The Greasy Spoon

The Graham Greene Cocktail

 

 

Graham Greene discusses a script with film director, Carol Reed: Life Magazine Archives

As a long time fan of Graham Greene, I was amused to discover that he had a cocktail named after him. There was always something slightly raffish about Greene: the crumpled Burberry, his Citroën Maserati SM (one of my all-time favourite dream machines and a self-indulgent excuse for a photograph, below, plus early Seventies dollybird), the apartment in Antibes, the French mistress, his collection of rare Victorian Crime Fiction, his adolescent games of Russian Roulette- all these things tempered by Catholic Guilt.

The Graham Greene Cocktail was invented at the Metropole Hotel, Hanoi, Vietnam in 1951. Greene was a correspondent for Paris Match. It's essentially a classic Dry Martini with a dash of Crème de Cassis. Being a Martini purist (and reared as a sproglet on John Doxat's instructive "Stirred not Shaken- the History of the Dry Martini") I had my doubts about this; it didn't sound that hot, to be frank; but I am sipping on one as I write, and it's surprisingly good- the blackberry flavours of the Cassis balancing the dryness of the gin and the vermouth rather well. Refreshing too. I would suggest that you serve it very cold- and very plain. No olives, no lemon peel. And use those tiny frosted tumblers, like the ones they use in Harry's Bar.

Shovel generous amounts of ice cubes into a glass Martini pitcher. Add a dash of Noilly Pratt (to rhyme with Cat), and a dash of Crème de Cassis. Swirl around the ice, and shake off the excess. Pour in a decent slug of Dry London Gin. Stir. Strain into iced tumblers and serve.

 

 

 

 

 

Greenall's Gin

 

 

 

 

Currently the routine gin of choice in The Greasy Spoon Residence. It's a classic no-nonsense gin in the London Dry manner: crisp and clean, with juniper and citrusy tastes. I've discovered that it makes a fabulous G & T when mixed with Fever Tree Naturally Light Tonic. A subtle, light and deliciously clean drink, especially when mixed with a slice of lime.

Founded in 1761, G & J Greenall is one of the older distilleries, which also happens to make the perfectably drinkable and reasonably priced Sainsbury's own brand gin. They also distill Bombay Sapphire. Personally, I find Bombay Sapphire a bit too sickly and floral for my taste; originally aimed at the 80's cocktail crowd- the sort of people who added cherries to their drinks, wore Hawaiian Shirts with Ray-Ban wayfarers and approved of cocktail umbrellas.

Greenall's have very recently redesigned their packaging, presumably aiming the brand at a younger market. Gin's suddenly hip again! But of course!  Gin never went away, did it?  This time round, I like the clean lines of their new look, and the rather Forties looking- and very British- typeface.

Take Me To Sank Roo Doe Noo!

 

 

 

Harry's Bar, Paris, the legendary haunt of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Gershwin, Marlene Dietrich, Jean-Paul Sartre, Coco Chanel and Noel Coward is one hundred years old today. Many Happy Returns! Harry's New York Bar opened on November 24th 1911 at no. 5, Rue Daunou; and the decor has changed little since that day: it's currently lined with manly dark wooden panelling, painted shields displaying the coats of arms of famous English public schools, and American Ivy League pennants; all under a nicotine-stained embossed ceiling. It's still worth a visit if you happen to be in Paris, even if the style-gurus of the previous century have been replaced with American tourists.

 

Smoking, alas, is no longer allowed in Paris, and that particular 20th century ambiance has vanished presumably forever; however Harry's still serves its famous Bloody Marys- which is especially apt, as the cocktail was invented there in 1920 by Ferdinand Petiot, a barman from Ohio.

The "Bloody" apparently, comes from The Bucket of Blood Club in Chicago, and "Mary" after Petiot's daughter. The original drink was a simple mix of tomato juice and vodka, but Petiot expanded the recipe when he moved to the St Regis Hotel, New York. Here's the famous Greasy Spoon version:

 

 

Put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top the shaker up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe or otherwise dry sherry, a squeeze of lemon or lime juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. 

Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about. Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery. You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

Remember, as with so many other things in life, keep it simple, don't try and doll it up with extra ingredients (I'm not convinced by the addition of creamed horseradish, or chunky black pepper, although steeping a peeled horseradish root in your bottle of vodka, or subsituting Tabasco with a Horseradish flavoured Hot Pepper Sauce sounds like a good idea) and stay away from the gimmicks. 

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off. The cocktail's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do. You'll find the vodka goes thick-  and that, if I may make so bold Master Copperfield, is the way to keep vodka if you're going to drink it neat as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

Innis & Gunn Beer

 

 

 

This has been a recent discovery: it's Innis & Gunn beer from East Lothian, Scotland. It's got an especially scrumptious taste- butterscotch, toffee, hints of vanilla, caramel. Despite the Victorian style label, the brand was only established as recently as 2003, and the "unique" brewing process was discovered by accident.

The beer is brewed at Dunbar, East Lothian, before being matured in American White Oak Bourbon barrels for thirty days, and then for a further forty seven days in a marrying tun. There's also a limited edition beer, matured in Navy Rum barrels.

Zucchini Fritters

 

 

 

I like the word "Zucchini". It rolls off the tongue. Here in England we call them "courgettes". Anyway. If you've got the time and inclination, zucchini fritters are the perfect thing to serve with drinks, and especially with a Dry Martini.

I'm currently keen on the idea of tiny fritters; the size of a small coin: slice up some baby courgettes very thinly, put the slices into a colander, and sprinkle them with sea salt. The salt will draw out enormous quantities of water. Your friends will be thrilled and amazed.

Next, beat an egg white until frothy, and dip the courgette slices into the egg white. Shake off the excess, and then dip them again into strong flour which you've previously seasoned with salt and white pepper.

In a deep-fat fryer, heat some peanut oil to about 375 F (190 C). If you don't have a fryer, use a wok. As nut oil burns at a higher temperature, it's an excellent choice for this sort of operation. Drop the courgettes into the oil, a few at a time, and fry them until they are crisp. Watch them like a hawk, and make sure they don't burn.

Incidentally, when frying, it's always best never to overcrowd the pan; if you do, you run the risk that your food may steam or boil, which, of course, is a different technique all together.

Drain the fritters on kitchen paper, and sprinkle them with more salt and pepper. Okay, this means that your fritters are going to pretty salty, but I think that in this case, it provides a perfect balance with the dry oiliness (is that a word?) of a classic Martini cocktail.

I also quite like the idea of cutting up the courgettes into wider slices, and serving them in that simple way, as a side dish. Baby yellow courgettes could be an interesting concept, too. Lots of ideas.

Campari and Soda

 

 

 

May I sing the praises of the Campari and Soda?  Now it's summer (sort of), we're knocking this back on a regular basis in the Greasy Spoon Household. It's a vastly under-rated drink (once popular amongst the fast Scimitar-driving Gin and Jag set); today, I really don't know anyone else who drinks it.

Campari was invented in 1860 by Gaspare Campari in Novara, Italy. The original recipe is still in use today, and it's kept a close secret; apparently there's only one person in the world knows the complete formula.

