg and there’s many a younger, sportier summer drink that could learn a thing or two from it.

As for
Brandy Sangaree
and
Gin Sangaree
, which Thomas also mentioned but pretty much nobody else did (again, discounting his plagiarists). Just make the requisite Sling, omit the nutmeg, and “dash about a teaspoonful of port wine, so that it will float on top” (there are some—and I’m one of them—who consider it a kindness to float a little port on an Ale Sangaree as well). The brandy one is particularly tasty—score one for the Professor—although it is improved by using more port and squeezing in a dollop of orange juice.

 

NOTES ON EXECUTION:
Dissolve the sugar in a splash of water before proceeding (if using Demerara, as I like to, you’ll have to muddle). For a Porteree or Ale Sangaree, use a pint glass and omit the ice. Nutmeg all around.