VIEW SLIDESHOW: 5 More Cocktails Everyone Should Know

The response to last week's list of 25 cocktails everyone should know was—let's say—vocal. Though I do believe the original 25 are the true essentials, stretching the number to 30 allows us to include a few more excellent drinks to have in your arsenal.

These five cocktails include four well-known classics as well as the Improved, a drink that was, I'd venture to guess, nearly forgotten until David Wondrich yanked it from obscurity in his book, Imbibe. The drink merits inclusion not just because of its historicity but because it's simply a tasty, elegant cocktail. Check out the slideshow above for the 5 drink recipes I most regretted not including last week »

Just Five More...

Pegu Club
Corpse Reviver #2
Improved
Caipirinha
Ok, ok....Mojito

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can reach him on twitter at @dietsch.

VIEW SLIDESHOW: 25 Cocktails Everyone Should Know

We who like to mix drinks at home do it for many reasons: First, it's cheaper than drinking out. Second, it's fun to mix your own drinks at home. Third, it's even more fun to mix drinks for other people at home. Any self-respecting home bartender should have a mental Rolodex Excel spreadsheet of favorite classic cocktail recipes. Even if these aren't fully memorized, you should be able to find the recipe in your home library at quick notice to serve them to your friends.

Today, I present the 25 essential drinks that I think everyone should be able to make. I'm not including any highballs here. If you can't mix up a gin and tonic or a whiskey and soda without a recipe, you're not ready for Cocktail 101. Take some remedial classes and get back to me.

The List

Old Fashioned
Martinez
Martini
Manhattan
Brooklyn
Daiquiri
Margarita
Sidecar
French 75
Bloody Mary
Irish Coffee
Jack Rose
Negroni
Boulevardier
Sazerac
Vieux Carré
Ramos Gin Fizz
Mint Julep
Whiskey Sour
Mai Tai
Planter's Punch
Pisco Sour
Cosmopolitan
Tom Collins
Last Word

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can berate him on twitter at @dietsch.

If you're going all in on cocktails, you want build a good home library. To the serious fan of spirits and cocktails, the topic is endlessly absorbing, and if you're a bookish boozer like me, you find that the more you know, the more you want to know.

So today, I'm going to give advice on building a cocktail library, starting with basic recipe books and then adding histories, guides to single spirits, books on more esoteric topics, and memoirs by boozers and bartenders.

You're Gonna Need Some Recipes

[Photograph: Wes Rowe]

Start with a book that contains good recipes for classic drinks, but that also has a bit of cocktail theory in it. Good choices here are Gary Regan's Joy of Mixology; Dale DeGroff's Craft of the Cocktail; and Robert Hess's Essential Bartender's Guide.

Next, get another recipe and theory book. The second book will fill in any gaps in the first, providing recipes the first author might have missed. And if the second author provides slightly different proportions for drink recipes, you can try them both and decide which version you prefer.

Playing with proportions is, in itself, a great way to learn cocktail theory, as you contemplate the balance of flavors in a well-made cocktail. If you don't like Regan's Sidecar recipe, for example, you might not understand why you don't like it until you try DeGroff's. And then you might decide, "Oh, here's the problem. Gary's is a little sweeter/tarter/boozier than Dale's." And that, in itself, will teach you a little bit about your own palate and about the importance of tweaking recipes to fit the individual drinker.

Find a Great Raconteur

[Photograph: Wes Rowe]

Then, you might look for books that tell stories but also provide recipes. Excellent possibilities here include Jason Wilson's Boozehound, Eric Felten's How's Your Drink?, William Grimes's Straight Up or On the Rocks, and David Wondrich's Imbibe! and Punch.

These writers have something important in common, actually, that make them ideal for story-telling. They're all writers first and bar geeks second. Wilson writes for the Washington Post, and his book compiles his columns. Felten's tome compiles his work for the Wall Street Journal. Grimes's book is all original material, but he wrote it while serving as restaurant critic for the New York Times. Wondrich writes about booze for Esquire. His books are not compiled from his monthly column, but they carry the imprint of a man who enjoys telling stories about booze.

Dig Into The Past

The Drunkard's Progress, circa 1846 [Image: Wikimedia Commons]

Now, dive into history. If you're interested in Prohibition, Last Call by Daniel Okrent is very good, though I found it a little wonky at times about legislative process of passing, and then repealing, Prohibition. Many readers swear by A History of the World in 6 Glasses, by Tom Standage; he covers beer, wine, spirits, coffee, tea, and cola. I didn't personally care for it, but maybe you'll enjoy it.

Linda Himelstein's The King of Vodka is a good book about the Smirnov family, though it has more to do with the people than with the liquid. On a similar front, the NPR correspondent Tom Gjelten wrote Bacardi and the Long Fight for Cuba, but again, it's more about the Bacardi family and Caribbean politics than about the rum.

One book I love very much is Wayne Curtis's And a Bottle of Rum. It's light on recipes, so don't turn to it for practical content, but it's a delightfully written book about the history of rum.

Single Topics

[Photo: J. Kenji Lopez-Alt]

If rum isn't your thing (although if it's not, don't speak to me), you can find single-topic books on other spirits. I've yet to read it, but Michael Veach's new book, Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey, is getting great reviews from bourbon geeks. Since I have a soft spot for both whisk(e)y and guys named Michael, I have to mention Michael Jackson's work; any of his books on whisky or beer are worth tracking down. His comprehensive Complete Guide to Single Malt Scotch came out in its sixth edition a couple of years back, updated by other whisky writers (Jackson is deceased). I have an earlier, all-Jackson edition, but I hear the newer version is excellent.

If it's juniper you're after, Gin: A Global History, by Lesley Jacobs Solmonson, gets good marks from the cocktail crew.

Oddball Topics

Gentiana flowers [Photograph: Wikimedia Commons]

A good cocktail library should have a few books on esoteric topics: moonshine, monasteries, botany, that sort of thing. Max Watman's Chasing the White Dog is a fun read; while interviewing moonshiners and legal distillers across the country, he futzes around with building a home still. Madeline Scherb's A Taste of Heaven covers wines, beers, spirits, cheeses, and chocolates from monks and nuns in Europe and the U.S. And as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, Amy Stewart's excellent The Drunken Botanist talks about the botanical origins of all our boozy favorites.

Curmudgeons and Memoirs

[Photograph: Wes Rowe]

Finally, fill out your library with memoirs from the booze world, personal histories about life on both sides of the bar. There are many books to consider. Perhaps the most recent is Rosie Schaap's Drinking with Men, but you can also find offerings from Kingsley Amis, Bernard De Voto, and many, many others.

Okay, I know I've missed something, my boozy bibliophiles. Fill me in! Which cocktail books do you consider essential for the home library?

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can berate him on twitter at @dietsch.

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

How many ways are there to enjoy a martini?

Over at Slate, Troy Patterson has given a lot of thought to this question. He staged a Tournament of Martinis, in the pattern of the NCAA basketball tourney. Starting with 80 recipes (yes, 80), he invited readers to submit even more variations and then to also help him winnow the field down. Once he had 64 recipes, he paired them up and let them battle for supremacy.

Along the way, he explored the many possible ways to mix a martini, devoting a series of posts to the ratio of gin to vermouth, the garnish (lemon twist, olive, onion), the dry martini, the sweet martini, and the dirrrrrrrrrrrty martini. Then he concocted his bracket and began the drink-off.

Patterson includes martini variations that I don't think of as such: for example, martinis with Chartreuse, Scotch, elderflower liqueur, or lime juice. Patterson's path is fun to read, but I have no intention of duplicating his work.

Instead I want to strip the discussion down and focus on just a few elements of the martini: the ingredients, the ratio, the preparation, and the presentation (this last part includes the garnish). But first, let me get a few definitions and a bit of history out of the way.

[Photograph: Jessica Leibowitz]

The Martini in Space and Time

No one can trace the exact origins of the martini; its history is lost to us. As Patterson discusses, though, the modern martini derives at least in part from the Martinez. If you've never tried one, you may be surprised by how unlike the martini it is. The Martinez calls for Old Tom gin, which is mildly sweet (unlike the London Dry style used in the martini), sweet vermouth, a teaspoon or so of liqueur (usually maraschino or curaçao), and orange bitters. The Martinez called for Old Tom simply because that's the gin that was available to bartenders in the 19th century.

Toward the end of that century, as I mentioned in my guide to gin, a new style of gin was developed: a drier style made possible by the widespread adoption of the column still. This style allowed the juniper and other herbal flavors to come to the fore.