I like to serve it with fresh, fizzy soda, on the rocks and with a slice of orange. The soda tends to play down the bitterness of the Campari, and then, of course, there's that extraordinarily vivid pinky-orange colour going on in the glass.

Refreshing...relaxing...utterly civilised... I like the idea of lounging around in an easy chair, listening to a Bach prelude & fugue on the piano, and sipping a C & S after a difficult day at work. It's time for a Campari Revival!

 

 

Whiskey Sour

 

 

There's something very grown up about a Whiskey Sour. It reminds me of that amusing moment in Whit Stillman's "The Last Days of Disco" when Chloë Sevigny, trying to be sophisticated and avoiding the "preppy girl's cliché of the Vodka Tonic" orders a "Whiskey Sour" at a thinly disguised Studio 54.

Incidentally, for all you Scots out there, it is a Whiskey Sour with the e. The drink's based on Bourbon, rather than Scotch Whisky, so I'm going to keep to the authentic American spelling for now. But according to wipkipedia, the Whiskey Sour was invented by an Englishman, one Eliot Stubb, who opened a bar in the port of Iquique, Peru. He added lime juice and sugar to a glass of whisky and was pleasantly surprised by its refreshing taste.

There's another theory that the earliest mention of the Whiskey Sour can be traced to a newspaper recipe in Wisconsin in 1870. I've got a sneaky feeling that the authentic recipe is more likely to be American; it might even have the whiff of Prohibition about it. The slightly sweet taste of Bourbon balances out well with the acidity of lemon.

Like all the great and classic cocktails, a genuine Whiskey Sour is simplicity itself. No chunks of pineapple, no silly umbrellas or fussy ingredients. You fill up your cocktail shaker with ice, pour in 2 oz of Bourbon Whiskey, the strained juice of half a lemon and two and a half teaspoons or so of powdered sugar. The cocktail is shaken and then strained into a cold glass, and garnished with a slice of orange peel and a cherry. If you follow these proportions you will make just enough to fill up a Martini glass- and I think that would work well.

You could also serve it on the rocks, and some people also add a splash of soda. Personally, I prefer it straight up, but as ever, it's a matter of personal choice, isn't it?

 

The Last Days of Disco (1998), directed by Whit Stillman

Boodles British Gin: Over There, But Not Over Here

 

 

I'm currently in the mood for a good old rant. And Jiminy Cricket you're about to get it, big time. It all started like this: on Wednesday we were having some friends over to dinner, and I had the bright idea of serving them my raw herring, keta salmon "caviar" (roe) and dill canapés beforehand.

Waitrose Belgravia stocked bog-standard mock "caviar". It would have done the job, but I had a very real craving for the keta stuff. For some bizarre reason (which escapes me now) I seemed to recall dimly that none other than Sainsbury's Nine Elms stocked keta "caviar" (that's the delicious orange coloured salmon roe, often used by the Japanese and usually priced at about £6.50 for a small jar) in their deli or "Foods of the World" section.

So off I went, happily hopping and skipping down the South Lambeth Road, my naive optimism glowing with a capital "O". And how wrong I was to be.

I spent a frustrating ten to fifteen minutes trawling the aisles, and walking round in circles: couldn't find anything remotely caviar or roe-related, let alone of the keta or even mock varieties. Finally found a member of staff. Could barely speak English: didn't know what "caviar" was, couldn't give a toss, to be frank. His friend behind the fish counter had to explain that the mysterious ingredient I was searching for was, in fact "fish eggs". Titters all round. It was a bit like the time (same branch) when I asked for White Spirit, and was taken over to the Gin section.

Eventually another member of staff waddled up, and shaking his head sadly, explained that he hadn't seen that sort of thing for some time now. Wasn't entirely sure, was he? Didn't think they stocked it.

And in case you think I'm being horribly unfair (or even dare-I-say it, snooty), this isn't some small out-of-the way branch. I'm talking about a big "flag-ship" store, located about a mile south of the Houses of Parliament, in an area which is about to go through a massive urban re-generation. It's the general apathy, lack of enthusiasm, and sloppy standards that I find so depressing. Utterly wet. Mealy mouthed. You could push them over.

One of the things I like about America is the generosity of spirit. Go into any small newsagent, and you will find virtually every and any magazine currently available and in publication laid out for sale; in serried rows, on wooden racks. It's all about choice and range: if that's what sir wants, we'll get it for you, no problem!

The American-owned Wholefoods in Kensington High Street has this excellent philosophy in abundance. The range of foods for sale there is superb. If you want that horseradish root, they'll stock it. If you suddenly feel like buying a Jersualem artichoke or an unusual Mexican chocolate, they'll have it. In American supermarkets, there are smiling and eager members of staff- in uniforms- God Forbid- to pack up your groceries in large brown paper bags, and wait for this- to carry your bags out to your car!

A great friend of mine, currently living in Bangkok, thinks that people here get an appalling deal when it comes to choice, price and service. Rip-off Britain. I'm beginning to understand what he's getting at. Keep reading.

 

Ever heard of Boodle's British Gin?  If you live in Perfidious Albion, chances are that you haven't. Founded in 1845 apparently, named after the famous Gentleman's Club in St James's Street, and by repute, the tipple of choice of none other than a certain Sir Winston Spencer Churchill, KG, and Mister James Bond himself.

If you look it up on the internet, you'll find testament after testament from gin affinados; waxing lyrical about Boodle's subtle taste, its smoothness, its wonderful properties as used in the Perfect Martini, for the making of.

According to the net, it's made here in Britain and distributed in the United Kingdom by the firm of James Burrough for Pernod Ricard. I've read this over and over again. Except that it's not. I've done my research and I can tell you now that Boodle's British Gin seems only to be available in America. So if you want to drink it in Britain, I've got some bad news for you- you can't. Many gin drinkers seem to think that it's possibly one of the best tasting British gins of all time; an absolute classic. Lovely packaging, too.

It's just not fair! I want to join the club and taste Boodle's British Gin!

Vodka Bullshot

 

 

Snow in November! Here in London. It's seriously cold. The Blacking Factory is currently unheated, and I'm praying that this year my Christmas stocking will include a pair of those fingerless woollen gloves. Those Bob Cratchitty things; I can't remember what they're called: mittens?

On Sunday afternoon we made steaming glasses of Vodka Bullshot- and I couldn't get them down fast enough. It's a great cocktail. Not the sort of thing you would want to drink everyday of course, or even at a party, but for a raw winter's evening it's just the ticket. It's very similar to a Bloody Mary, except you substitute the tomato or clamato juice with beef bouillon.

Here's how we made it.  Into a heatproof mixing jug, pour: a decent slug of vodka (Stolichnaya is the current brand of choice), a few shakes of green Tabasco, Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, a good pinch of celery salt, freshly ground pepper, a squeeze of lemon juice and a few tablespoons of a decent dry sherry.  Mix, and top up with hot beef boullion (we used tinned beef consommé).

 

 

 

You don't want to boil the drink, as this will evaporate the alcohol and may even shatter the glass.  Warm to steaming hot is the goal. Surpisingly good. Try it.

