I’ve written before of the four bedrock drinks of cocktailia. Each based on one of the four foundation spirits of classic cocktail mixing: gin, bourbon, rum, and brandy, I refer to these cocktails as The Four Gospels. There are other great and/or popular spirits that people mix with, of course. And there is for most of them an emblematic cocktail as well. I’ll refer to these drinks as the Gnostic Gospels, since the spirits they use aren’t quite canonical for one reason or another.

With Cinco de Mayo fast approaching, let’s discuss the (Gnostic) Gospel of Tequila: The Margarita.

Margaritas! Woo Hoo!

Um, no. Not quite what I want to talk about here. The Margarita suffers from all sorts of problems, few if any of them its own fault. The biggest is that, like the Gospel of Rum (the Daiquiri), the Margarita has been largely debased from great classic cocktail into a machine-dispensed, umbrella party drink that is consumed rather than savored. It’s a shame really, because when made well, the Margarita is a delicious, sophisticated cocktail that you can order in the finest cocktail bars in the world with your head held high.

Please note, I’m not totally dismissing the frozen Margarita here. There are times when a slushy, salt-encrusted bowl of green agave bomb is just the thing. They can truly rev up a party, and if you either cannot afford or do not want to pop for the good stuff on this set of guests, Frozen Margaritas are the best way to go to hide the genuinely crappy flavors of cheap tequila.
Cheap or expensive, Tequila really does seem to have a higher than average ability to knock down inhibitions. I banned the stuff from my own parties back in my late twenties after two incidents. The first ended with me rolling up and down the hill in our back yard in the wet grass with several of the neighborhood wives. The second had my own wife finding me taking a shower in the guest bathroom, fully clothed, but dry as a bone since I’d forgotten to turn on the water.

But this blog is a high-falutin’ operation, so I’ll leave off the frozen Margarita discussion with a single piece of advice for those who came here looking for insight into cold, green, party punch for St. Patrick’s Day (South of the Border Edition). Forget the blender. It is a hassle, loud, and unlike with lots of frozen cocktails, unnecessary. If you are going to do the Margarita Party thing, just try one of these products. The freezer bucket mixes just need a bottle of cheap tequila and some freezer space, and they make a plenty serviceable faux Mexican party drink.

Let’s start with what is in a Margarita: Tequila, lime, an orange liqueur, and a bit of sweetener. Within this, there is a lot of room for variation and experimentation. Here is the recipe I use when my fancy takes me to Margaritaville:

I’ll go through each bit to show where you might want to vary the program, and why I don’t.

For the most part, I stick with silver tequilas in my Margaritas. The added character is largely wasted in this mix, and frankly, I don’t like the color as much in the final cocktail. Rather than spend your money on a reposado or anjeo, spend it on a better class of white tequila and you’ll be well ahead of the game. Whatever tequila you use in making your real Margarita, make sure it is actually drinkable.
If you take a sip and have to bite into a lime and lick salt just to survive the experience, it isn’t good enough tequila. If you do want to use a dark, aged tequila, I suggest you do it on the rocks, where the color will be less of an issue.

Which brings us to the choice of up or on the rocks. As I mentioned above, the frozen version is a fine drink, but it is not a cocktail. A good Margarita cocktail can be served either chilled or with ice, and in either a cocktail glass or a rocks. I prefer up, in a cocktail glass, because I think it is more elegant. But since it is so important that your Margarita be cold when you drink it, you may find rocks to be a better choice if you like to pour a larger portion.

In either case, please don’t use those giant, thick “Margarita” glasses. These things are ugly, clunky, and take up unnecessary space in your cabinets that could be devoted to booze. If you must use these things, do it with the slush.

Not the Devil, but it is what he drinks out of.

Cointreau is apparently the original liqueur in Margaritas. I use it because, well, I seem to use Cointreau in every damn thing I mix. Also, it is a magnificent step up from basic Triple Sec. You can also use Grand Marnier, or other orange liqueur such as Patron’s Citronage. Why you’d bother, I don’t know. Cointreau is delicious.

Fresh lime juice. ‘Nuff said there.

You may or may not want the sweetener. I like a little myself. I use agave syrup here, and in precious little else. It is not flavor neutral, and in most cocktails that is a problem. But for obvious reasons, it does go quite well with tequila.

The last big thing is the rim.

In an Art of Drink post two years ago, Darcy says a lot about the salts to use on your rim. For my part, I just want to focus on where, not what. Below is not how to rim your glass, for Margaritas, or any other salt or sugar-rimmed glass. Ever.

The salt needs to be outside the glass, not inside, and the standard bar rimmer, while fast, will put just as much or more material on the inside of the glass as the outside. Rimming materials that are inside the rim of the glass will wash into the drink. If you wanted the salt dissolved in the drink, you’d add it when you are shaking. Outside the rim, the salt will only dissolve on the drinker’s tongue, in the amount he or she desires.

To that end, always leave a gap at least a quarter of the way around the glass clear of ice, so the drinker can start out with a span of rim where they can be completely salt-free, even on their first sip. You should do this with any rimmed drink you make, salt, sugar, or Peruvian cocoa and parika dust.