[Photograph: Roger Kamholz]

What We Mean When We Talk About the Dry Martini

By the tail end of the 19th century, Old Tom gin was falling out of favor in American bars, and London Dry took over. And this newer style, it turned out, didn't mix well with sweet vermouth. At some point, the Martinez morphed from a cocktail with sweet Tom gin and sweet vermouth to one with dry gin and dry vermouth. This was the origin of the dry martini.

Don't be fooled. The "dry" martini was initially simply a way to distinguish it from a cocktail with sweet ingredients. It wasn't the arid cocktail of today, with merely a nod in the direction of a vermouth bottle. Some iterations of the "dry" martini included as much vermouth as gin! Today, of course, a fifty-fifty ratio is uncommon, to say the least. You can find this recipe mainly at craft-cocktail bars, usually under such monickers as the "Fifty Fifty," or "Fiddy Fiddy," depending on how hip-hoppy the bartender wants to pretend to be. It's a fine drink, but nothing that anyone today would consider dry.

I wouldn't try this drink anywhere other than a craft-cocktail bar, though. You want to be sure the vermouth is fresh. If you're in a place where you suspect the vermouth has been around since either of the Bush administrations, I wouldn't bother.

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

What We Mean When We Talk About the Martini

Okay, let's get down to it and start talking about ingredients. What's in a martini, anyway? Patterson right away disposes of the vodka martini; this is understandable considering that he wound up with dozens of recipes simply with gin as the base. I will not. I'm going to be a little more catholic here and include vodka martinis in the discussion. (I won't even be pedantic and insist on calling it a Kangaroo.)

I will even confess to sometimes enjoying vodka martinis, but only with a vodka with some character. Tito's is good. Russian Standard is better. Karlsson's is excellent.

I'm going to define the martini thusly: A martini is a cocktail made from gin or vodka and dry vermouth. You might disagree and want me to limit the martini to gin only. That's what the comments are for. Sound off.

I insist that vermouth is necessary in a martini. Otherwise you may as well just throw a bottle of gin or vodka into the freezer and pour off a glass when you're ready to drink. Vermouth and gin are better together than Sinatra and Crosby; the botanicals in each harmonize perfectly. A martini without vermouth is a sad thing.

Ratios

If we're not already arguing over vodka versus gin, we may well come to blows over the proper ratio of a martini. You see all sorts of lunatic ideas out there. There's the guy who says it must be 3.7 parts gin to 1 part vermouth (how does someone measure that?). Hemingway liked 15 parts to 1. Some bartenders use atomizers to spritz vermouth lightly atop the surface of the drink before service. Then there are the drinkers who expectorate on the vermouth bottle before flinging it out the window onto a passing cat.

I insist that vermouth is necessary in a martini, but beyond that I make no claims. My own tastes vary from martini to martini. Sometimes I like a lot of vermouth; sometimes less. For me, much depends on the gin. A high-proof, junipery bottling such as Tanqueray or Beefeater will stand up to as much vermouth as you want to use. Some of the modern releases, though, dial back on juniper in favor of flowery and citrusy flavors. These gins tend to be sweeter, and so it's appropriate to dial back on the vermouth.

And sometimes, it's all about my mood. I might want a stiff, bracing glass of barely-vermouthed gin, or I might decide I want something lighter and easier to linger over. The martini's good that way; you can mix it differently according to how you feel. Not all cocktails reward such tinkering.

Preparation

Shaken or stirred? I'm going to take a step back and say, That's your call. But here are a few things to think about before you begin.

First, let's toss out this notion of bruising the gin. Shaking a martini doesn't harm the spirit. (As Patterson said in one of his many posts at Slate, "There's nothing you can do to gin that's worse than what it can do to you.")

So, why prefer stirred over shaken? Simple. When you shake a martini, you do two things: first, you aerate it, which introduces tiny bubbles into the drink and makes it cloudy. Second, you break the ice into tiny shards, which float on the surface of the drink when you pour it.

Most bartenders and martini drinkers prefer an unclouded drink without an ice floe atop it. Others, my wife included, like the little shards of ice; they reflect the room's lighting and make the drink sparkle, so I can see the point.

I prefer a stirred martini, cloudless and unsullied by ice chips. It's the closest thing in the world to perfection.

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

Presentation

Drinkers for a time (in the 1950s and 1960s) flirted with the idea of eschewing the stemware and drinking martinis from a rocks glass. You can understand the impulse. It's pretty easy for a bartender to fill a glass with ice, pour in some gin or vodka, splash in a small amount of vermouth, stir, and serve. To my shame, I sometimes get lazy and serve my own martinis that way -- although I'd be loathe to serve them that way to anyone else.

But properly, a martini is served up, without ice, in a stem glass. Although I prefer curvy coupes for most of my cocktails, I still love V-shaped stem glasses for martinis.

After that, though, it's a question of garnish. The simplest is the lemon twist, and it's my preference these days for nearly every martini I drink. The gin already contains citrus, and so the lemon oils from the twist enhance the fruit and help it rise up alongside the juniper.

Hemingway liked freezing cocktail onions and tossing one or two into his Gibsons. It's a nice practice. The frozen onion helps keep your drink cold and it doesn't lend as much allium flavor as do room-temperature onions. If you like Gibsons and you haven't made your own onions, try buying frozen pearl onions at the grocery and adding one to your drink.

My least favorite garnish these days is the olive. I still like them sometimes in vodka martinis, but in gin martinis, I feel like they overpower the drink. This is especially true when they're stuffed with blue cheese, almonds, anchovies, cicadas, or whatever. I'm especially turned off when the olive was oil-packed and leaves a slick of oil on the surface of the drink. Gross.

Finally, an idea I never understood: the dirty martini. Think about what happens when you order one from most bars. The bartender spoons a bit of olive brine from the garnish tray into the shaker. You know, the same garnish tray that's been sitting out at room temperature all night. The same one that some jerk sitting at the bar has been dipping his filthy fingers into, to pilfer olives while the bartender's otherwise busy.

I did try one, once, that I kind of liked. One night at Drink, in Boston, I watched a bartender prepare the house's version of the Dirty Martini. He took olives that were brining in a homemade liquid of vermouth and fresh herbs. He muddled the olives into the vodka, splashed in a bit of the vermouth brine, and prepared the drink. He double-strained the drink, discarding the olive pulp before garnishing the drink with fresh olives. The martini was savory, subtly salty, rich-tasting, and lightly greenish from the muddled olive.

I've thrown a lot at you here: history, ingredients, ratios, preparation, and presentation. Now it's your turn. How do you like your martini?

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can berate him on twitter at @dietsch.

The Drunken Botanist by Amy Stewart is not the book I was expecting it to be. I don't know whether I misread the press materials, or simply jumped to a wrong conclusion when hearing the title, but I was expecting to find a book about using seasonal ingredients to make cocktails, infusions, bitters, and the like.

Although books like that have their value, I already own more such books than I currently need, so I found myself uninspired by this book—or, at least, my idea of this book.

But my idea turned out to be wrong, and The Drunken Botanist turned out to be a very engaging book about the botanical origins of our favorite drinks: beer, wine, spirits, and even a mixer or two.

A field of ripening barley. [Photograph: Wikimedia Commons]

If you're getting into cocktails and looking to expand your understanding of spirits, wine, beer, and mixed drinks, reading Stewart's book is a great way to do it. You'll come away with a knowledge of what exactly is in your glass and you'll be able to understand how those elements play together to form the flavors and aromas you'll encounter in a well-made drink.

Drinks, Shoots, and Leaves

The book's origins arise from a conversation Stewart had some years ago with a fellow botanist. He told Stewart he disliked gin, and she first vowed to make him a cocktail that would make a gin lover of him, and then expressed her surprise that a botanist could fail to love gin, which is full of botanical ingredients: not only the grain that makes the spirit itself, but also the herbs and spice and citrus that provide gin's robust, complex flavors.

Grapes, Grains, and Grasses

In the book's introduction, Stewart says, "Every great drink starts with a plant" and of course, this is obviously true. Beer starts from barley or other grains; wine, from grapes or other fruit. Vodka comes from grains or potatoes. Whisk(e)y arises from barley, corn, rye, or other grains.

Stewart uses this simple truth as a starting point for a fascinating book, one that rewards a cover-to-cover read. The first part of the book covers the classic booze-worthy plants, the ones used most often to produce alcohol. Here you'll find agave, apple, barley, corn, grapes, and onward through wheat. She discusses the history of each crop and its history as an ingredient in beverage alcohol. She doesn't shy away from unpleasant facts, either, such as the sustainability crisis facing agave agriculture in Mexico, for example.

The first part concludes with a look at less-common or even bizarre plants that have been turned into booze: bananas, cassava, parsnips, and something called a monkey puzzle.