 

 

 

Gin and Tonic

 

 

Recently, I seem to have reverted to my former tipple of choice, The Gin and Tonic. Our hovel is in danger of becoming a temple to the stuff. As I regretfully say farewell to the years of late youth, I seem to be turning into an updated version of my father. My father was- and is- a creature of habit, and back in the early 70's, come hell or high water, every Saturday morning was spent in ritual fashion, stocking up on Victory Gin from Victoria Wine, and a bag or two of spicy Bombay Mix.

Own brand gins are not to be sniffed at: I've started to drink the excellent and extremely affordable Sainsbury's London Dry Gin, which I can see from the small print is actually distilled by Greenall's up in Warrington (where, incidentally, Bombay Sapphire is made.) It's a clean, light and rather subtle gin and comes highly recommended, although I'm not that happy about the new packaging- until a few weeks ago, it came with an amusing 18th century black and white engraving of St Paul's Cathedral, London Bridge, and the spires of Old London Town. This has now been relegated by some trendy packaging consultant to a small, over-stylised motif in the left hand corner of the label.

Any serious gin drinker will know that the different brands vary dramatically in taste. Bombay Sapphire for example, is highly scented, and in my opinion, slightly too sweet, even a trifle sickly. The brand, too, is not as ancient as the label suggests, and I'm guessing that it's deliberately marketed at a younger metropolitan crowd. Tanqueray Export is popular in America and with its higher alcohol content is excellent for a Dry Martini. Beefeater is a smooth and crisp gin which consistently wins approval in blind tastings, and is reasonably affordable. I'm a huge fan.

I suppose that my interest in gin derives from the days when my father used to advertise Booth's Gin. Booth's was the gentleman's gin, founded in London around 1740, and a favourite, if it is to be believed, of both Her Majesty the Queen, and Her Late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother.

 

 

Strangely, "Booth's Finest London Dry Gin" was actually yellow in colour: I seem to remember some story about how the straw in the wooden barrels turned the gin yellow by accident;  a tradition which Booth's maintained until the demise of the company in, I suppose, the mid 1980's. "Booth's High and Dry" (which came in a lovely frosted bottle, a splendid heraldic red plastic lion on a "silver" chain around the neck) was the gin of choice for the connoisseur of the Dry Martini.

As you've probably realised by now, Booth's panelled offices in Park Lane closed their doors for the last time some years back, and the brand was swallowed up by one of the corporate Big Boys, who allowed it to fall into obscurity. There is a gin calling itself "Booth's London Dry" (in a blue plastic bottle, but with the famous red lion) which seems to be still available in the United States, but I read somewhere that it's actually distilled in New Jersey, and I suspect that it has no authentic connection with the original British brand. I really don't know. It's all a terrific shame: it would really make my day to see those suave frosted bottles back on the shelves once again.

Anyway. I digress. What's the best way to serve gin?  The classic gin and tonic is an excellent (and under-rated) drink, and I hate to admit it, not often served properly (and that includes by yours truly himself). Nothing worse than warm gin in one of those cheap hotel glass tumblers with a white line on it, and a limp lemon slice floating around in it.

Ideally, the gin needs to be chilled in the 'fridge, and then poured into a clean tumbler over fresh ice cubes. Schweppes make a classic tonic, though I also happen to like the taste of Britvic (founded in the mid 19th century as the British Vitamin Products Company). It's quite a good idea to buy those small cans of tonic which keep fizzy, as tonic kept in those plastic screw-top bottles tends to go flat. There are some very strange people out there who claim that a slice of cucumber works well in gin. I reckon that's a complete aberration, and am of the firm belief that a slice of lime is your best bet, with lemon coming up from behind in a close second.

That's it.

 

 
 

Wassail

 

 

 

I've noticed that quite a few readers of The Greasy Spoon have been searching for wassail on the internet. As I'm feeling in a helpful mood, I'm revisiting a post that I wrote last year on the subject. I've also added a nice interactive link to a quirky short film I've found, explaining the wassail tradition in Herefordshire, England. Please take note of my own recipe for Mulled Cider. It's so utterly preferable to the ubiquitous Mulled Wine. I can't stress that enough.

Here's the article:

Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Very Nordic. Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree- to ensure a good harvest, and drive away the evil spirits. This is done on Twelfth Night. I reckon that The Wicker Man was closer to the bone than many people realise. 

Anyway, although I realise that the chances of wassailing an apple tree in down town Vancouver are practically zero, I'm going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, otherwise known as Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with the wine version, is that many people get it wrong. Very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover. 

Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple. In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country or Norman organic cider. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff.

Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. Do the same with a lemon. Now it's time for the spices. A cinnamon stick, a few cloves, ground nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger would work well.Taste it!

If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar. Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alcohol will vapourise away- and you want your party to go with a swing, don't you? If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering. 

If you've got time, decorate the wassail with "Lamb's Wool". This is just peeled apple simmered in cider until it goes woolly, and "explodes"; once that's done, you can float the pulp on top of the mulled cider.

 

 

Sloe Gin

 

It's that time of the year again: Sloe Gin Time. Sloe Gin is a liqueur made from the sloe berries of the Blackthorn bush, which grow in the hedgerows of the English countryside. By ancient lore, they're picked at the end of October (around Hallowe'en and supposedly just after the first frost); but with global warming, I can't quite work out if you should pick them earlier, or pick them later.  Anyway, they're quite easy to spot- medium sized purplish coloured  berries with a slight dusty bloom. I get mine from an idyllic spot I know in Oxfordshire- that is if the good burghers of Wallingford haven't got there first. Sloe gin is easy to make at home.

First, you need to pick a decent amount of ripe sloe berries. If you live in the city, you can buy sloe berries on ebay. I think it's probably a good idea to freeze the berries first to simulate the effects of a first frost. The freezing process will help to break down the berries, and extract the juices. 

Then you need to prick each berry, so that the juices can be released.  Traditionally this was done with a silver fork.  I'm not exactly sure why, but it certainly adds to the mystique. 

Next, you need to get hold of some gin. I use Plymouth Gin, the traditional tipple of the Royal Navy. One year as an experiment, and in a misguided attempt to be trendy, I made a batch from vodka; it was okay, but I missed out on the junipery flavours that gin gives you. It's easiest to make your sloe gin in the gin bottle itself, but if you're really keen you can use one of those large demi-john glass jars used for home brewing.

 

Using a funnel, pour your pricked berries into the gin bottle, so that they come up to between a third and a half way.  Drink the surplus gin.  Now it's time to add some sugar. (Up to about a third of the gin bottle is probably right). So you will now have a bottle of gin, with the berries coming up to about half-way, and sugar up to about a third of the way. I hope that's clear.

To give my Sloe Gin extra flavour, I add a teaspoon of almond essence, a clove and a stick of cinnamon, for added spice. Screw the cap back on tightly, and shake the bottle like crazy. The gin will start to turn a pink colour. Store it away in a dark cupboard, shaking daily for two weeks, and then once a week thereafter.