Achieving this kind of rim, with the salt only on the outside and leaving a perfect gap, is harder than just slamming your damp glass into a ring of salt, but not by much really. To make the salt stick, take a freshly cut wedge of lime and run it around the outside rim of the glass as far around and down the outside as you want the salt to coat. Then lean the glass over on its side and pat its outside gently into a high pile of your chosen salt. Don’t turn the glass while it is in the salt, or you’ll get a messy rim and your salt pile will get contaminated. Instead, pat the glass down, lift and twist slightly. Repeat until you have gone as far around as you want. The result is a gorgeous, evenly crusted outer rim. With the slightest of practice, it takes 30 seconds, tops.

Before I leave you to your newly sophisticated Conco de Mayoing, I should explain why I classify the Margarita as a Gnostic Gospel. Good Margaritas have all the hallmarks of a gospel cocktail. They are delicious, simple to make, complex, beautifully showcase the quality of the base spirit, and they are the quintessential means of serving tequila.
But whereas vodka is so devoid of character it is relegated to the gnostic status, Tequila’s conversely overwhelming character makes it just too limited a spirit in its own right to merit full gospel status. It is a bitch to mix with in general. Its unique flavor profile is problematic with a host of the usual cocktail ingredients; so much so that most every tequila cocktail ends up being some kind of Margarita derivative. Also, despite tremendous money spent in recent years by the industry, with lots of creative advertising and a concurrent increase in sales, tequila remains a boutique or niche spirit. Most Americans drink it only in Mexican restaurants or on Cinco de Mayo. Similar to what I said about Old Fashioneds and Mad Men season premiers, 95% of everything you will see written about tequila this year, will be written this week.

I’ve written before of the four bedrock drinks of cocktailia. Each based on one of the four foundation spirits of classic cocktailia, gin, bourbon, rum, and brandy, I refer to these cocktails as The Four Gospels. There are other great and/or popular spirits that people mix with, of course. And there is for most of them an emblematic cocktail as well. I’ll refer to these drinks as the Gnostic Gospels, since the spirits they use aren’t quite canonical for one reason or another.

We shall discuss today the (Gnostic) Gospel of Vodka: The Cosmopolitan.

The Cosmo is the new kid on the block among the power cocktails, which among other reasons means it gets less respect than it should. I’ll get to those reasons in a bit, but I’ll lead with why the Cosmopolitan deserves to be considered one of the Gospels.

Firstly, the drink is very popular. I challenge you to find a bartender in America (biker bars probably excluded) who isn’t called on to make them often. While it is no longer so omnipresent as it was a few years ago, that is actually a testament to its importance and influence. So many people who were attracted to the Cosmo learned that there was a world of cocktails to explore beyond it.

And influential the Cosmo is, like all the Gospels. The Manhattan was the first gospel, the Martini defines cocktails as elegance, the Daiquiri and its progeny kept hope alive down in Cuba during Prohibition, and the Sidecar is the iconic Europeans contribution.
The Cosmo was the light that brought classic cocktails back out of the wilderness.

Aaaah!

Zut alors!

Aack!

Kaaahn!

Yes, it did, oh snooty drink purists. Please remember the state of cocktails when the Cosmo was born. The drinking world was a vast wasteland of shots, and slushies, and sour mix. (Oh My!) Even the mighty Martini had devolved into a glass of cold vodka, drunk only by old men and paleo-hipsters.

Then the Cosmopolitan burst onto the bar scene. The cocktail glass became cool again, as did drinks in it. Because most bars had become places that had neither the inventory nor staff to produce drinks like a decent Cosmo, fashionable patrons sought out Martini Bars, where they could get one without a fuss. Over time, you could once again find measurable numbers of bartenders who stood out because of their mixing skills, instead of just their sympathetic ear or appearance (or cleavage). I’m not saying that the Cosmo sparked the craft bar renascence of today, but I’m sure it provided several critical items of support.

• It provided cash flow for a (still to this day) niche market.
• It spiked demand in the mainstream for Martini-style mixology.
• It convinced a hell of a lot of young women to put down the wine bottle and pick up the cocktail glass.

To be a Gospel, a cocktail must also be the perfect vessel for its base spirit. I contend that the Cosmo is the perfect embodiment of what you can do well with vodka. Vodka provides no distinctive character of its own to a drink, nor
color, or aroma. Instead it provides a simple, smooth kick. When you mix with vodka, your drink has cocktail potency, but you can decide on whatever flavors you need, without having to subjugate them to a dominant spirit. The delicious, well-balanced mixture of flavors from the the other ingredients in a Cosmo won’t work without the vodka. I’ve tried. Interestingly, it is the addition of a large amount of 80 proof liquor that actually makes the drink smooth and drinkable.

Of course, the mere use of vodka is why many in the Church of the Cocktail would relegate this gospel to gnostic or “also ran” status. Vodka has a very short history in cocktails, and not a particularly distinguished one. Most of its oeuvre consists of either simply dull concoctions, or dumbed down versions of superior gin drinks.
The Cosmo is different in that when made well with good ingredients, it is an interesting, balanced cocktail. Further, the ground is littered with the bodies of cocktailians who tried to turn the Cosmopolitan into a decent gin cocktail. The fabled Metropolitan heresy has wasted more good gin on bad results than you can imagine. (For the record, my attempt can be found here. I cheated and it is still only OK.)