In part two, she turns her green thumb toward the flavoring elements that go into beverage alcohol. Here she first covers herbs and spices—allspice, angelica, bison grass, cardamom, gentian, ginger, juniper, licorice and its relatives, vanilla, wormwood, and many others. Then she hits flowers—chamomile, hops, jasmine, rose, etc. Next up are trees—angostura, birch, cinchona, cinnamon, sugar maple. Next up is fruit—apricots, currents, figs, and the variety of citrus fruits, among others. Finally, she ends part two with a look at nuts and seeds: almond, coffee, hazelnut, kola nut, and walnut.

Gentiana lutea. [Photograph: Wikimedia Commons]

Only in part three, by far the shortest part of the book, does she tackle the topic that I initially thought comprised the entirety of the book: infusions, syrups, homemade liqueurs, and pickles. She even provides instructions on home-brining olives.

The book features several types of informative sidebars. The most practical are the recipes: not just cocktail recipes but instructions for syrups, pickles, and liqueurs such as limoncello.

Another sidebar talks to gardeners and provides DIY advice on growing these crops. Some, of course, are less practical than others. She acknowledges that only the most die-hard of home-brewers, for example, will grow their own barley. But others, such as lemon verbena and black currants, though, are within the grasp of nearly any gardener.

A flowering Lemon verbena, Aloysia triphylla, photographed in Karkur, Israel. [Photograph: Wikimedia Commons]

She takes time out to discuss plants that affect booze production without being ingredients of their own: oak (for barrel aging, of course) and cork oak.

Finally, though it's not a plant and therefore not botanical at all, Stewart takes the time to discuss a topic without which, none of these wondrous drinks would be possible: yeast.

A careful and knowledgable reader might find some of the discussion a bit thin, as I did when reading about the history of bourbon, located logically enough in her chapter on corn. But this is excusable; she only has so many pages, and the topic is hefty enough to support an entire botanical library. Further, if you're looking for a book full of recipes for cocktails, syrups, infusions, bitters, liqueurs, mixers, and other plant-based cocktail ingredients, you're simply in the wrong place.

But if you're curious about the plants you're drinking with each toast, I recommend The Drunken Botanist, an delightfully informative and entertaining book about the basic ingredients of beverage alcohol.

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can reach him on twitter at @dietsch.

Sample book provided for review consideration.

The Ground to Glass at Summit Bar, made with red bell pepper purée. [Photograph: Alice Gao]

Forget the tomato juice. Put down the celery salt. If you can look past the Bloody Mary, you'll find a whole world of savory cocktails waiting for your enjoyment.

Now, savory can mean different things to different people, but the word normally refers to a richly flavorful food or drink that lacks sweetness. When referring to savory cocktails, we might mean drinks that lack sweetness altogether, or we might mean drinks in which any sweet elements take a back seat to other flavors, which might include vegetal, herbal, nutty, smoky, meaty, or umami-rich notes.

Savory cocktails can be built using savory ingredients, such as vegetables and salt, or they can be made from savory spirits, such as aquavit, gin, and sherry. Smoky spirits, such as mezcal and certain Scotches, can also add a savory side to a drink. For example, the next time you make a Manhattan, first rinse your cocktail glass with a little bit of smoky Scotch, such as Lagavulin. (Don't dump it after you rinse! Drink it!) Freeze the glass for a bit. When you pour the Manhattan into the glass, the smoky scotch will counterbalance some of the sweetness of the cocktail, while adding complexity to the drink.

St. Marks the Spot [Photograph: J. Kenji Lopez-Alt]

Aquavit is another spirit that's ideal for savory cocktails. Think of it as a relative to gin. In gin, of course, the main flavor components include juniper and some combination of coriander, cardamom, citrus, orris root, and a few other things. Aquavit is similar, except that the flavorings are ingredients such as caraway, dill, fennel, anise, and others. Aquavit is typically a little drier tasting than gin, which makes it perfect for drinks that downplay sweetness.

Some drinks use a blend of techniques to achieve a savory taste. Alder, which recently opened in New York City, offers a drink called St. Marks the Spot, made from aquavit and carrot juice. The aquavit adds dryness and a bit of herbal complexity, whereas the carrot juice adds vegetal flavors and just a hint of sweetness.

The Beet Negroni at Parm [Photograph: J. Kenji Lopez-Alt]

Some drinks take classic recipes and savor them up with new ingredients. For its Beet Negroni, the restaurant Parm, also in New York, takes beet-infused gin and mixes it with vermouth and Campari. The Negroni's a drink that already downplays sweetness, but the beets just amp up the savory side even more.

Incidentally, if you're in New York, and you don't want to infuse anything with beets, you can pop over to Russ & Daughters and pick up a bottle of their Beet and Lemon Shrub. This stuff came to life when a Russ employee had the unusual but successful idea to mix lemonade with some of the vinegar in which Russ's beets steep. Though it's delicious on its own (albeit a little too sweet for my palate), I'm not ashamed to admit I've mixed it with gin for a simple but savory highball. I'm willing to bet it's even better with aquavit.

Speaking of shrubs, they make great savory beverages, just on their own, and even better cocktails, especially if the shrubs have aged long enough for the sugars to start to break down. (Want to make your own shrubs? Check out our guides here and here.) Top a shrub off with a little soda water, and you have an unusual and tasty soft drink; splash in a little gin or rum first, and you'll find you have a complex and savory cocktail.

[Photograph: Jessica Leibowitz]

There are even more cocktail ingredients in the vegetable drawer: at The Wayland in NY, they make a Garden Variety Margarita with tequila, lime, ginger, and kale juice. Ginger is a natural for savory cocktails; it marries well not only with sweet flavors but with savories as well, as a sort of bridge between savory and sweet. Want to get really wacky? Try infusing whiskey with mushrooms, like they do at Neta in the West Village. (They're also known for infusing sake with seaweed, and even going so far as to add delicately fishy bonito to a drink.)

Some vegetables are barely savory on their own, like the red bell pepper used in Summit Bar's Ground to Glass. To accentuate the savory side in that tequila drink (made with lime, bell pepper puree, and cucumber, the drink is rimmed with smoked salt.

If vegetable juices and purees seem a little futzy to you, you can very simply savor up your home bar. A thin slice of cucumber makes a nice garnish to a martini, for example, especially when using a cucumbery gin such as Martin Miller's or Hendrick's. Just float the slices delicately atop the drink, or line the inside of the glass with them. A basic margarita, even one without kale and ginger, tastes pretty good with a red-pepper garnish. Want to go all the way savory? Swap out the tequila for mezcal, and consider adding a pinch of salt or a little saltwater solution into the mix of the drink itself.

Have you experimented with savory cocktails? Tasted any good ones in bars near you?

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can reach him on twitter at @dietsch.

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

Back to basics this week. While writing last week's giant guide to garnishes, I realized I've never touched on the simple task of cutting citrus wedges for garnishing cocktails. There really isn't much to it, but as in many things, the method has certain grace notes that can help you stand apart as a host, and I'll discuss those today.

All you'll need is a sharp knife, a cutting board, and well-washed citrus. A sharp knife is especially important here because a dull knife will squeeze the fruit into a misshapen lump, which will make your wedges look weird. No one likes weird wedges.

[Photographs: Michael Dietsch]

First up, please be sure to remove the stickers. This might seem obvious, right? But twice in a particular bar in Providence, I had a lemon wedge on a glass of water, and the sticker was still on the damn thing. Once, someone had even sliced neatly through it, as if it belonged there. I had to ask myself what other shortcuts they were taking behind the bar: were the tap lines clean? What about the ice well?

I can't promise your guests will notice that the stickers are gone from your citrus. I can promise they'll notice the stickers if they're present.

Second, cut the ends off your lemon or lime, and then cut it in half, from end to end. You're not cutting across the width of the fruit, but from one pointy end to the other.

(Some bartenders prefer to leave the ends attached. They like the more natural look of the fruit. I think wedges with squared off edges look a little neater, but in the end, it's an aesthetic judgment and your call to make.)

Turn the halves cut-side down on your cutting board. Using your knife, make two or three cuts through each citrus half. If you make two cuts, you'll have six wedges per piece of fruit. With three, you'll wind up with eight. Again, your call. (The solid lines above show two cuts. The dashed line is approximately where you'd make the third cut, if you want eight wedges.)

In any case, cut from the peel toward the center of each half.

Six lemon wedges, nearly ready to go.

Ah, this is why I said "nearly ready." See that ragged white stuff and those seeds? Get 'em outta there. Take your knife and trim away the white stuff, and then use the blade to sweep or pick the seeds away.