Over the next few weeks, your sloe gin will start to take on a darker, rich-ruby red colour, and will begin to thicken up. In theory, it will be ready to drink after about three months, but I find the longer you keep it, the better it gets. I had some in my cupboard for years- and it kept on improving with age. When it's ready, you will obviously need to get rid of the berries, and strain it off several times over. Sloe Gin has a rich, spicy, woody, plum-like flavour, which is perfect as a winter tot, or as a traditional Hunting stirrup cup.

The Greasy Spoon's Perfect Bloody Mary

 

I'm sitting here after a pretty stressful week (we're moving house) and sipping an almost perfect Bloody Mary cocktail. It's almost perfect, but it's not cold enough and it's crying out for a dash of dry sherry. 

I've always thought that the three most famous cocktails in the world are (in no particular order), the Dry Martini, the Margarita, and the Bloody Mary. I've tried making Bloody Marys in various ways, but time after time, I return to The Greasy Spoon's own recipe, which, as I'm a kind sort of chap, I'm about to share with you. 

Remember, as with so many other things in life, keep it simple, don't try and doll it up with extra ingredients (I'm not convinced by the addition of creamed horseradish, or chunky black pepper, although steeping a peeled horseradish root in your bottle of vodka sounds like a good idea ) and stay off the gimmicks:

First, you put some ice into a cocktail shaker. Next, pour in a decent slug of Stolichnaya vodka, and top up with a good quality tomato juice. Add a dash of Tio Pepe, a squeeze of lemon or lime juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper, celery salt, a few shakes of my favourite Tabasco and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. 

Do the Hokey Cokey and shake it all about.  Strain it off into a glass and add, if you must, a stick of celery. You'll find that the lemon juice smooths it out, and the sherry gives it an added kick.

I don't like lumps of ice floating around in my Bloody Mary, and think it's much better if strained off.  But the drink's at its best if served very cold, so keep the vodka buried away in the 'fridge, as the Russians do. You'll find the vodka goes thick- and that's the way to keep it if you're going to drink it neat, as an accompaniment to blinis and caviar.

Pink Gin

 

 

 

The Pink Gin is a forgotten cocktail, worthy of resurrection.  It was a fashionable drink in the 1930's, and the unofficial cocktail of the Royal Navy, reminiscent of smart cocktail parties, cigarette holders and the stiff upper lip.

It's a simple cocktail, and is easy to make. Swirl a few drops of Angostura Bitters around a glass. Add some crushed ice, and a slug of Plymouth Gin. Top it up with iced water, to taste. The finished cocktail has a lovely, very light pink colour. Or is that stating the obvious?

 

Thrift and the Art of the Home Made

 

 

Do you remember the craze for home-made wine and beer?  Back in the 1970's it seems everyone was at it. Maybe it had something to do with the Real Ale, Beard and Sandals brigade- then, vaguely in fashion; but if I had to point a long finger at any root cause, it would be at the now forgotten concept of "thrift".  

This is something that we lost in the Eighties, Nineties and Naughties; but with the onslaught of the credit crunch (dreadful expression, that), I suspect is coming back into vogue. My father brewed his own beer and lager, and my poor mother had to put up with an evil-smelling red plastic bucket, which he kept in the kitchen cupboard (it was exactly the right temperature, apparently). Consequently, our hovel smelt like an outpost of Whitbread's.

Beer making was touchingly ritualistic: there was all the interesting paraphernalia you bought from Boot's, lots of "tut-tutting' over thermometers, and then the excitement of the first tasting. I seem to remember the lager tasted all right (if a bit soapy), but the bitter (how can I put this delicately, needed urgent revision.

Do it yourself wine making might be a noble and arcane rural pursuit worthy of re-discovery. A few years ago, I paid a visit to some Old Boy down in Stoke Poges- ostensibly to value his antique nick-knacks; but of a far greater interest were the dusty bottles lurking in his potting shed. Pigeon Fancying and Wine making were his hobbies- indeed his passions- and spurred on by my sudden enthusasiam, he urged me to sample his wares. Every bottle had been neatly labelled in a spidery handwriting, ready for tasting. Was Dandelion '73 better than Carrot '84? Was '92 a bad year for Cowslip?  Had he put too much sugar into the Elderflower "Champagne"? And so on, and so forth.

Now, I'm currently in a money pinching, tight-fisted mood, worthy of that shining example to us all: Ebeneezer Scrooge; and I salute the enterprise of Mr What Not of Stoke Poges. 

And on the same tack, what's happened to SodaStream? Those of us of a certain vintage will remember this well. Home-made tonic water, bitter lemon, and ersatz " cola" costing tuppence a shot. They seem to have a website going, though I don't know anyone whose got one.  And don't you have to get carbon di-oxide canister refills from somewhere? I'll have to investigate.

Champagne Cocktail

 

Here's a great idea for the Hogmany revels tomorrow: it's a Champagne cocktail with Sloe Gin. Like many of the best ideas, it's utterly simple.  Just add a dash of Sloe Gin to a decent Champagne, which, naturellement, you've previously chilled 'on ice'. A perfect winter cocktail, and British in spirit, too; which is no bad thing. For my other Champagne Cocktail recipe, have a look at my post from last year.

I've still got some of the Sloe Gin left from '07. If you remember, I added a bit of almond essence, and having tasted the stuff, I've now decided this is the way forward. The gin's turned a nice, brownish colour too. Sloe Gin improves with age. Definitely.

Wassail

 

 

I've noticed that quite a few readers of The Greasy Spoon have been searching for wassail on the internet. As I'm feeling in a helpful mood, I'm revisiting a post that I wrote last year on the subject. I've also added a nice interactive link to a quirky short film I've found, explaining the wassail tradition in Herefordshire, England. Please take note of my own recipe for Mulled Cider. It's so utterly preferable to the ubiquitous Mulled Wine. I can't stress that enough. Here's the article:

Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Very Nordic. Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree- to ensure a good harvest, and drive away the evil spirits. This is done on Twelfth Night. I reckon that The Wicker Man was closer to the bone than many people realise. 

Anyway, although I realise that the chances of wassailing an apple tree in down town Vancouver are practically zero, I'm going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, otherwise known as Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with the wine version, is that many people get it wrong. Very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover. 

Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple. In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country or Norman organic cider. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff. Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. Do the same with a lemon. Now it's time for the spices. A cinnamon stick, a few cloves, nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger would work well. Taste it! If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar. Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alcohol will vapourise away- and you want your party to go with a swing, don't you? If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering. 

If you've got time, decorate the wassail with Lamb's Wool. This is just peeled apple simmered in cider until it goes woolly, and "explodes"; once that's done, you can float the pulp on top of the mulled cider.

Eggnog

Oh crikey, I'm not even sure if I like eggnog.  You see, in England, we hardly ever have it. To be entirely honest with you, until I started writing this post, I didn't really know what it was. Okay, I knew it had egg in it, perhaps a splash of cognac too, but that was about it. Even thought it might have had something to do with Advocaat, which in a sense, it has, as they're made from similar ingredients.

There's an interesting article on the history of eggnog on the net. It originated in England, apparently, and then became popular in the United States, especially at Christmas.