There is more to be said about the history and culture of the Cosmo, but I’ve gone too far into the post already without giving a recipe. Here is Dale DeGroff’s Rainbow Room recipe:

For the record, I actually think Dale’s recipe is too sweet. (Ducks head to check for lightning) My preferred recipe is this, the Dry Cosmopolitan, if you will.

I use a lime wheel because I seldom have oranges around, and I’m tired of burning my fingers learning how to flame the peels anyway.
When you are learning to mix your own Cosmopolitans, the cranberry you use will dramatically affect the final product. The omnipresent brand in America is Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice Cocktail. That is what my ratios are designed for. Other brands vary in sweetness. You can also find pure cranberry juice, but please be aware that it is seriously tart. You’ll need to add simple, more Cointreau, or less cranberry to make the drink work. Frankly I see no benefit.
Ocean Spray isn’t really a juice in cocktail mixer terms, but a cordial, like Rose’s Lime. Use accordingly.

Another issue worth discussing with Cosmos is the Cointreau. Use it. Any decent vodka will do fine in a Cosmopolitan, but if you skimp and use cheap triple sec, the quality will suffer. And using most other orange liqueurs is a heresy, as the darker color will throw off the pristine pink shade of the cocktail.

The Cosmo, at its Miami nativity, used citrus-infused vodka. You can experiment with this if you like, but employing such vodka so you can omit the lime is a heresy. And using Rose’s in your Gospel of Vodka will surely as the Sun shall rise bring a visit from these guys…

I’ll wind things up with some discussion of the history and cultural impact of the Cosmopolitan. While DeGroff is widely and persistently credited with inventing the Cosmo, to his credit he has just as persistently refused to take credit. Cheryl Cook, a South Beach bartender, first made a “Cranberry Kamikaze” with this famous moniker. DeGroff adopted and improved the recipe as a signature drink for the rebooted Rainbow Room in New York.
The Cosmo’s first big splash with the general public came when Madonna visited the Rainbow Room after the Grammys in the early 1990′s. A NewYorker photographer snapped a picture of her enjoying a Cosmopolitan and it created a sensation around New York’s bar scene.

Then Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda made the Cosmo their cup of communion on HBO’s Sex and the City, and the cranberries really hit the fan.

The show never suited my taste, so I watched only a few episodes. But it’s clear to anyone why it sparked such a sensation in the cocktail world. The four fabulous women of SatC led thrilling lives, attend fabulous Manhattan events, wear incredible (and incredibly over the top) outfits, have wild, varied sex, and drink exotic Cosmopolitans. The largely female audience which made the show popular wanted that life. But they mostly didn’t live in Manhattan, didn’t have the money for designer clothes, and wanted that sex to be with men other than those available.
All that and six bucks would get you a Cosmopolitan. See the effects on the cocktail world, as postulated above.

With the arrival of the latest installment of the Sex and the City saga in theaters, expect another run on this drink, as well as other means of spicing up marriages. Carrie and Big are apparently getting bored with each other, and such dodges as wearing identical men’s tuxedos out for a night on the town don’t seem to work. The ladies therefore take the only logical step, which is to jet off to a Muslim nation to ogle men and drink heavily. (?!?!) To paraphrase the movie’s trailer, It’s like Aladdin? Yes, but with Cosmopolitans.


Thus endeth Cosmopolitan, The Book of Vodka.
Here are the posts detailing the Four True Gospels of the Cocktail:
The Daiquiri, The Book of Rum
The Sidecar, The Book of Brandy
The Manhattan, The Book of Whiskey
The Martini, The Book of Gin

Thanks Matt!
From over at a Jigger of Blog, I see that there is a really cool event coming up in Washington, DC entitled, Happy Birthday, Mr. Daiquiri. The seminar is a production of the Museum of the American Cocktail, and features such mixological luminaries as Jeff Beachbum Berry, and Jon Arroyo (about whom I wrote recently). The event marks the 100th anniversary of the Gospel of Rum’s arrival on American shores, and details its origins, rise, and effects on cocktailia in general.
I imagine strawberry goo and blenders need not apply.
Of course, I only get to visit DC occasionally, so I won’t be able to attend this cool event, and now I’m sad.
So thanks, Matt….

(Image stolen from The Commercial Appeal, where dining reviewer Jennifer Biggs writes about more than just local interest.)