Like so.

Top: three wedges with the ends cut off.

Bottom: three wedges with ends left on.

Lime, cut into eight wedges instead of six.

Now, here's what you'll find in many bars, and I find this perplexing. Here we have eight wedges that have been further cut into 24. What's the point of this? It seems designed to simply increase the number of wedges from each lime, thus cutting down on citrus expenses, but also making it hard to get much citrus flavor from that wedge. What else is the bar "economizing" on?

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

The last step is to cut a slit into the fruit so it can perch on the lip of a glass. In the case of the lime, I cut a notch in the center of the wedge; in the lemon, it's near the end, so it can stand up straight. Experiment with this. You can get your wedges to perch at all sorts of jaunty angles with practice.

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can touch him on twitter at @dietsch.

[Photographs: Jennifer Hess and Michael Dietsch]

Usually a bright piece of fruit, or a briny olive, or a festive umbrella, but sometimes something much more fancy, the cocktail garnish has a solid place in the history of cocktails. Today, we'll look at what garnishes are and how to get started using them to good effect.

A cocktail garnish is an ornamental item that adds appeal to a cocktail. In case of fruit wedges, slices, or twists, the garnish actually imbues a bit of juice or citrus oil to the drink. Likewise, an olive or onion in a Martini or Gibson lends a whisper of savory flavor to those drinks. And of course, there's the bright red (or green) cherries common to drinks such as the Manhattan. These add sweetness and color to an otherwise drab-looking brown drink. Other common edible garnishes include gratings of nutmeg or cinnamon, sprigs of mint or other herbs, and the smorgasbord of salty or pickled items (often added to a Bloody Mary.)

Not all garnishes, of course, are food items. Umbrellas, plastic animals, fancy straws, and plastic swords are among the incredible inedibles that serve as garnishes. And in fact, one tale of the origin of the word cocktail comes from such a garnish: the story goes that during the Revolutionary War, folks would garnish mixed drinks with feathers from the tail of a rooster, or a cock's tail. (Incidentally, while this story is colorful, it's almost certainly apocryphal, so if you want to tell it to your friends, just know it's probably bullshit.) Today we'll mostly be focusing on edible garnishes, though.

Whence the Garnish?

As with many other things in the history of cocktails, it's hard to pin down the origins of the garnish. It's possible that the garnish originated in the julep and the cobbler, two similar classes of mixed drinks that arose a couple of hundred years ago. The general plan for these drinks is similar: each calls for crushed or shaved ice, a spirit or wine, and a bit of sugar, with the whole mess served with a straw. The julep, of course, is garnished nowadays with mint; the cobbler, on the other hand, usually takes a slice of fruit (pineapple or orange), a pile of berries, and sometimes mint.

At any rate, the earliest bartenders manual that hasn't been lost to history is Jerry Thomas's, from 1862. In his book, Thomas instructs bartenders to use a piece of lemon peel in drinks and to even rub the peel around the rim, at times, presumably to leave behind of a bit of the oils. He doesn't comment on the origins of the practice, so we can assume it was in common use at the time when he was writing.

Twists

One of the easiest, most common garnishes for cocktials is the twist. I've written about the twist before—how to cut an ideal twist, how to set its oils alight and how to make fancier twists. No matter what type of twist you use, though, the basic idea remains the same. A twist is a tool for expressing citrus oil into a drink. Squeeze the peel over the surface of the cocktail, rub the colored side (not the white pith) around the rim of the glass, and either drop the peel into the glass or discard. Your call.

Mint

Mint isn't much harder to work with than twists are. The main thing with mint is to have a light hand, especially when muddling. When you garnish the top of the glass, use a fresh bunch of sprigs (don't be miserly, and don't reuse the stuff you muddled), and be sure to sharply spank the mint to release its aromas. Yes, I said spank.

Olives and Onions

Olives and onions are classic bar staples used to add a savory quality to a drink. The history of these garnishes is, again, hard to pin down. Don't laugh at the booze historians, though, please. I'm sure you've forgotten things that happened while you were drinking, and what else is cocktail history but a record of things that happened in bars?

Stories abound about the history of the Gibson, nearly all of them told by a man named Gibson who claimed to invent the cocktail. I think the only Gibsons who haven't claimed to invent it are the science-fiction author, the newsman, and the actor.

Regardless of who invented the idea of tossing an onion or olive into a cocktail, I must say it's a delicious one. I prefer my olives unstuffed, or simply studded with pimento.

Sad to say, fully DIY olives are a bit of a chore for home bartenders; you need a source of fresh olives and ample time in which to cure them. I live in Brooklyn and have a toddler, so I have neither source nor time.

DIY cocktail onions, though? Oh yes, so easy and so worth it. One major advantage of doing it yourself is being able to season them as you please.

Or borrow the Hemingway trick and just use plain frozen onions in your drink. They'll still impart a bit of flavor, but they'll also help keep your Gibson icy.

Cherries

The use of cherries in cocktails dates to the 1800s. Originally, the maraschino cherry wasn't the neon red thing you see in jars in the grocery store. Maraschino cherries, initially, were simply marasca cherries from Croatia, preserved whole in maraschino liqueur. But marasca cherries from Croatia needed to be imported from, well, Croatia, and this was expensive, so manufacturers started making them here, swapping in native cherries and liqueurs other than maraschino. By the time of Prohibition, the liqueurs were left out entirely, and the cherries were chemically dyed and preserved.

You can buy artisanal cherries from several producers (the pricey Luxardo ones are delicious) or you can make your own at home, which is more fun because you get to buy brandy.

Finally, a Word of Advice

When you're at home, you can do what you want to with your own garnishes. If you get crazy one night and just eat every last cherry out of your fridge, that's your waistline, not mine. But please, please, please, when you're out at a bar, don't ever pick garnishes out of the bartender's supplies. Seriously.

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can touch him on twitter at @dietsch.

Some people like to imbibe artifically colored brewskis on St. Patrick's Day, but I'll be honest with you: that's never been my style. If I'm out drinking on St. Pat's at all, which is quite rare these days, I'll be the guy arriving at 11 am, enjoying two pints of stout and a shot of Irish whiskey and a corned-beef sandwich, and heading home before the lepriphonies come out to play.

But that's not to say I don't enjoy thematic drinking; I just prefer to do it at home. I'll happily mix Champagne cocktails for New Year's Eve, for example, while staying indoors with my family; I celebrate Mardi Gras every year with a Sazerac or a Vieux Carre, even when I'm thousands of miles from New Orleans; and I'm usually content to mix a nice cocktail in my own kitchen on St. Greenbeer's Day.

So, in keeping with the theme, why not some Chartreuse cocktails? Today's drinks feature the lushly herbal Chartreuse in all its emerald glory. So leave your "Kiss Me I'm Irish" button in your junk drawer where it belongs and celebrate another way.

Chartreuse Swizzle

The Chartreuse Swizzle uses the basic Caribbean swizzle formula—a base spirit (or in this case, a liqueur), lime juice, and falernum, combined into a Collins glass with crushed ice, and stirred (or swizzled with a stick) until the glass frosts over. This icy treat is probably better suited to summer than to the middle of March, but it presents such a festive green color that you might not care.

Get the Recipe »

Green Ghost

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

A great drink with an even better name, the Green Ghost mixes gin and Chartreuse, which is always a tasty combination. Better yet, thanks to the liqueur and the lime, it presents a nice bright green color in your glass. If you're looking a green drink that's boozy enough that it won't embarrass your father, this is it.

Get the Recipe »

Last Word

[Photo: Maggie Hoffman]

I know, I know, I've written a lot about the Last Word. I can't help it; it's one of my favorite cocktails. The Last Word achieves a perfect unity of its four ingredients: gin, Chartreuse, maraschino liqueur, and lime juice. And as a bonus, it's also a lovely green color, so it's perfect for Paddy tipples.

Get the Recipe »

Bijou

[Photograph: Robyn Lee]

The Bijou is sort of a spiritous cousin to the Green Ghost. Where the Green Ghost blends gin, Chartreuse, and lime, the Bijou drops the citrus and adds vermouth. The difference is remarkable. Both cocktails are delicious, but which you prefer probably will simply depend on your temperament. The original recipe is an equal-parts classic with one ounce of each ingredient. When Paul Clarke discussed it here in 2009, he suggested tweaking the recipe to favor the gin. I concur.

Get the Recipe »

Diamondback

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

Okay, this one ain't gonna impress anyone with its color; the green of the Chartreuse gets lost in the brown color of the rye and applejack. But if you don't like its livery, you'll like its bite. If the Chartreuse Swizzle seems too light and icy for a mid-March evening, this drink should suit your needs. It calls for rye, applejack, and Chartreuse; because I prefer the bonded expressions of Rittenhouse Rye and Laird's Apple Brandy in this, I've always found it to hit me right where I need it.