I found a recipe for a Mexican version of eggnog in Elisabeth Lambert Ortiz's excellent little book, The Festive Food of Mexico: Ponche de Leche y Emas y Cognac.  Her recipe will make 4.5 litres of the stuff.

Beat 15 egg yolks with 450g caster sugar in a large bowl until light and lemon coloured. Whisk in 2 litres of milk.  Pour the mixture into the top of a double boiler set over hot water and cook.  Stir at a very low heat until the mixture is thick enough to coat a spoon.  Remove from the heat and stir in a tablespoon of grated orange peel. Whisk in a bottle of cognac (or other brandy). Serve in tots or small punch cups topped with a little grated cinammon, and one or two wafer thin strips of orange peel for decoration. If you're in the mood, you can also put a cinnamon stick into each cup.

Convinced by all this? I'm not entirely sure...

Bonfire Night Bullshot

 

 

Until recently Hallowe'en wasn't particularly celebrated in the British Isles. The odd mask might have appeared in the local newsagents, and children at school might have peformed some sort of spooky play at school, but that was about it. Instead, the emphasis, at this time of year, was on Guy Fawkes Night, and that meant private bonfire parties, fireworks, bangers and "Penny for the Guy" on the Fifth of November.

For the celebrations tonight, why don't you fill up your hip flask with a hot bullshot cocktail? Normally this is drunk cold, on ice; but I see no reason why it shouldn't be served hot (in a similar fashion to mulled wine or cider) and I have a sneaky suspicion that you might find it even better this way.

Empty a tin of beef consommé soup into a large pan. Pour in a large slug of vodka and add a dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of celery salt, and finish it off by seasoning it with salt and pepper.

Warm up the bullshot on a medium heat, making sure that you don't boil it.  If you've got guests, I would suggest serving it in small coffee cans or cups.  If you're going to the Park, I would urge you to fill up your hip-flask and pass it around.

The Savoy Cocktail Book

 

 

Harry Craddock, The Savoy Cocktail Book, first published 1930

When I was eighteen, my father was extremely generous about all that male-bonding "rites of passage" stuff. This included a pint of warm bitter at our local Buckinghamshire pub, The White Hart, where by chance, a troupe of bearded civil servants from Slough, masquerading as Morris Men in skin hugging white breeches, pranced around to the strains of "zummer-is-a-cummin-in".

More promising, was my first visit to The Savoy Hotel, where my father introduced me to the legendary Peter Dorelli, then head man at The American Bar. We had Dry Martinis- of course we did. And Dry Martinis, mixed properly; none of that bizarre Fleming "shaken not stirred" piffle. Instead, the iced gin was poured into a pitcher with ice, stirred around with a few drops of Noilly Pratt, and then strained out into a small iced tumbler, with a twist of lemon. If you want to learn more, the bible of choice is "Stirred not Shaken, the History of the Dry Martini", written by my father's old colleague, John Doxat, with an introduction by Kingsley Amies.

For those of you fascinated by cocktails, the best book on the subject is "The Savoy Cocktail Book". This was first published in 1930, with recipes compiled by Harry Craddock, and the "decorations" by Gilbert Rumbold. The first edition's got a fabulously striking Art Deco cover with foil embellishments, and for antiquarian book nuts, is eminently collectable. The 1999 revised edition has a number of new cocktails by Peter Dorelli. If you come across a first edition in a second hand book shop, buy it immediately, as the grander rare book dealers sell it for big bucks. Over and Out.

 

 

The legendary Peter Dorelli mixes a Dry Martini.

English Wine

 

 

English Wine? I can hear you all spluttering into your glasses of chilled Sancerre. But I'm not talking about British wine, or for that matter, British Sherry- I can remember the horrors of "Olde Sedgmoor"- a so called British sherry, made from sugar, water, and grape concentrate, mixed up in some factory down in the South West; I'm talking about English wine, which wine experts are, at long last, beginning to take seriously.

Think about it: there's no scientific reason why decent wine can't be made in this country- apparently there is less rainfall here than in the Germany, we have lots of suitable sheltered valleys with chalky soil, and with global warming, and resulting rising temperatures, the prospects for the fledgling English wine industry are beginning to look good.

So, a few nights ago, I opened a bottle of Chapel Down Flint Dry. It's supposed to be a bit similar to Chablis, and I certainly got the mineral, dry, flinty flavours. There was a hint of elderflower, too. I liked it! Next up for a tasting is going to be Denbies Greenfields Sparkling Cuvee (several vintages available) which has consistently won various International Wine Challenge Award medals. I'll report back...

The Mysterious Ginger Beer Plant

 

 

 

Summer has finally arrived in London. And with the recent hot weather, there's nothing better than a cold ginger beer. If you're buying it ready made, I would recommend Fentiman's botanically brewed traditional ginger beer. It's made in the old fashioned way, is strong on the ginger, and easy on the sugar; and is sold in attractive bottles.

If you want to make ginger beer yourself (and I hope that you will), there's much more to it than initially meets the eye. While researching this post, I discovered a whole sub-culture of ginger beer freaks on the net. Their obsession revolves around the mysterious "ginger beer plant". This is essentially, a living "culture", which in some cases, gets passed down from generation to generation. You need to feed it, and it grows- it's alive!

First, here's a way to make the "ginger beer plant": In a jam jar mix together: half an ounce of brewer's yeast, a teaspoon of sugar, a teaspoon of ground ginger, and a cup of cold water. Feed it for seven days, giving it a teaspoon of ginger, and a teaspoon of sugar every day.

Once you've got your ginger beer plant up and running, you're ready to make ginger beer. Pour the juice of four lemons into a large bowl, and add three cupfuls of sugar. Stir. Add five cups of boiling water, and stir until the sugar has dissolved. Next, pour in twelve cups of cold water, and stir again. Strain the juice of the ginger beer plant through some muslin into the bowl.

After two hours, you can start to bottle up the ginger beer. Fill them up to about three quarters high. You will need bottles with corks, as screw-top bottles might explode. Make sure the corks are not too tight, otherwise the ginger beer won't ferment. Store in a cool place, but don't keep the ginger beer on a cold floor.

Mint Julep

 

 

The famous Kentucky Derby is held on the first Saturday of May. Since 1938, the drink of choice to accompany the festivities has been the Mint Julep. I'm a huge fan of Mint Juleps, which also make an appearance in chapter seven of The Great Gatsby. Bourbon gives them a wonderful smokey taste, which works beautifully with the flavours of fresh mint.

If you've never made one before, here's how I do it: First, mix up a simple syrup. Combine sugar with water (ideally spring water), and add bruised mint. Add a decent shot of this syrup to the bottom of the glass (or silver julep cup- but more of that later). Fill the glass with crushed ice, and top it up with a good Kentucky straight bourbon, such as Old Grand-dad, or Wild Turkey. Rub the edge of the glass with a mint leaf, and garnish the cocktail with a further sprig of mint.

 

 

 

Traditionally, mint juleps are served in silver or pewter mint julep cups. It's a bit like Guinness served from a silver tankard, I'm convinced that this makes it taste better. Anyhow, they're hard to get in dear ol' Blighty, but I've seen a few on e-bay, at not unreasonable prices, and I'm tempted to splash out on one if I can get my act together.