I’ve been fascinated for a while with the concept of the four bedrock drinks of cocktailia. Each is based on one of the four foundation spirits upon which classic drinking lore is laid: Gin, Bourbon, Rum, and Brandy. I refer to these cocktails as The Four Gospels. I’m not sure if I made this up, or if I read it elsewhere. I suspect I read it elsewhere, as I ain’t that clever usually.
This last post in the series is about the Gospel of Brandy, the accessible Sidecar.
I left this one for last for a couple of reasons. The Sidecar, apparently invented during the First World War, would seem to be the youngest of the Gospels. (So rumor aside, the dates don’t work if you think it inspired the Daiquri) The Sidecar is the only one to be born in the old world, rather than the Americas. And while it is unquestionably the most unknown Gospel among the drinking public at large, I would contend that it should be the most popular to that same public.
The base spirit for the Sidecar is brandy. I think this explains part of its obscurity in the U.S. American brandy is, well, mediocre, shall we say? And cognac is so, um, French. Icky. Chances are, you’ll get a negative reaction from a lot of Americans when you simply tell them the base of a Sidecar. For me, I make mine only with cognac. For some latter day, heretical mixtures you hear people scoff at this, claiming it to be a waste of premium booze. If your Sidecar tastes just as good with American brandy as with cognac, then you, sir, are doing it wrong.
The Sidecar is a Gospel. This means that it the essential showcase for its base spirit. You need to use the good stuff to make a good Gospel.
Here’s the basic Sidecar recipe. As with all the Gospel recipes, there is room for movement, but this is close to the baseline:

Again, as with all the Gospels, note the simplicity of the drink. And just as the Daiquiri is at its heart a rum sour, so too is the Sidecar a brandy sour that knows people.
The thing that makes the Sidecar stand out from the other Gospels is, if you can get around the brandy-resistance, how broadly it appeals. The world is full of people who can’t abide aromatic and/or bitter cocktails like the Martini and Manhattan. And the Daiquiri is too light or too sour for many others who crave more depth in their tipple. The Sidecar possesses the depth and complexity that cocktailians crave, while showcasing flavors and sweetness that appeal to the laity.
In my current series on Cameron Mitchell’s restaurant bars, I’m seeing a pattern of superbly-made cocktails with wonderful ingredients being damaged by too much sweetness for my tastes. But they sell well. Very well. The Sidecar thus becomes an excellent entryway into the mysteries of finer cocktails, because it is certainly the sweetest of the Gospels, especially in its base incarnation.
This brings us to the basic, canonical variations of the Sidecar. The first is that sugared rim. I think it is a cool presentation, and actually extremely practical. Rimming a glass allows the drinker to regulate the amount of sweet (or salt, as in a Margarita) they get with each sip. If you want more sweet, sip from untouched rim. If you want to lower the sugar, drink from a clean area. Examine the picture below for a gorgeous way to rim a cocktail glass that makes this process even easier for the drinker. (Source: GlamNest)

I said this was practical, but that’s for the drinker. It’s easy to rim a glass, it’s hard to rim one properly or attractively. This makes a great Sidecar perhaps the hardest Gospel to produce, which perhaps also accounts for some of its obscurity. Also, when I make my Sidecars at home, I usually omit the sugared rim entirely. Neither Maggi nor I really need it. As your cocktail sensibilities grow more sophisticated, you may or may not lose your taste for that much sweetness. The point of all this is that you can achieve a glorious cocktail, one that is sweet enough for the general public, without adding any sugar or syrup to the drink itself!
The only sweet in the drink comes from the orange liqueur. I use Cointreau myself. (This may have something to do with the fact that I seem to use Cointreau in everything.) Grand Marnier also works very well in Sidecars, though it produces a different look and flavor. You could experiment with other orange liqueurs as well. Just use a good one. Triple Sec (generic Cointreau) may not be a heresy, but it makes a drink that is a waste of ingredients. A lot of people these days, myself included, replace or supplement the Cointreau with Tuaca. If you want to experiment with this, I’d suggest starting by using a half part each of Cointreau and Tuaca.
Lastly is the juice. Lemon juice mixes better with brandy than does lime, and that is why it is in the basic recipe. For some people’s tastes however, lime, and the slight funkiness it produces in a mix with brandy, also works. I sometimes do half and half of lemon and lime in my Sidecars.
We at last come to the heresies of the Sidecar. The biggest, I think, is actually lexicographical. As I said above, the Sidecar is a sour. But too many mixologists go around saying various sours are Sidecars. Click on the gorgeous picture of the partially sugared cocktail from GlamNest above. She got the cocktail from Clément, and it is called a Clément Sidecar. There is no brandy in this drink at all. It is closer to a dark rum Daiquiri, than a Sidecar. (Looks good though. If Clément wants to send me some Shrub, I’ll give it a whirl!) I’d venture to say that a large majority of cocktails on bar menus in the US that call themselves Sidecars likely are nothing of the sort. A Sidecar is no more an acceptable name for any sour in the neighborhood, than Xerox is an acceptable term for every copier in Office Depot.
The other major heresy is one that lots of cocktailians rail about in bars everywhere. But it is one that is particularly important with Sidecars. I speak of the stuff that makes we cocktail snobs shudder: Sour Mix! (Dum, dum, dummmm!)
Not a good idea folks! I don’t care if your bar proudly proclaims they make theirs daily from fresh squeezed lemons and simple syrup concocted from hand selected fresh cane and unicorn sweat. The drink does not need the added sweetness… if you are using cognac and good orange liqueur. If you are using triple sec and Gallo’s cheapest brandy, then by all means glop in that sour mix. Just keep the resulting nastiness away from the ones you love.
The Sidecar is the Gospel of Brandy. It is a delicious, highly accessible drink, and one that we should use more as an essential in learning about how cocktails work and how to make them. Experiment with the Sidecar, and see how the normal variations work. Then use that knowledge to start making drinks like that Clément Sidecar above. Drink real, good Sidecars, examine the depth and interest of the drink, then use that appreciation to move on to other cocktails outside your current zone of appreciation. Just don’t ride the Sidecar to other destinations, then call those places by the name of what you rode there in!