Get the Recipe »

Tell me, if you're not the green-beer type, how will you be celebrating this St. Patrick's Day?

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can touch him on twitter at @dietsch.

[Photograph: Cyclonebill on Flickr]

More Spirit Guides

Guide to Bourbon »
Guide to Rye »
Guide to Tequila »
Guide to Rum »
Guide to Cachaça »
Guide to Vodka »
Guide to Genever »
Guide to Tennessee Whiskey »
Guide to Irish Whiskey »
Guide to Single Malt Scotch »
Guide to Blended Scotch »

Cognac. To many, it's the ultimate in brandy. Now, you may ask why. Does it taste better? is it the expense? The time to make it? The grapes? The history? I'd say it's all of those things, and more.

Cognac is a spirit that rewards long aging—more so even than Scotch. Cognacs of 50 or more years are relatively common ... though not cheap.

The specific grape varieties, and the soil in which they're grown, add a unique character to cognac, not found in other brandies. As you'll see, however, some controversy has arisen over the grape varieties used in cognac production. (Who knew booze-making could stoke such passion!)

And, of course, there's simply the reputation of cognac. It's a spirit long associated with wealth and power and luxury. Now, cognac's cousin, armagnac, may lay claim for being the better brandy. It's a little more rustic, and I keep hearing that the French themselves actually prefer it to cognac, leaving the latter spirit primarily for the export market and keeping the best armagnacs for themselves. Sneaky.

While you can certainly debate whether cognac is the best brandy around, you can't deny it's the most famous, the best known, and the luxest spirit of all. You want to show that you've made it in this world? Drink cognac.

But what is cognac? How's it made, and what makes it special? Let's start with a little geography.

The Geography of Cognac

Cognac—the town, not the brandy—is located in the Charente department in the southwest of France, 465 kilometers (289 miles) southwest of Paris.

Cognac—the brandy—comes from the town of Cognac, naturally, and the regions surrounding the town, mainly the departments of Charente and Charente-Maritime.

Locations of Charente (at left) and Charente-Maritime in France. [Maps: Wikimedia Commons]

The Cognac Delimited Region is the area in which cognac can be legally made. The Delimited Region includes all of the Charente-Maritime, most of the Charente, and a few districts of the departments of Dordogne and Deux-Sèvres.

Charente and Charante-Maritime take their name from the Charente River, which flows through the region. The climate is ideal for winemaking, with an average annual temperature of about 13º C (55º F) and a good amount of rainfall.

Growing Areas

The Cognac Delimited Region is divided into six growing areas, or crus. Each cru produces a specific style of cognac, influenced by the geography, soil, and climate of the particular cru. However, as I'll explain later, many cognacs are a blend of eaux-de-vie from various crus.

Cognac makers use the term eau-de-vie (plural: eaux-de-vie) to describe cognacs in their aging process, prior to bottling. If it's still in the barrel, aging, it's called eau-de-vie. If it's ready to be blended, it's eau-de-vie. If it's blended and ready for bottling, it's cognac.

Cognac Delimited Region. [Map: Wikimedia Commons]

• Grande Champagne—fine, light eaux de vie, require long aging. Aromas are floral: grape-vine flower, lime blossom.
• Petite Champagne—similar to eaux de vie from Grande, but lacking some of the finesse. Aromas are floral and lightly fruity.
• Borderies—fine, round eaux de vie with aromas of violet and iris. Age faster than the Champagne zones
• Fins Bois—round, supple, fruity, and lightly floral. Age quickly.
• Bon Bois—mostly fruity. Fast aging.
• Bois Ordinaire—maritime influences, rustic, fruity. Age quickly.

(Some sources list a seventh: Bois Communs or Bois Terroir, located alongside Bois Ordinaire.)

Don't be confused by the word Champagne. It doesn't refer to the sparkling wine or to the region in which the fizzy is made. Champagne here means a type of soil that's ideal for growing certain grape varieties. (The region of Champagne has that name because it has essentially the same soil.) The soil is high in limestone, chalk, and clay. The clay holds a lot of water under the surface, which is ideal in the heat of summer when soil might otherwise dry out.

Connoisseurs generally prefer cognacs from the Grand and Petite zones, which means subtler cognacs that emphasize floral notes over fruity.

The banks of the Charente look like a lovely place for a picnic and a long nap. [Photograph: L'encyclopédie du Cognac]

Viniculture

Cognac starts with a thin, acidic white wine made primarily from three grapes: Ugni Blanc, Folle Blanche, and Colombard. In lesser quantities, producers may also include Jurançon, Sémillon, Montils, Folignan, and Sélect. The wine itself is said to be unpleasant to drink; it's made for the express purpose of distillation.

Grapes are harvested in October. Cognac producers press the juice from the grapes and leave it to ferment using natural yeasts from the air and grape skins, resulting in a wine that is about 8 to 10 percent alcohol and high in acids. In Cognac, producers are prohibited from adding sugars at this stage. The addition of sugar produces a wine higher in alcohol, but lacking in flavor.

Distillation

By law, distillation in Cognac must be finished by March 31st in the year following the harvest. So, in other words, brandymakers in Cognac are, right now, distilling wine made from grapes harvested in October 2012.

Pot stills, incidentally, are less efficient than column stills, and they need to be cleaned out after each distillation. But they produce a spirit that contains more character of the grape than you'd get from column distillation. What this means is, pot distillation is one feature that makes cognac what it is, but it also makes the product more expensive than other brandies, which are generally column distilled.

Charentais alembic still. [Photograph: L'encyclopédie du Cognac]

Aging

After distillation, the brandy is transferred to oak barrels. Cognac uses French oak barrels, made of oak from the Tronçais and Limousin forests. Brandies that age 40 or 50 years will lose much of their alcohol during the aging phase. The sheer act of evaporation can reduce the ABV of cognac from around 70% to around 40% in that period. Younger brandies need to be diluted with water to reach bottling proof, but that dilutes the flavors as well.

Whiskies, on the other hand, never age long enough to lose that much alcohol to evaporation. Unless a whisk(e)y is released at barrel-proof (or cask-strength), it's always diluted with water before bottling.

Blending

Each cognac house employs a master blender, whose job it is to taste the brandies as they age. Master blenders are responsible for ensuring that the cognacs they produce are in keeping with the house style, and consistent from year to year. (Don't we all wish for a career like that?)

Each cognac house keeps very old stocks of brandy, some aged as much as 100 years, to use as benchmarks for determining the house style, and to add to high-end blends.

The blend is a mix of eaux-de-vie of different ages and different crus. Each eau-de-vie adds something unique to the blend, and by balancing the various qualities of each one, the master blender can achieve a final cognac that harmonizes smoothly and maintains the style of the brand.

The Magic of Rancio

Think of earthy, ripe cheeses or mushrooms, with a hint of soy sauce. When those qualities pop up in cognac, the term used to describe them is rancio. (The same word is used to describe Spanish and Portuguese fortified wines, such as sherry, Madeira, and port, hence its appropriation by the French.) A full 10 years or more of oak aging are required to develop rancio in cognac.

The concept is similar to that of hogo in rum, incidentally—in each, it's a hard-to-define funkiness that enriches the flavors and aromas.

Grades of Cognac:

• *** (3-Star) or VS (Very Special): The youngest brandy in the blend must have aged at least two years in oak.
• VSOP (Very Superior Old Pale): The youngest brandy must have aged at least four years, although in practice, most brandies at this class are usually much older.
• Napoléon, XO (Extra Old), Extra, or Hors d'age: The youngest brandy has six years on oak, but on average, these brandies are 20 years old or more. In 2016, the minimum age will be raised to ten years.

Fine Champagne: must be made of brandies from the Petite Champagne and Grande Champagne districts, and must consist of at least 50% Grande Champagne.

History

Winemaking near the Charente River has a long history. Romans planted vineyards there no later than the third century.

A thousand years later, the Dutch began trading in wines from the region. Last week, in my general guide to brandy, I discussed the role of the Dutch mercantile fleet in the history of cognac. The Dutch were avid consumers of French wine, but they began to realize that distilling the wine would make transportation more efficient, as well as preserving the wine against spoilage. The Dutch invested in distilleries, located next to the vineyards of the Charente region, for the purpose of making brandy for export.

In 1875, though, phylloxera arrived in the Charente, chomping its way through the rootstock of virtually every vineyard in the region. (The little pest nearly wiped out the entire French wine industry before it was stopped, but that's a story for another time.)