Champagne Cocktail

 

 

I adore Christmas, believe me. But, Jiminy Cricket, I'm glad when it's all over. I sympathise with a friend who used to hang a banner up in his Drawing Room declaring "Christmas Must Go!". That's why I like New Year's Eve (or Hogmany as it's called in Scotland), even if this means that you might get a dark, hairy stranger in a kilt turning up on your doorstep at midnight with a lump of coal.

 

 

And what to drink, apart from the obvious and excellent choice of Champagne? How about mixing up a chic Champagne Cocktail this evening?

 

Here's a classic 1930's Champagne Cocktail from the Metropolitan Hotel, New York. First you need to soak a sugar cube with a dash of Angoustura Bitters. Put it in the bottom of a champagne flute.

While I'm about it: a quick word on champagne glasses. I use the classic flute shape. You can also use the rather kitsch shallow glass version- which, apparently, was fashioned from Marie Antoinette's left tit. They're fun- but I've been told on good authority that they're not good for the champagne bubbles, and make them go flat rather quickly.

But on with the cocktail: Fill up the glass with a decent Champagne. Laurent Perrier is delicious, relatively affordable, and a brand I'm currently rather keen on. Finish it off with a twist of lemon.

 

 

Champagne afficinados will probably sneer at anyone who tries to make a champagne cocktail, but I like this recipe for its simplicity, and classic origins. I'm off to a New Year's Eve party in Buckinghamshire tonight, but if I'm still alive by tomorrow morning, plan to write about things Bavarian. I would like to thank everyone and anyone who has bothered to read "The Greasy Spoon" over the last few months, and I wish you all a happy and peaceful 2008. Happy New Year!

Absinthe

 

 

As I'm in a rather decadant, fin de siecle sort of mood, I've decided this morning to write about absinthe. Recently, I asked a friend if they would like a glass of "the green fairy". My generous offer was rejected with a look of horror, fear, and pity. Yes, absinthe still has a more than sinister reputation, and most people out there are vaguely aware that the stuff used to be illegal.

What exactly is absinthe? Absinthe is a distilled, anise-flavored spirit derived from herbs including the flowers and leaves of the medicinal plant Artemisia absinthium, also called Grand Wormwood or Absinthe Wormwood. The wormwood contains small quantities of thujone. It's also highly alchoholic.

The stuff I drink, La Fee, is a staggering 68% proof (that's almost double the strength of Gordon's Gin)- and some brands are even stronger. But there are so many half truths in the absinthe legend. You don't drink the absinthe neat, you dilute it with water; and this involves a curious ritual. Ideally you need a proper absinthe glass, which has a small reservoir at the bottom. Into the glass goes the neat absinthe. Next, you place the pierced absinthe spoon over the top of the glass, on to which goes a lump of sugar. Iced water is poured over the sugar, through the spoon, and down into the glass. The water turns the absinthe opaque (this is called the "louche"), and the flavours, herbals, and  aromatics are released.

 

 

 

Absinthe was originally invented in Switzerland, but became hugely popular in France, especially at the end of the nineteenth century. During the 1880's and 1890's the wine trade suffered badly, and absinthe drinking became widespread, especially amongst Parisian artists, intellectuals and the Bohemian set. So widespread in fact, that it became a social problem; but more from the amount of absinthe consumed, than the scientific properties of the drink itself. After a series of rather grisly murders (blamed on absinthe), the drink was banned by the French government in 1915, and then by other countries around the world, apart from Great Britain, Spain, and Portugal.

 

It's still quasi-illegal in the United States, because of the thujone content, which can supposedly give you hallucinations if taken in high quantities. But then so can oil of bergamot (used to flavour Earl Grey tea)! Modern absinthes have significantly small, and I stress, non-harmful levels of thujone. Absinthe is safe. Trust me! So there it is. The story of absinthe. I had a glass last night, and it was good. Extremely good. And less bitter than you would think, helped along by the iced water and the sugar cube. They say it leaves you with a clear head, and helps to concentrate your thinking. And I think it does, as I leapt out of bed this morning full of joie de vivre. Allez l'absinthe!

Mulled Cider

 

 

Old Apple tree, old apple tree; We've come to wassail thee; To bear and to bow apples enow; Hats full, caps full, three bushel bags full; Barn floors full and a little heap under the stairs

Wassail is a traditional mulled punch, drunk at Christmas-time in the Northern and Germanic countries. Very Nordic.

Wassailing can either mean the singing of carols (at Christmas, the serfs would wassail the Lord and Lady of the Manor), or, as in Gloucestershire, and other western counties, the wassailing of an apple tree- to ensure a good harvest, and drive away the evil spirits. This is done on Twelfth Night. I reckon that The Wicker Man was closer to the bone than many people realise.

Anyway, although I realise that you are probably not going to start wassailing apple trees in down town Vancouver or Katmandu, I am going to give you my recipe for my very own wassail, Mulled Cider. I prefer it to Mulled Wine, I really do. The problem with Mulled Wine, is that many people get it very wrong. They chuck in a bottle of plonk, boil it up, and then add all sorts of other dodgy ingredients, including vodka; and the result is an over-acidic, pungent brew which can leave you with a god-awful hangover.

 

 

 

Mulled Cider is "different", smoother- and in my opinion delicious. There are no rules; but to get the best results, I suggest that you keep it simple.

In a large pan, I pour in a decent dryish West Country or Norman organic cider. Try and avoid the cheaper, sweeter, fizzy stuff. Next, I cut an orange in half, and add that. Do the same with a lemon.

Now it's time for the spices. A cinnamon stick, a few cloves, nutmeg, and a kernel of ginger would work well. Taste it! If it's too dry, add a bit of brown sugar.

Start warming it up. You do not want to boil it. Keep it simmering at just below boiling point. If you boil it, all the alchohol will vapourise away- and you want your party to go with a swing, don't you? If you're going to serve it in glass mugs, make sure that you put a silver spoon in the mug first. This will prevent the glass from shattering. If you've got time, decorate the wassail with "Lamb's Wool". This is just peeled apple simmered in cider until it goes woolly, and "explodes"; once that's done, you can float the pulp on top of the mulled cider.

Guinness

 

 

Today's post is about that classic stout, Guinness. Guinness is a form of porter, a beer which originated in London in the early eighteenth century, and has been brewed at the St James's Gate Brewery in Dublin since 1759.

The dark colour, and bitter flavour comes from unfermented roasted barley. The creamy head comes from nitrogen. I've got a great recipe for you: Beef Stew in Guinness with Parsley Dumplings. What could be better for a cold December day?

This is my own recipe. It's easy to make, but remember, as ever, keep the stew cooking at a low temperature for at least three hours. This will help the toughish cut of beef to break down.

Let's start: Slice up some onions, and saute them in butter. Chop up some stewing steak, dust it with flour, salt and black pepper, and fry it in the butter. When the meat is brown, add some beef stock, and a pint of Guinness. Bring to the boil to burn off the alchohol, and then reduce to a simmer. Add a dash of good old Lea & Perrins.