Thus endeth Sidecar, The Book of Brandy.
Here are the other posts here relating to the Four Gospels of the Cocktail:
The Daiquiri, The Book of Rum
The Manhattan, The Book of Whiskey
The Martini, The Book of Gin

I’ve been fascinated for a while with the concept of the four bedrock drinks of cocktailia. Each is based on one of the four foundation spirits upon which classic drinking lore is laid: Gin, Bourbon, Rum, and Brandy. I refer to these cocktails as The Four Gospels. I’m not sure if I made this up, or if I read it elsewhere. I suspect I read it elsewhere, as I ain’t that clever usually.
This post is about the Gospel of Gin, the troublesome Martini.
If there is a Gospel of Gospels, it is the Martini. It is an order of magnitude more popular the the other three Gospels combined. That triangular glass, with its crystal clear contents and light frost on the outside is the icon of cool in cocktails, perhaps the icon of cool, period. The very name, Martini, is almost synonymous in the laity’s mind with the very concept of cocktail. And that is the challenge it presents.
If the Manhattan has changed the least from the time of its invention, the Martini has changed the most. Its exact origins are shrouded in significant mystery. Success has many fathers. Given the Martini’s success, it is not surprising that it mother appeared to have gotten around a bit. Trying to figure out the truth is like watching the first half of Mama Mia. All we know for sure is that it was invented in the United States, and the first one mixed would be unrecognizable to the average modern Martini drinker.
Warning, do not watch the following video if you are susceptible to earworms.

Let us consider a pretty representative base Martini recipe, as it has been slowly codified over time:

There you go. Possibly the simplest, most elegant cocktail recipe there is. The resulting drink is complex, flavorful, and visually stunning in its elegant simplicity. There is a reason that this is the most popular cocktail in history.
Quality of gin in a Martini is of paramount importance. Like all the Gospels, it lovingly features all the magic of its base spirit. If you use bad gin, it will lovingly feature the badness, so don’t go there. Likewise, the vermouth plays an important role in a properly made Martini. Though some find huge variations in quality of various brands, most drinkers will be happy with any reasonable vermouth… as long as it is fresh. Unlike gin and other liquors, Vermouth is a wine. It does go bad once opened, not as quickly as regular wine, but it does get flat and stale. For the home bar, you should buy your vermouth in small bottles, and store them in the refrigerator.
Like the Daiquiri, the Martini can be subjected to a fair amount of interpretation and still be considered the gospel truth. Unlike the Daiquiri, these modifications are less about the players, and more about how they are arranged.
The first main variant is the garnish. The classic image of the Martini has that lovely green olive, nestled at the bottom of the glass, or impaled upon an artistic skewer. It imparts a little briny taste to the drink, especially at the end, as well as providing a tasty snack mid drink, for those who can stomach the darn things. But of equal canonical legitimacy is the long twist of lemon. This is my favorite, by the way. The lemon oil adds a brighter, fresher accent to the drink than the olive brine. And if you or your bartender have some skill with the knife, the long, luxurious, curling peel, nestled in the glass or crawling over the edge, provides a sophisticated yet whimsical image. Um, don’t do both. It won’t taste or look right.
The next question regards bitters: Do you add them? I do, but opinion is divided. A few drops or even a good dash of bitters, usually orange but Angostura works too, will add another harmonious dimension to this already complex drink. It does add a bit to the degree of difficulty, however. Not in making, but in drinking. It is probably better to omit the bitters for those who are just beginning to plumb the depth of this cocktail.
Lastly, you may play with the ratio of gin to vermouth. I like four to one, but that is truly just me. It should be somewhere from 2-1 (almost no one goes this far anymore), to seven or eight to one. The higher the ratio of gin to vermouth, the dryer your Martini is considered, and the more expensive and high quality your gin had better damn well be.
Beyond that, we start to get into the heresies of the Martini, which are legion.
We begin with the the question of dryness. Many bars, bartenders, and home mixers today will simply omit the vermouth in a misguided quest for dryness. A Martini with all gin and no vermouth is not a Martini. It is, get this, a glass of cold gin. No one in their right mind goes around calling for a round of shots of gin. Yet we see people all the time ordering and consuming giant, oversized shots of gin and calling them Martinis. Do. Not. Do. This.
But beyond that are the self-deluding heretics that subscribe to the wash method, or the super high ratio. The wash is simply rinsing the glass or the ice with vermouth and pouring off whatever does not stick. You get similar results with the super high ratio method, where you creep into the 15-1 range. These drinks all should be more properly called Montgomerys. This arrangement is named for British field marshal Montgomery, who was known to the Americans as the leader who would not attack without at least a 15-1 advantage in troops, and known to the French as the most crazy brave leader in military history…. Sadly, today you are more likely to get a Montgomery than a Martini in most places unless you take your bartender firmly in hand.
Next we have are those drinkers who order up a Martini with five, seven, or more olives. This is not a Martini. It’s a meal.
And some folks like their Martinis on the rocks. No. You know, I suppose that for some tastes…. No. Just no.
The heresies only get bigger from here folks. Here’s a phrase you’ve heard before: Shaken, not stirred. Bond may have made the Martini cool (or more likely the Martini made Bond cool), but this is not the right way to make a Martini. While I do not buy the idea that shaking bruises gin, at least one source that I respect states that shaking will bruise the vermouth. (Not using vermouth? Heretic!)
More to the point, shaking will cloud your Martini, leaving bubbles and shards of ice to mar its crystalline perfection. I am in general a shaking proponent for most drinks, craving the greater coldness you usually get, but for the Martini it is better to take the time (a lot of time) to properly chill the drink with gentle stirring.
An even bigger heresy than that of shaking is the heresy of vodka. Before we go a step further, allow me to raise my hand and state for the Inquisition that, My name is Doug, and I’m a Vodka Martini heretic. A Vodka Martini (note the capitalization?) is a different drink. It is not a Martini, folks! It is a much less challenging, more accessible, less interesting, and currently more popular cocktail. Here’s the difference between the two in pictures:

Imagine if you will the Vodka Martini (left), versus the (gin) Martini (right)

Worth a thousand words, no?
Lastly, we come to the greatest heresy of all, the one that infects otherwise great bars all across the land. Dark are the times, and fear walks among the women and children. I speak of the Cosmopolitan Martini, or the Appletini, or the Blueberry Mango Martini, or any of a hundred thousand other concoctions, most made with vodka, and all served in a Martini glass.
Stop! Stop right there, or you had best expect the Spanish Inquisition.
These drinks are not Martinis. Many of them can only charitably be called cocktails. The definition of Martini is in no way, shape, or form, an alcoholic beverage served ‘up’ in a triangular cross-sectioned glass. The glass itself is a cocktail glass, not a Martini glass. Even if it has a real Martini in it, it is not a Martini glass.
Pant. Pant. Pant. Whew, I’m worn out from all the righteous indignation!
The Martini is a magnificent cocktail. A cocktail to which modern cocktail culture, most drinks, and frankly most bars, owe their existence. It deserves respect and knowledge. It isn’t for everyone. The last thing that distinguishes Martinis is how many people really don’t like them, or think they don’t. I really don’t prefer them myself (see confession above). But they are a marvelous cocktail, filled with history, and the best way to showcase most fine gins. Treat them well.

Thus endeth Martini, The Book of Gin.
Here are the other posts here relating to the Four Gospels of the Cocktail:
The Daiquiri, The Book of Rum
The Manhattan, The Book of Whiskey
The Sidecar, The Book of Brandy

I’ve been fascinated for a while with the concept of the four bedrock drinks of cocktailia. Each is based on one of the four foundation spirits upon which classic drinking lore is laid: Gin, Bourbon, Rum, and Brandy. I refer to these cocktails as The Four Gospels. I’m not sure if I made this up, or if I read it elsewhere. I suspect I read it elsewhere, as I ain’t that clever usually.
This post is about the Gospel of Whiskey, the venerable Manhattan.
The Manhattan is the oldest of the four Gospels, appearing (almost certainly in Manhattan) no later than 1874, and quite possibly in the 1860s. There are several things about the drink that distinguish it from lesser cocktails, some objective, some subjective. Let’s look at them, shall we?
The recipe is remarkably durable, remaining largely unchanged in a hundred and forty years. Were the first Manhattan ever mixed plunked down before a modern Manhattan drinker, he or she would likely recognize and enjoy it. Here is the essential, classic recipe:

The Manhattan is the most American of the cocktail Gospels. It’s base is American whiskey, versus the foreign or exotic qualities of gin, brandy, and rum. Yet it is also encapsulates the mongrel nature of America, with its old world immigrant vermouth. It is a simple drink, bold and straightforward. It has great and complex character, but little nuance. This is not a drink that “develops” as you go, but announces itself with the first sip. It’s quite powerful as well; treat it with respect, and it’s a great friend; screw with it, and it will hurt you.
The Manhattan is perhaps the quintessential broad drink, to go back to one of my hobby horses. A woman who drinks Manhattans, especially a younger woman, is someone to be reckoned with. Should you see a cocktail glass of clear amber before a lady, it is a good indication that her sense of self is centered on her humanity, not her femininity. She will likely be as comfortable socializing with men and women. This is a huge (and modern) stereotype, but it seems to work in this era. A woman who drinks so bold a drink as a Manhattan is not a chick. Like the Manhattan itself, she is true to herself, not the whims of her surroundings. In fact, this last applies to both men and women in this era: There are precious few (but magnificent) watering holes on Earth where ordering a Manhattan will make man or woman part of the herd.
My observation is that the Manhattan is least likely to be the favorite Gospel for any given cocktail drinker, but it is the most likely to be a favorite.