What saved the wine industry, and cognac as well, was grafting. French grape varieties were grafted onto American rootstock, which is resistant to phylloxera. Varieties such as Colombard and Folle Blanche, don't handle grafting well, and therefore they're largely being supplanted by Ugni Blanc.

Pre-phylloxera cognacs sometimes come up for auction; they're naturally quite expensive considering their rarity, but they're also highly prized by connoisseurs, who feel that modern cognacs lack certain subtle qualities that are present in the ancient bottles. These folks feel that Folle Blanche produces cognacs of superior character and aroma to those made of Ugni Blanc.

Boy, I don't know about you, but I'm in the mood for a Sidecar. Or a Prescription Julep. Or possibly a bowl of punch.

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can touch him on twitter at @dietsch.

[Brandy snifter photo: Shutterstock]

When I mention brandy, you probably have an image already in your head. An older gentleman, sitting quietly in a leather armchair, perhaps smoking a pipe while listening to Brahms, swirling a snifter of brandy around in his hand.

We think of brandy as an Old World after-dinner drink. And I have to say, it serves that purpose beautifully. But if you limit it to that, you're missing out on a lot.

Brandy is a complex topic, and a single post can't do it justice. But I'll use this space today to start explaining the spirit in all its depths, explaining what brandy is and what the differences are between the many varieties.

Brandy, Defined

Brandy is any distilled spirit made from fruit juice. The fruit is crushed to remove its juice, which is then fermented to make a fruit wine. The wine is then distilled to make brandy. Some brandies are aged in wooden barrels; others are unaged.

Pomace brandy is slightly different. Ordinarily, in making grape brandy, the skins, seeds, and stems are removed from the juice after grapes are pressed. In pomace brandy, however, the solids remain with the juice during the fermentation and distillation process. Pomace brandy is also known as marc (in English and French) and grappa (in Italian).

Taken on its own, the word "brandy" typically implies grape brandy; when discussing other brandies, you usually use a modifier—for example, apple, peach, or plum brandy. I will follow that convention in this post—when I say "brandy," I mean grape brandy, unless otherwise specified.

Brandy in All Its Forms

So, what do we mean when we say "brandy"? I'll describe here some of the most common brandies you'll find in American bars and liquor stores, on restaurant menus, and in cocktail recipes.

Cognac

Made in the wine-growing regions surrounding the town of Cognac. It must be made of a blend of specific grapes, most notably Ugni Blanc (also known as Saint-Emilion). It must be double-distilled in copper pot stills, and then aged in French oak barrels at least two years (although most Cognac is far older). Some Cognacs see up to 40 or 50 years in oak. A master taster at the Cognac house blends brandies of different ages (and sometimes from other areas of the Cognac region) to produce a Cognac that is consistent from release to release.

A pot still for making Cognac. [Photograph: Wikimedia Commons]

Grades of Cognac:

• *** (3-Star) or VS (Very Special): The youngest brandy in the blend must have aged at least two years in oak.
• VSOP (Very Superior Old Pale): The youngest brandy must have aged at least four years, although in practice, most brandies at this class are usually much older.
• Napoléon, XO (Extra Old), Extra, or Hors d'age: The youngest brandy has six years on oak, but on average, these brandies are 20 years old or more.

Armagnac

A grape brandy made in the wine-growing regions of Armagnac, in the southwest of France. The wine is made of a blend of grapes, including Colombard and Ugni Blanc. Unlike Cognac, Armagnac is usually distilled in column stills rather than pot stills, and it is usually distilled just once, not twice. (A few Armagnac houses are exceptions: they double-distill, using pot stills.) The result is a more rustic brandy than Cognac. It's aged for at least two years in French oak, and then blended to produce a consistent product.

Grades of Armagnac:

• 3-Star or VS (Very Special): The youngest brandy in the blend must have aged at least two years in oak.
• VSOP (Very Superior Old Pale): The youngest brandy must have aged at least four years, although in practice, most brandies at this class are usually much older.
• Napoléon, XO (Extra Old): More than six years on oak.
• Hors d'age: More than 10 years.

There are three additional things to note about Armagnac grades: First, Hors d'age means something specific in Armagnac, namely that the youngest brandy in the blend is at least 10 years old. For Cognac, Hors d'age is merely another term for XO, which means at least 6 years.

Next, Armagnac will sometimes display an age on the label. If the label says it's 15 years old or 25 years old, that means the youngest brandy in the bottle is that age.

Finally, if you have the money to spend, you can find vintage Armagnacs. The label will display the year of harvest; vintage Armagnacs by law are at least 10 years old.

American Brandy

American brandy is a little harder to pin down than either Cognac or Armagnac. Really, only two regulations affect you as the consumer: first, if a brandy is not aged in oak for at least two years, it must carry the word "immature" on its label. Second, a brandy made from anything other than grape wine must say what it's made from: peach brandy, apple brandy, pomace brandy, etc.

American brandies generally make no distinction between pot and column distillation, nor between single and double distillation. There are no legal requirements to specify which distillation techniques must be followed.

Grades such as VS, VSOP, and XO don't carry any legal standing in the United States as they do in France. It's generally true that VS brandy is the youngest, VSOP a little older, and XO older still, but let's look at a couple of product descriptions from the interwebs and see what they say.

Paul Masson says its VS release is "aged three years in oak for a smooth taste," while the VSOP is "aged four years in oak for an extra-smooth taste." Paul Masson does not offer an XO.

E&J's website says of its VS that it's "aged at least two years in oak." The VSOP is "aged at least two years," while the XO is "aged at least two years." No, those are not typos on my part. Each release meets the minimum legal standard for American brandy (namely, you age it for two years or you label it "immature"), but beyond that, you have only E&J's word that the XO is aged longer than the VSOP, and that the VSOP is aged longer than the VS.

So buyer beware.

(In a future article, I'll run down some of the craft distillers who are making American brandies, and it's an exciting field. If you have a favorite, feel free to mention it in comments.)

Pisco

South America's contribution to the brandy scene, pisco is an unaged grape brandy, best known as the main component in the pisco sour. Peru and Chile are currently locked in a pisco cold war, each claiming the spirit as its own.

Apple Brandy

Apple brandy is worthy of a post of its own, not just because it's delicious, but because it's so versatile in cocktails that it merits a place in any well-stocked bar. For now, though, I'll just say that the two main players are American applejack and French Calvados. The New World version is brash and bright and fruity; whereas its French ancestor is more subtle, nuanced, and layered in flavor.

Eaux de Vie

Typically unaged brandies, eaux de vie are made from fruits other than grapes. Examples include brandies made from raspberries, pears, plums, cherries, and orchards of other fruits. Because they're unaged, they're typically clear.

German speakers know these as schnaps, although don't confuse true German schnaps with the butterscotch or peppermint-flavored crap sold by that name in the United States.

Rossatz, Wachau, Austria: Hand painted advertising plate for home made apricot brandy (Marillenschnaps). [Photograph: Wikimedia Commons]

History

One of the earliest distilled products, brandy production dates to the 12th century. Brandy was originally used as a medicine, or aqua vitae (water of life), in part because laws restricted anyone but apothecaries and doctors from making it. By the 16th century, though, French laws allowed winemakers to begin distillation.

The French brandy industry grew slowly at first until the Dutch got involved. The Netherlands imported brandy for domestic consumption as well as for re-export to other European countries. At this point in Dutch history, the Dutch mercantile fleet was the largest in the world. Adding brandy to water casks kept water supplies fresher on long oceangoing voyages.

Vineyards in the Armagnac region near Landes and Gers. [Photograph: Wikimedia Commons]

In terms of units of alcohol, brandy is more efficient to ship than wine is. Brandy has about eight times the alcohol content of wine, so in terms of bang-for-buck, brandy offers great economic advantages. (I've discussed the economics of spirits previously; in describing the history of bourbon, I mentioned that Kentucky farmers found it easier, more efficient, and far, far more lucrative to sell and transport whiskey than corn, for example.)

But Dutch merchants would never have grown so rich on brandy had they built distilleries in The Netherlands. Rather than shipping French wine to Dutch distilleries, it made far more sense to invest capital in the very areas that were producing the wines in the first place. Initially, the Dutch built distilleries in the Loire and Bordeaux, but then found a more lucrative region to tap: Charente. Farmers in that region began to cultivate grapes strictly for distilling, producing wines that tasted acidic and thin on their own but that had qualities perfect for distillation.

One town in the Charente region eventually grew to define a specific style of French brandy: Cognac.

The Dutch influence on the trade of distilled wine was so great that it even lent the product its name: brandy derives from the Dutch brandewijn, or "burnt wine."