Next throw in some carrots, which you've previously peeled and cut into batons. Add a tablespoon or so of tomato puree. This will help to thicken it up even further. Simmer in a medium oven for at least three hours. At least.

You should end up with a reasonably thick sauce, and nicely cooked beef- which should be beginning to break down.

Now it's time for the dumplings. Very easy to make. In a bowl mix some dried suet (the EU has banned the real thing; what on earth's going on there?), with twice the amount of self raising flour. Add some salt and pepper, and some chopped parsley; and form smallish balls with your hands. Float the uncooked dumplings on top of the stew, and shove the thing back into the oven.

Cook until the dumplings have risen and the flour in them has cooked. It shouldn't take too long. Ideal for December. I like it.

Margarita

 

 

I picked up a taste for the Margarita Cocktail when I was in California. I would argue that it is one of the three greatest cocktails of all time alongside the Dry Martini, and the Bloody Mary. There are various theories as to when and how the Margarita was first born. Carlos "Danny" Herrera is said to have first mixed a concoction of white tequila, lemon juice, and Triple Sec in 1938. He was the barman at the Rancho La Gloria in Tijuana, the Mexican border town where the Caesar Salad had been invented by Caesar Cardini.

Essentially, the Margarita is a mix of Tequila (Silver or Blanco tequilas are preferable to the gold), Triple Sec (ie Cointreau), and Lime Juice (or possibly Lemon Juice). The rim of the glass is moistened with lime juice, and then dipped into salt. Some Margarita afficinados claim that salt was only used to hide the taste of a low-budget tequila, but I have to put up my hand and say that I like the contrast between the salt and the sweetness of the tequila and the Triple Sec.

 

 

I trawled the net for authentic Margarita recipes and found this one from "Drink of the Month" in the December 1953 issue of Esquire Magazine: 1 ounce tequila Dash of Triple Sec Juice of 1/2 lime or lemon Pour over crushed ice, stir. Rub the rim of a stem glass with rind of lemon or lime, spin in salt—pour, and sip. Again, simplicity rules ok? Nothing frozen. No cocktail umbrellas. No extra ingredients. A Margarita is a Margarita. Got it?

Devils on Horseback

 

 

I'm back in the Big Smoke. You may remember that I was planning to write about whitebait. I cooked some on Saturday. They were delicious (deep fried in Cayenne pepper, and coated with a dusting of seasoned flour) but the photography wasn't that hot; so as Hallowe'en is almost upon us, I'm going to concentrate on some classic Hallowe'en dishes over the next few days instead. Hallowe'en is interesting. When I was about so-and-so high, it was barely celebrated in Britain; all the emphasis was on Bonfire Night a few days later. In those far off days, Trick or Treating was just not the done thing in Jolly Old.

I suspect that Hallowe'en was originally brought to the United States by Scottish or Dutch settlers in the nineteenth century, became a big deal over there (Hallowe'en post cards were huge in America before the First World War) and then in the last few years with the Americanisation of Europe, came back over here.

Not that I'm complaining. It's a bit like Chop Suey, which, apparently, was re-invented by Chinese immigrants in San Francisco; the European Coffee House in Seattle (er- Starbucks), or the deep-pan "Italian" pizza re-gurgitated in Chicago from the classic Neopolitan street recipe. Old World classics go to America, are re-invented, and then make their way back here with a bit of North American perzazz thrown in for good measure.

 

Here's a good 'un for the Night of the Living Dead: they're called Devils on Horseback. You get hold of some rashers of streaky bacon and half-cook them under your grill. The night before, you've soaked some dried prunes in water and Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce. Now wrap each bacon rasher around a prune, and fasten with a wooden cocktail stick. You are going to re-grill them, so it's a good idea to soak the cocktail sticks in cold water first- to stop them burning.

 

 

 

 

 

Bung them back under the grill, until they are cooked through. Take them out. Season with salt and pepper, and if you're up for it, a further dash of Lea & Perrins. Serve with hot toast and a watercress garnish.

Tomorrow, it has to be about pumpkins- and as I hate the taste of pumpkin, I'm going to have to come up with some palatable ideas fast. Very fast. If anyone out there in cyberspace (especially the dear old U S of A) wants to email me with pumpkin-fest ideas, please do, and if you can persuade me, I'll get your ideas up on the site to share with the rest of the world...

Sloe Gin

 

 

It's that time of the year to make Sloe Gin again. Well, almost.

Sloe Gin is a liqueur made from the sloe berries of the Blackthorn bush, which grows in the hedgerows of the English countryside. By ancient lore, they are picked at the end of October, supposedly just after the first frost; but with global warming, I can't quite work out if you should pick them earlier, or pick them later.

Anyway, they're quite easy to spot- medium sized purplish coloured berries with a slight dusty bloom. I get mine from a spot I know in Oxfordshire- if the good burghers of Wallingford haven't got there first.

Sloe gin is easy to make at home. You need to pick a decent amount of ripe sloe berries. If you live in the city, you can buy sloe berries on ebay. I think it's probably a good idea to freeze the berries first to simulate the effects of a first frost. The freezing process will help to break down the berries, and extract the juices.

Next you need to prick each berry, so that the juices can be released. Traditionally this was done with a silver fork. I'm not exactly sure why, but it adds to the mystique. Next, you need to get hold of some gin. I use Plymouth Gin, the tipple of the Royal Navy.

One year as an experiment, and in a misguided attempt to be trendy, I made a batch from vodka; it was okay, but I missed out on the junipery flavours that gin gives you. It's easiest to make your sloe gin in the gin bottle itself, but if you're really keen you can use one of those large demi-john glass jars used for home brewing.

 

 

Using a funnel, pour your pricked berries into the gin bottle, so that they come up to between a third and a half way. Drink the surplus gin. Next add some sugar. About a third of the gin bottle is probably right. So you will now have a bottle of gin, with the berries coming up to about half-way, and sugar up to about a third of the way. I hope that's clear.

To give my Sloe Gin extra flavour, I add a teaspoon of almond essence, two cloves, and a stick of cinnamon, for added spice. Screw the cap back on tightly, and shake the bottle like crazy. The gin will start to turn a pink colour. Store away in a dark cupboard, shaking daily for two weeks, and then once a week thereafter.

 

 

Over the next few weeks, your sloe gin will start to take on a darker, rich-ruby red colour, and will begin to thicken up. In theory, it will be ready to drink after about three months, but I find the longer you keep it, the better it gets. I had some in my cupboard for years- and kept on improving with age.

When it's ready, you will obviously need to get rid of the berries, and strain it several times over. Sloe Gin has a rich, spicy, woody, plum-like flavour, which is perfect as a winter tot, or as a traditional hunting stirrup cup.

Clamato

 

 

For years, I've always assumed that Mott's Clamato was Canadian. Well, I was wrong. It's not. It was originally American. The drink was invented in 1966 by the Duffy-Mott company of New York.

If you don't know it (and there may be many in Britain who don't), it's a blend of tomato juice and clam juice, with a few extra spices thrown in.