Too old and too bold to ever be truly trendy again, yet as perfect an alcoholic construction as has been made, the Manhattan is like a rock upon the shore, weathering the forces of time, taste, and fashion, remaining an unchanged refuge for us all.
All that flowery maundering aside, the Manhattan, like the other Gospels, has its variations and its heresies. The chief question for the maker to answer is which whiskey is to be employed. The drink originated with pure rye whiskey, but is far more likely to be made today with bourbon. I think the main reason for this is simply that there is so much more quality bourbon to be had these days than rye. And quality whiskey is the critical element in a Manhattan. Each of the Gospels is the quintessential cocktail for its base spirit, so each naturally will benefit from using the best of the base that is available. For my part, I prefer rye in mine.
The next question is the ratio of whiskey to sweet vermouth. Two to one seems to be the original. I usually go three to one when using rye, and four to one when using bourbon, since that spirit is sweeter to begin with, and I like my drinks drier. I’m flirting with lightning here by suggesting so high a ratio of even four to one. See this article by Gary Regan wherein he names the Manhattan the King of Cocktails, and promises dire consequences for any mixologist who dares to go beyond four to one. Anywhere from two to four will be fine. Adjust it to your own tastes for your own drinking, and I’d suggest sticking with three to one if you are making one for someone whose tastes you don’t know.
The Manhattan is traditionally served up, but you can also properly shove one across the bar in a rocks glass, especially if it is hot out.
How about garnish? I usually employ a nice brandied cherry, but in this one instance I still sometimes use the little red superballs from the supermarket, since the garnish is entirely cosmetic in a Manhattan.
Now, let us examine the heresies. Cue the disapproving high priests, myself included.
Must you use bitters? Damn straight you must, or it ain’t a Manhattan, Bub! I mentioned this heresy in passing a few days ago in my review of the excellent Ocean Club here in Ohio. It is pretty common these days to omit even a single dash of the old Angostura in a Manhattan, and that is a big shame. Whiskey and vermouth without bitters, is an OK drink, but it ain’t a Manhattan, and it won’t be close to as good or as interesting.
Drinking culture, probably due to infection from those, ahem, wine people, is currently caught up in love with things that are dry. It you are looking for a drier Manhattan, use less vermouth (but at least one in four!). Don’t use dry, french vermouth. This results in a Dry Manhattan, which is a vastly inferior drink. Drink it if you like, I suppose, but don’t go telling people it’s a Manhattan, or you will deserve a visit from these guys:

UPDATE: Welcome to folks coming here from TimeOut New York’s The Feed, Edible Crafts, and that great broad Meg, at Queenie Takes Manhattan! Check out the other Gospels of Cocktail while you are here!

Thus endeth Manhattan, The Book of Whiskey.
Here are the other posts here relating to the Four Gospels of the Cocktail:
The Daiquiri, The Book of Rum
The Martini, The Book of Gin
The Sidecar, The Book of Brandy

I’ve been fascinated for a while with the concept of the four bedrock drinks of cocktailia. Each is based on one of the four foundation spirits upon which classic drinking lore is laid: Gin, Bourbon, Rum, and Brandy. I refer to these cocktails as The Four Gospels. I’m not sure if I made this up, or if I read it elsewhere. I suspect I read it elsewhere, as I ain’t that clever usually.
This post is about the Gospel of Rum, the mighty Daiquiri.
Allegedly invented at the beginning of the Twentieth Century in Cuba, by an American mining engineer (I always say allegedly with cocktail lore… unless the story is just too good), the Daiquiri is at its core light rum, lime, and sugar. David Embury points out that it is a, nay, the rum sour.
When you want to play with Daiquiris, here’s the starting point:

Dead easy, and delicious. But among the four Gospels, the Daiquiri lends itself to the most variation while still being considered a Daiquiri.
First, feel free to play with the proportions. The ratio I show here is 6-2-1. Depending on your tastes, and the quality of rum available, you may choose to up the rum amount to taste. You could lower it too, of course, or play otherwise with the proportions. Whatever ratio you find you like the best, settle it in stone in your heart and insist at every opportunity that it is the only proper ratio, while generously allowing that others may experiment for themselves.
Secondly, there are the preparation and serving directions to be played with. The Daiquiri is equally happy should you shake it and serve it in a cocktail glass. You can even flash blend it with ice and serve in a goblet, and it is still a proud, classic Gospel. Choose whatever method suits your mood, your demesne, or the weather.
Third, you may fiddle a bit with some additives. For whatever reasons, mostly historical, it is more classically accepted to go beyond the original ingredient list with Daiquiris than with the other three Gospels. I suspect that this is because unless you have better light rum than that readily available (at least in Ohio), the basic Daiquiri, while still delicious, lacks depth. At any rate, should your alterations be small, and don’t change the basic flavor of the drink, it’s still pretty much a Daiquiri.
A notable exception to this rule is that Cocktail We Cannot Name, if we don’t want to use Bacardi that is. By my working definition, it’s still pretty much a Daiquiri. But due to the color change, and its rich, colorful history, we usually call it by its own name.
My favorite chord change, after some experimentation, is called by various names. The most commonly used refers to one of drinking’s most famous practitioners, Ernest Hemingway, a man who is otherwise most famous for looking uncannily like my father.