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can touch him on twitter at @dietsch.

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Campari. Bright red and packed into a shiny bottle. You may have seen in it in your liquor store or on the back bar at your local boozateria. Or perhaps you've seen the distinctive advertising—the stylish posters, the commercials with Jessica Alba, or the calendars with Benicio Del Toro, Olga Kurylenko, or Penelope Cruz (some of the calendars in this link are NSFW). Clearly, Campari is a brand with money to spend on splashy advertising. The ads portray Campari as a sophisticated drink, one that appeals to cosmopolitans, bon vivants, and sexy Europeans.

If you've never had Campari, the bright red liquid masks a surprise. This bittersweet stuff is definitely an acquired taste. I suspect nearly everyone grimaces the first time they try it, but that's no reason to give up. Campari cocktails are richly rewarding once you come around. Because they're long on flavor, you can generally savor them, letting them linger in your glass and on your mind.

Interesting bit of trivia about Campari: until just a few years ago, Campari was a sand-pit for vegan drinkers. The dye used to produce the rich red color was taken from crushed cochineal insects; it's now artificially colored. Some aficionados say they can taste the difference, but I haven't noticed the change.

Below you'll find five essential ways to enjoy Campari (once you come around to loving it.)

Campari-Soda

Most of the drinks in this roundup are simple, but this is the simplest of them all—so simple, in fact, the recipe is in the title. Campari itself is relatively low in alcohol (24% alcohol by volume), so when you cut an ounce or two of it with soda, you produce a drink that's not much more potent than wine, and seriously refreshing on a hot day. The flavor is crisp and mildly bitter, with lightly spicy flavors. A squeeze of lemon or orange juice isn't out of bounds here, because Campari's flavors marry well with citrus. This drink is so popular in Italy that Campari actually makes a premixed version, known as Camparisoda.

The Negroni Family

[Photograph: Michael Dietsch]

I have to mention the Negroni Family, although it may seem blindingly obvious, just because the drinks are so popular, so classic, and so good. What can I say about the Negroni that hasn't been said? It's among my five favorite cocktails, and among my two favorite uses for gin (the other being, of course, the martini). What makes the Negroni such a great cocktail is the way in which everything harmonizes. Gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth all contain botanical herbs that meld well in this drink. The vermouth and Campari balance each other, providing bittersweet notes that are smoothed out by the gin. And if you choose your ingredients well (specifically, if your gin and vermouth have some body to them), the drink has a rich, smooth texture that's very pleasant.

The Negroni is also an excellent starting point for variations and experimentation. Try an Americano, which lacks the gin but adds club soda. The Sbagliato also drops the gin, but swaps in Prosecco in its place. And finally, the Boulevardier uses bourbon (or, better, rye) for the gin. For another spin, take the sweet vermouth from the Boulevardier, and use dry vermouth in its place. You'll have a drink called the Old Pal.

Campari Sanguinea

[Photograph: Heather Arndt Anderson]

Campari is a beverage with many suitors—ingredients that clamor to pair up with Campari on an epic bar crawl. Among the finest is grapefruit juice. Any citrus goes well with Campari, you'll find, but grapefruit is exceptional. You might expect the two tart flavors would clash, but somehow they don't; it's like watching your two bitterest aunts get together and actually be funnier together than either one is alone. The Sanguinea rounds the drink out with pomegranate juice, which deepens the red hue (sanguinea means "blood-red") and makes for a deliciously fruity brunch cocktail. If you wanted to add an ounce or so of soda water, I'm sure no one would mind.

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Jasmine

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

Speaking of grapefruit juice, here's a funny story: my wife is allergic to it. She's okay with most citrus, but for some reason, she can't have either grapefruits or oranges. This does tend to somewhat limit the cocktails that I can make at home, but the even sadder thing is that I know that she would love grapefruit, if it were safe for her. She's a fan of bitter flavors in food and drink, and therefore grapefruit would be just up her alley.

I say this by way of describing the Jasmine. I can't quite pinpoint the chemistry that happens in this drink, but somehow when you blend gin, Campari, Cointreau, and lemon juice, you come up with something that tastes like grapefruit juice. The first time I made this drink, I set it before her and watched carefully as she sipped it. And as she broke into a wide smile, I said, "Now you know what grapefruit tastes like."

The Jasmine, by the way, is an excellent drink for those who think they dislike Campari. That is, as long as they like grapefruit.

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Eeyore's Requiem

[Photograph: Robyn Lee]

Okay, confession time: So far, most of the drinks in this roundup have been simple drinks of, at most, four ingredients. The Eeyore's Requiem breaks that mold. I know that complex cocktails with many ingredients are sometimes a hard-sell, but this one's excellent, and I think it's worth it to track everything down, if you can.

Why? Well, first off, the name is excellent. Naming new cocktails isn't easy. Second, it's lovely to look at, and finally, the drink is just completely delicious. It's bitter, with complex herbal flavors and a touch of sweetness, and it rewards long sipping. This is one you can nurse for a while because unlike some cocktails, Eeyore stays fresh even as it approaches room temp. Don't fear the Fernet here: it blends so well with the other ingredients that you won't even notice it.

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Do you like, loathe, or simply tolerate Campari? If you like it, how do you drink it?

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can touch him on twitter at @dietsch.

[Photo: Robyn Lee]

It's Valentine's Day, and you went out of your way to find delicious chocolates for your sweetheart this year. But wait...you didn't think of something to drink? Don't have ruby port or barleywine on hand? Never fear: the answer's in your liquor cabinet. I can't think of a better way to celebrate than to sip some delicious spirits with equally delicious chocolates. Today, I'll offer a few tips to help you make it work.

Go High Class

Folks, Valentine's day (or any date) is a special occasion, worth a splurge. Start with the best stuff you have on hand—the highest quality (in both spirits and chocolate) that you can afford. Sure, you can pair Early Times with a Whitman Sampler, if that's what you insist on, but would that really be worth the calories or liver damage?

Give It a Little Ice

Don't be afraid to lightly ice down your spirit—a couple of sturdy cubes in a rocks glass would do the trick. Some spirits are so big and brawny, they might overpower chocolate if served without ice. It's up to you, of course. I'd be more inclined to ice down a bourbon or a rich rum than I would a more subtle cognac.

If you'd rather not use ice, you can achieve the same effect by adding a few drops of a neutral-tasting spring water prior to tasting.

It's All About the Wood

Now, before I discuss pairing ideas, let me first review what it means to be barrel-aged.

The barrels used for aging spirits start off as oak trees, usually. (There are some exceptions—especially for French brandy—but let's generalize.) The trees are cut, carved into barrel staves, and then weather-aged to remove tannins and undesirable odors. The staves are then formed into barrels and charred to produce a layer of charcoal on the inside. The charcoal contains chemicals that contribute caramel (both flavor and color), vanilla, and a soft smokiness to an aged spirit.

Bourbon, as I've explained, is aged in new charred-oak barrels. Aging in freshly charred barrels gives bourbon the pronounced hints of caramel and vanilla that characterize the spirit. Other spirit-makers generally prefer used oak barrels, in part because they're less costly, but also because used oak provides more subtle flavors and aromas than you find in bourbon.

Nevertheless, when you sip an aged spirit, you'll note the smell and taste of caramel, vanilla, nuts, and fruits. In spirits such as Scotch, those flavors might be quite subtle, whereas they're more pronounced in bourbon, but regardless of that, you'll taste them if you're paying attention.

But think about those flavors: caramel, vanilla, fruits, and nuts: don't they sound like the perfect pairings for chocolate?

So my first general pairing note is this: chocolates with caramel, vanilla, fruits, and nuts go well with aged spirits.

Bourbon

Here's a fun idea for a bourbon-chocolate pairing: do an Old-Fashioned. No, I don't mean pair chocolate with an Old-Fashioned, although that might be tasty. I mean try to duplicate the experience of an Old-Fashioned by using chocolate.

Here's what I mean: although I prefer the most old-fashioned of Old-Fashioneds—one with spirit, sugar, bitters, a splash of water, and a twist of lemon—consider the more common Old-Fashioned, the one with muddled cherry and orange.

Now think about this: how would an orangey or lemony chocolate taste next to a glass of bourbon? What about one with cherry? Give it a try.

Scotch

I's a little tricky to speak about Scotch in general terms, since the world of Scotch is so broad. An assertively flavored truffle that pairs well with a smoky peat bomb would probably overpower a more floral and delicate dram.

A good bittersweet chocolate, especially one with no sugary or strongly flavored fillings, should pair nicely with a mildly smoky Scotch.