The Canadian connexion comes from the Bloody Caesar, Canada's favourite cocktail. In 1969, Walter Chell was challenged to create a new cocktail to celebrate the opening of a new restaurant, Marco's, in Calgary. He came up with a variation on the Bloody Mary, but decided to add clam juice to the tomato juice instead.

 

 

 

Today, Mott's Clamato is owned by Cadbury-Schweppes, and is popular throughout North and South America. It's estimated that approximately 70% of Clamato sold in the United States is bought by Hispanics. The Mexicans mix it with Budweiser beer to make the Chavela cocktail. I think I'll stick with the Ceasar for the time being.

Black Velvet

 

 

The Black Velvet cocktail is a manly old fashioned drink; there's no doubt about that; the antithesis of sweet pina colada, or fruit-based cocktails with swizzle sticks and miniature umbrellas. It was invented at Brooks's Club, St James's Street, London, in 1861- to mourn the sudden death of Prince Albert, the consort of Queen Victoria. In Germany, it's also known as the Bismarck, as the Iron Chancellor apparently quaffed it by the gallon; as he plotted the invasion of Austria, no doubt.

 

 

What is Black Velvet?  It's a striking combination of champagne, and stout. But it's not just a simple matter of plonking the stout into the champagne and stirring it together. Oh no. You need to make sure that the two drinks remain separate, so that the different densities form one layer on top of the other.

I like to make mine in a glass jug. First, pour in your champagne (I had a bottle of Justerini & Brooks's 1999 anniversary champagne lying around), or a good sparkling white wine. Fill the jug up to the middle. Next, pour in your stout (I use Guinness Draught) very slowly over the back of a spoon. This will help the stout to settle gently on top of the champagne, and should, in theory, keep the two layers separate.

 

 

Serve in a chilled pint glass, or a champagne flute. I've also had it with ice- and that worked quite well.

What does it taste like? Some of you out there will probably loathe it. I happen to like it. It's a stimulating combination of the smooth and the bitter, with a lovely frothy head. So the next time you need refreshment at the gaming tables, call for a Black Velvet, and raise a glass or two to the memory of the Prince Consort.

Dry Martini

 

 

 

I'm sorry, but dear old Mister Bond got it wrong. Very wrong. A Dry Martini should be stirred and not shaken. There's been a tendency recently for all sorts of sinister deviations to creep in, warping the original concept. I remember trying an Apple Martini at the Biltmore hotel in Los Angeles. Okay, it was good, sort of, but not a patch on the original thing.

The best Dry Martini I've ever been lucky enough to have was at Harry's Bar in Venice. Little frosted tumblers straight from the 'fridge, gin on ice, a slither of lemon peel. Simple, very simple- and unpretentious (unlike this article, which is rapidly becoming a catalogue of expensive places I've been to over the years).

Anyway, here's how you make a genuine, classic, original Dry Martini cocktail. In a Martini Pitcher (you can buy these on ebay), drop in a decent amount of ice. Pour in a few drops of a dry white Vermouth. Noilly Prat (to rhyme with hat) is ideal. Stir the ice around, so that the vermouth clings to the ice.

Next, add your iced gin (or if you really must, vodka). 94.6% proof Tanquery is my current number one choice. Stir. Do not shake. Stir. Strain the liquor into a chilled cocktail glass, or even better, into a small tumbler. Finish off with a slither of twisted lemon peel- or perhaps a green olive- but that, officially, changes the thing and makes it into a "Gibson".

If you want to read up on the history of the Dry Martini, the bible of choice is John Doxat's "Stirred Not Shaken- the History of the Dry Martini". Remember, the secret is to get everything as cold as you possibly can. Warm gin- it ain't good.

Gin

I've really been looking forward to writing about gin. I suspect among the younger hip crowd, gin is considered slightly old-fashioned and fogeyish; and there's now a general gravitation towards vodka in cocktail bars and night-clubs: how many times have I heard some blade, or party girl for that matter, ask for a Vodka and Cranberry Juice?

Anyway, back in the good old days of wife-swapping, bridge parties, and twiglets, gin was the tipple of choice, and, of course the basis of, perhaps, the greatest of all cocktails, The Dry Martini. But more about that in a later post.

Gin was invented in the Netherlands in the 17th century, and was distilled from barley. London Dry Gin is different. It's made from a neutral grain spirit, and then re-distilled after botanicals have been added; and the most important botanical, which it gives it that particular taste, is juniper.

What's fascinating about gin is how the different brands vary in taste. This is because of the wide range of botanicals that can be used, ranging from lemon peel, anise, angelica root, coriander, cinnamon, to cassia bark. For a standard gin and tonic, I happen to like the 40% proof Beefeater; 94.6% proof Tanqueray for a Dry Martini, and Plymouth Gin (the sailor's choice) for Sloe Gin- if and when I ever get around to making it.

It may surprise you to know that Bombay Sapphire- that's the gin in the lovely blue coloured bottles with Queen Victoria on the front, is a fairly recent new-comer to the market. It's slightly sweeter, highly flavoured with lots of botanicals, and deservedly successful.

In the eighteenth century, the government allowed gin to be distilled without licence, and, as a result, the ale-houses and taverns were flooded with cheap gin, which was, in effect, fire-water. Underneath you will see a picture of "Gin Lane' by William Hogarth. Actually, if you know the Leicester Square area of London, I'm not sure that a great deal has changed since then, except it's now beer and bizarre cocktails mixed with Red Bull which is causing all the excitement.

 

 

Bloody Mary

 

 

 

For some reason, the Bloody Mary cocktail always makes me think of Connecticut gymkhanas, tailgate picnics, Mock Tudor woodies, and hearty Nantucket sailing types. Especially if it's served from the old family tartan thermos flask.

There's a theory that the Bloody Mary was invented in 1921 by Fernand "Pete" Petiot, the barman at Harry's Bar in Paris (Sank Roo Doe Noo), which was a hang-out for American ex-pats such as Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I'm glad to report that I've sunk a great many Bloody Marys in my time, but so far, not that many have lived up to scratch. After years of experimentation, I've finally cracked the secret, and you're in luck, because, against my better judgement, I'm about to reveal all.

Crush some ice and drop it into a cocktail shaker. Pour in some good tomato juice, vodka (I prefer Stolichnaya), a few drops of Lea & Perrins, a few drops of Tabasco, a modest sprinkling of celery salt, and some cayenne pepper.

And now for a tip that sorts the men from the boys: add a generous dash of dry sherry (Tio Pepe is ideal), and a squeeze of lemon or lime juice. I picked up this idea from the excellent Grenadier Pub in Wilton Row, which is packed on a Sunday morning with high-budget American tourists, and braying Guards Officers. It's supposed to be a secret, but I sort of looked over the pewter bar counter, and saw what they were up to when the bar-girl wasn't looking.

Shake it all around. Strain it into a chilled highball glass. That's it. If you really must, you can add a stick of celery as a garnish. Some people add horseradish, but I'm not that keen, because it curdles, and your cocktail ends up looking a mess. I've also had one recently at a gastro pub down in Dorset, which had large chunks of black pepper floating around in it, and that wasn't that great either, unless of course you're addicted to raw pepper.