This is referred to as a Hemingway Daiquiri since it was most often served to outsiders who wanted to drink what the Man always drank. It is not what the Man always drank. That concoction is known as the Papa Doble, and you approximate it by doubling the rum and flash blending.
The Hemingway is a Daiquiri, so play with the ratios and serving style as you like. Avoid punching up the maraschino or grapefruit much more than here, or it will a) stop being a Daiquiri, and b)stop tasting good.
Any good Gospel needs some heresies, of course. And the poor Daiquiri suffers more than it’s brethren. No doubt this is due to its flexibility. Once you encourage people to play a bit with a classic, they will often go berserk. They’ll start claiming the cocktail was married and had children. Or they’ll go around nailing 99 Variants to the door of the Pegu Club. Or they’ll put in giant gobs of strawberry.

Looks gorgeous, doesn’t it? And not just because it’s a much better photograph than the one I took above. Ninety-eight out of a hundred Americans will look at the drink pictured here and say, Fabulous Daiquiri! They will look at my Hemingway and go, Huh? And that’s too bad. A real Daiquiri is a sublime, subtle concoction that does all the things a great cocktail should. It provides interest, provokes the appetite, loosens the tongue, and improves the mood. The Slurpee is a spring break, gut-busting mind-eraser. I’m not saying it isn’t tasty if made well. It is. I’m also not saying I never drink them. I do, on (the appropriate) occasion. But if you ever consider ordering a strawberry frozen daiquiri to go with your adult, pre-dinner conversation, please just report to the Budweiser tent and save everyone a lot of trouble.
The Daiquiri is the Gospel of Rum. It is meant therefore to be a showcase of that spirit. Use the good stuff, and it will shine. Use cheap hooch, and it will punish you. Mask the taste with massive amounts of fruit pureé, and it won’t be a Daiquiri.

Thus endeth Daiquiri, The Book of Rum.
Here are the other posts here relating to the Four Gospels of the Cocktail:
The Manhattan, The Book of Whiskey
The Martini, The Book of Gin
The Sidecar, The Book of Brandy

OK, seriously.
What the heck is Tuaca?

Tuaca is one of those bottles that lots of bars have gathering dust because few bartenders, and even fewer customers, know what it is. Which is a shame. I class Tuaca with others like Lillet Blanc in my list of favorite, most personally used, utterly obscure liqueurs.
Tuaca is a light, aromatic liquid that is redolent of oranges and vanilla, but isn’t overpowering in any flavor. You can drink it straight, chilled or on the rocks, if you like. I personally don’t, but that’s because if I can’t play with ingredients, I usually end up with wine.
What Tuaca doesdo is give me the opportunity to talk about a fairly rare phenomenon: The House Standard Recipe.
Now, every liquor and liqueur on the market, Tuaca is no exception, has a whole list of what SeanMike, over at The Scofflaw’s Den, calls Marketing Cocktails:

What I consider a marketing cocktail involves the following aspects: It usually has a cute name that doesn’t identify the drink well (or at all), it’s made using very specific ingredients (or, at least, main liquor) by brand, and it is extremely unlikely that it is in any well-used bartending guides. A marketing cocktail may, over the years, become a mainstay of the cocktail world, but right now is used for advertisers to say: “Look at these cool drinks we make with our great stuff in exotic, cool bars”, for people to say: “It’s so cool to drink this drink” and for bartenders to say: “What the #%*! did you just order?!” and curse marketers.

I’ve seen it argued that these Marketing Cocktails are a good source for recipes, since who knows a brand better than its maker? And it is in their interest to showcase the brand in the best possible tasting drinks. My personal experience doesn’t really bear that out. I find no more good recipes among Marketing Cocktails than elsewhere, and sometimes less.
What I am talking about are House Standard Recipes. This is a variant on a classic, oft ordered cocktail. The variant is specific to a high-end restaurant or hotel or bar or often a chain thereof. These are not part of a menu of cocktails, usually sponsored by distillers, like you see at Applebee’s or some such. This is just what you get when you order a real drink at this particular place.
The first of these that I wrote about, long ago, was the Ritz Stinger. The simple addition of Cointreau to a base Stinger makes a great improvement.
The one I want to write about here is even more useful, and it’s why I keep Tuaca on hand all the time: The Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse Sidecar.
I like a good Sidecar, and Maggi loves them. She usually doesn’t order them when we are out, because most bartenders don’t make them as well as I do. Or like I do, at least. But she always orders them at Ruth’s. Ruth’s ordains, apparently nationwide, that Sidecars shall be made with Tuaca.

If you love Sidecars, you owe it to yourself to try one this way. If you think Sidecars are Meh, try one this way too. You’ll thank me, and you’ll thank Ruth. And you’ll buy a bottle of Tuaca.
I will make one niggly comment about Tuaca. They need to consider changing their stopper on the bottle. I usually like cork stoppers; they have a rustic feel that often seems appropriate. It certainly is for a luscious old world liqueur like Tuaca. But the corks they use are mediocre at best. My first bottle’s cork snapped off less than a third of the way through the bottle, and I had to resort to a plastic lever-operated stopper. The latest bottle I got through the mail, and the unopened bottle had leaked just a tiny bit. The booze is fine, and virtually all there, buy the neck of the bottle was just slightly sticky. It sure ain’t gonna stop me from buying the product, but I just wish I could trust the cork.

UPDATE: By the way, since I wrote this post, I’ve done a series I call The Four Gospels of the Cocktail. The Sidecar is what I consider to be The Gospel of Brandy.