French brandy—Cognac, Calvados, Armagnac

Fine French brandies are just the thing to pair with nutty truffles—reach for these when your chocolate is filled with hazelnut ganache.

Try, too, a Cointreau-infused truffle here. After all, what's a Sidecar other than cognac, Cointreau, and lemon juice? Consider it a deconstructed cocktail.

This might be a fun time to try something unusual, too, such as a floral truffle, with violet or lavender. The subtleties of French brandies wouldn't overwhelm a flowery chocolate the way, say, bourbon might.

Rum

When pairing chocolates with rum, take a cue from Tiki drinks. What flavors are common in Tiki? Tropical fruits, lime, warm spices such as ginger and nutmeg, the almond syrup known as orgeat, and Caribbean liqueurs such as allspice dram. Chocolates with any of these flavors would be lovely with rum. Try aged rum with chocolates filled with marzipan.

Tequila

I've talked about pairing chocolate with aged spirits, but there's no need to stop there. Chocolate is also great with tequila, whether it's an unaged blanco, a well-aged extra añejo, or anything in between.

Chocolates with fruity flavors—such as cherry or strawberry ganache fillings—work well with all sorts of tequila. Mint and tequila are also a classic pairing, with the bright, grassy heat of the tequila emphasizing the coolness of the mint.

Finally, take a note from the bitter wizards at Bittermens, who produce a delicious chocolate mole bitters. Chocolates that have notes of cayenne pepper, cinnamon, or both can also pair well with tequila.

Liqueurs

Moving on to liqueurs, pairing is almost too easy. Fruity liqueurs such as Cointreau, Cherry Heering, and Chambord, or nutty ones such as Frangelico, amaretto, or Nocello (walnut liqueur) are naturals with chocolates, especially bittersweet versions without competing fruit flavors.

Have you tried pairing spirits and chocolate? Gonna crack open your liquor cabinet and give it a try?

About the author: Michael Dietsch is barrel-aged for 15 years, filled with almond ganache, dipped in caramel, and delicately scented with a dash of bitters. He lives with his wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. Find on twitter at @dietsch.

[Photograph: Michael Dietsch]

In this week's installment of my low-stocked-bar series, I'm turning my eyes to bourbon and rye, and I'll discuss easy cocktails you can make with those spirits and a few other ingredients you might happen to have on hand.

But First ...

Make sure you've got the basics: a bottle of bourbon or rye (or both) plus lemons and Angostura bitters. You'll be glad to have orange bitters, too, but life goes on if you're lacking.

Bourbon or Rye Cocktails

Last week, when talking about simple gin drinks, I started with Chartreuse, so I'll start there again. Unfortunately, I don't have much to report. Not many cocktails pair whiskey with Chartreuse. It's such a natural with gin, as I mentioned last week, especially given the way the herbs and citrusy notes of gin and Chartreuse pair off. But Chartreuse does work with whiskey, if you give it a chance. I know of one excellent cocktail that uses it, but unfortunately, it breaks a main rule of this post, which is to suggest recipes that don't require you to do a lot of shopping. If, however, you're up for an extra trip to the liquor store, or you have some apple brandy on hand, try the Diamondback; it's delicious.

Okay, so Chartreuse is a bit of a dud, so now what? Campari. Last week, I mentioned the Negroni, and now it's time to discuss its cousin, the Boulevardier, a drink as perfect as its more famous relative. Try it as a drink of equal parts whiskey, vermouth, and Campari, or play around with the proportions. You can also swap out your Campari for whatever other bitter potables you have on hand: Cynar and Gran Classico are delicious places to start.

[Photograph: Jennifer Hess]

Onward to Benedictine: I mentioned it last week but blew it off, saying it doesn't work well with gin. But it's delicious with brown spirits. You can, of course, just buy a bottle of B&B (Benedictine and Brandy) and just be done with it. But I find that the ratio of Benedictine to brandy in the premixed version is too high, resulting in a drink that's far too sweet. Better to mix it to your own tastes.

Nice thing about Benedictine is that you don't need to complicate things. Take a couple of ounces of rye. Add a quarter ounce of Benedictine and a dash or two of bitters. You have a variation on the Old Fashioned in which the Benedictine both replaces the simple syrup and enlivens the cocktail with a splash of herbal complexity. Hint: This trick works well with maraschino and orange liqueurs, too, as well as with Cherry Heering and other fruit brandies.

Looking for something just a tad more complex? Squeeze up a lemon, and drop the juice into a shaker with Benedictine and rye to make a Frisco Sour.

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Frisco Sour »

About the author: Michael Dietsch approaches life with a hefty dash of bitters. He lives with wife, son, and cats in Brooklyn. You can touch him on twitter at @dietsch.

The Green Ghost [Photographs: Jennifer Hess]

Last week, I discussed how to make cocktails when you have precious few ingredients. I made an argument that brown spirits are the most versatile for the impoverished home mixer. And finally, I discussed some 1-, 2-, and 3-bottle cocktails you can make with a limited bar.

Today, I'll continue in this vein. I'll discuss what to do if you have unusual spirits around, and what cocktails you can make with various combinations of spirits.

So, what I'll do is, I'll say, "If you have gin, limes, and Bottle X, you can make these cocktails."

Of course, the problem is that I don't know what you have in your liquor cabinet, so it's hard to tailor specific recommendations. What I can do is suggest certain bottles that you might have, and then discuss what you can make. Feel free to mention other oddities in the comments: bottles you have around that you're just not sure what to do with.

But First ...

Make sure you have lemons, limes, Angostura bitters, soda water, and sugar. Those basic ingredients are a decent starting point, along with gin and bourbon or rye. Having orange bitters around would be helpful, too, but don't let that stop you from reading on...

Gin Cocktails

Got a bottle of gin? Good. With that and the basic pantry ingredients above, plus one other bottle, there are a number of excellent cocktails you can make.

Let's start with Chartreuse. There are two types: green and yellow. Both are herbal liqueurs; the differences are, first, that green is 110 proof (55% alcohol by volume), whereas yellow is 40% ABV; and, second, that yellow is moderately sweeter and milder tasting than green.

Chartreuse is a natural pairing with gin; the herbal flavors of the liqueur marry well with the botanicals in gin. So cocktails pairing gin and Chartreuse are fairly common. One of my favorites is the Green Ghost. It's similar to the justly famous Last Word, in that it contains gin, green Chartreuse, and lime juice, but the Green Ghost does not contain the maraschino liqueur that you'll find in the Last Word.

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Speaking of maraschino liqueur, it's another common foil for gin. Now, maraschino liqueur is an interesting beast. It has very little to do with so-called maraschino cherries, those neon-red or -green aberrations that you find in many bars. Maraschino is made from the flesh and crushed pits of Marasca cherries. The pits lend an almond-like flavor to the liqueur, and it's this flavor that pairs so well with gin. (Don't believe me? Try having almonds as a snack alongside a bracingly cold martini. Or even as a garnish for the same.)

A popular cocktail using gin, maraschino, and lemon juice is the the Aviation. Now, folks who know a little bit about cocktails may say, "Wait, Dietsch, the Aviation also has creme de violette," and I would say, yes, yes it does.

But what I'll tell you now is that I think creme de violette is overrated as an Aviation ingredient. Some say it lends the drink a hint of blue that reminds its drinker of the sky outside an airplane window. But the problem is, that's only true if you add more creme de violette than the recipe calls for. At the quantity of a teaspoon or two per drink, you won't get much coloration. And if you do add enough to turn the drink a blueish color, you'll find that the cocktail is far too sweet to be enjoyable. And, frankly, too floral.

Nope, I'll argue that the Aviation is just fine without the damn creme de violette, and guess what? I just saved you the $22 bucks you'd have spent on it. Go buy yourself another bottle of Rittenhouse.

Back to gin. If you have some sweet vermouth and Campari, that's easy. Make a Negroni! But that's not your only choice, of course. How about a Lucien Gaudin? You'll just need some Cointreau and dry vermouth.

Incidentally, other bitter liqueurs also play well in Negroni-like drinks, so if you have something like Averna or Cynar around instead, feel free to swap them in for the Campari.

Benedictine? Hm. I might have to pass. There's the Singapore Sling, but that one requires cherry brandy as well, so it's a bit out of the remit of this post. There's little that works well with just gin, Benedictine, and citrus or anything else from your grocery run. Benedictine plays better with brown spirits, so I'll discuss it more in a later piece.

Next time I tackle this idea, I'll discuss what you can make with whiskey and whatever else you might drag down from your parents' attic.

But for now, it's your turn. What dusty bottles have you found somewhere and wondered, "What the heck can I make with that?" Let's see if you can stump me.