I’m looking forward to the CUESA-hosted Farmers Market Cocktail Demonstration and tasting that will be held on Wednesday, May 14 at the Ferry Building in participation with San Francisco Cocktail Week.

The Farmers Market Cocktail Demonstration will feature cocktails using seasonal farmers market ingredients and will have a star line-up of great bartenders from around the city:

• Joel Baker, Bourbon and Branch
• Steve Liles, Boulevard
• Josh Harris, Pier 23 and Elixir
• Josephine Packard, Alembic
• Greg Lindgren & Jon Gasparini, Rye
• Reza Esmaili, Conduit Yerba Buena
• Carlos Yturria, Grand Pu Bah
• Jon Santer, San Francisco chapter of the US Bartenders’ Guild
• Erick Castro, Sacramento chapter of the US Bartenders’ Guild
• Victoria Damato, Bar Johnny

There will be 12 demonstrated drinks available to taste, and tickets include two drink tickets for signature cocktails.

Tickets are $15 and you can purchase them through Brown Paper Tickets.

In honor of the 134th annual Kentucky Derby, which just happens to be happening tomorrow, I am making mint juleps. How could I not? Since I am neither a Southerner, nor have I ever been to Churchill Downs, I very easily could not. But I have lots of Southern friends and often like to pretend I am from the South– especially when I’ve been drinking bourbon. If I drink rum, I like to pretend I’m from the Midwest.

Ah, Magnolia. Ah, Churchill Downs. I’m certain that, had Sir Winston ever visited Kentucky, he would have downed several. Juleps, I mean. In case you didn’t know, the mint julep has been the official drink of the Kentucky Derby since 1938. Prior to 1938, I very much doubt anyone cared about officially recognizing official drinks.

The Julep, courtesy of Merriam-Webster.com: ju·lep

Pronunciation: \ ‘jü-əp\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French, from Arabic julāb, from Persian gulāb, from gul rose + āb water (that’s rosewater, in case you weren’t following).

Date: 14th Century

1: a drink consisting of sweet syrup, flavoring, and water 2: a drink consisting of a liquor (as bourbon or brandy) and sugar poured over crushed ice and garnished with mint.

For the purposes of todays post, we will focus on number two. Definition number two, that is.

I am a sucker for a good mint julep, and it isn’t very often one comes across one– especially in California. When I was a young lad living in Los Angeles, my favorite bar/restaurant was called Ports. It had no sign, yet the habitués were congenial. I once asked my favored bartender to make me a julep, but he lacked the necessary fresh mint and therefore refused me. Two warm summer evenings later, I asked again for a Julep and he replied again in the negative. I then produced a large bunch of spearmint, presenting it to him as I would a nosegay. He accepted, sniffed, and made everyone at the bar a julep. And then we started dating.

Until I ran out of mint.

The Mint Julep
Thought it may sometimes seem that the Persians pretty much invented everything, it’s the American South that may lay claim to the mint julep. Sometime during the 18th Century, white people living below the Mason-Dixon line started drinking this concoction of bourbon, ice, sugar, water, and mint. Henry Clay introduced the drink to the swamps of Washington, D.C. in the early 19th Century at the Round Robin Bar in the Willard Hotel, months before the hotel was bought out by the InterContinental chain.

What I enjoy so much about the julep is that it is refreshing, incredibly easy to make, and yet not so simple. There are essentially five ingredients and twenty-seven thousand theories upon how to make one. For an excellent read on what is, what is not, and what might be considered a true mint julep, I encourage you to read Jason Wilson’s story Juleps for the Derby? All Bets Are Off. It made me a very, very happy fellow.

Ingredients:

About 8 fresh mint leaves, plus one attractive sprig for garnishing
1 teaspoon of superfine sugar (it dissolves better than table sugar)
3 ounces Kentucky bourbon
a good splash of soda water
Crushed ice, and lots of it
Powdered Sugar, for dusting (I’d never done this until reading Wilson’s article, now it shall be forever part of my Julep schtick)

Preparation:

1. Chill a tall Collins glass or silver julep cup in your freezer for a few minutes.
2. Combine mint, sugar, soda, and half of the bourbon in the bottom of the glass. Muddle gently.
3. Add a few spoonsful of crushed ice and stir. Fill the glass the rest of the way with ice, top off with the second half of the bourbon, garnish with mint, and dust with powdered sugar.
4. Drink immediately, but don’t grab the glass around the middle unless you wish to give yourself away as unrepentently Yankee.

Serves: 1

If you now have especially strong feelings about the mint julep, you might wish to join the Mint Julep Sisterhood. Please watch this instructive video. NB: Granny Mae is wearing a snood, which means I must love her, in spite of her toothlessness.

If you have been suffering from the Vapors, I hope this has helped. Enjoy your Derby Day.

If you know me, you know I have a taste for whisky. My palate is slowly (ever so slowly and with much repetitive training) being refined and, more and more, I’m learning what I like and what I don’t like. I have an affinity for Scotch, particularly two distilleries from the lowlands (Glenkinchie and Auchentoshan) and a few Highland and Speyside gems. I haven’t, however, quite found my love for American whiskey…yet. But times, they are a-changing (I think there could be flirtatious tendencies buried deep down).

Before I get into that though, I think it’s important to make sure we are all on the same page. Whisky or whiskey, however you choose to spell it, includes Scotch, bourbon, rye, and Irish whiskey. It can be made with all kinds of grains, from barley to corn to rye, and aged under a whole variety of different circumstances, but always in wood.

Anything labeled Scotch has to be distilled in Scotland and aged a minimum of 3 years in oak casks. Most single malts are aged 8 to 10 years, which means that you have to guess what the market is going to be doing, and what people are going to be into, 10 years before it actually happens.

Bourbon, rye, and corn whiskey are all American whiskeys. They each have different regulations. Bourbon must be made with a minimum of 51% corn and aged in new American charred oak barrels; rye must be at least 51% rye; and corn whiskey must be made with at least 80% corn mash. As far as I can tell there are no aging regulations, which means that American producers can do some really interesting things, and have a lot more freedom to react to the market. Add that to the fact that there is a less rigid expectation of what American whiskey is anyway, and people here are more open to trying different things (in my Scottish husband’s opinion anyway).

Last weekend I had the opportunity to sample the wares of two new artisan distillers: Tuthilltown, based in upstate New York and High West, which is based in up-and-coming Park City, Utah.

Tuthilltown
Tuthilltown’s variety of spirits and beautifully packaged bottles (which look like apothecary bottles that are sealed with a big dollop of wax) beg you to pull one off the shelf. Founded in 2003 by Ralph Erenzo and Brian Lee, the artisan distillery is the first in New York since prohibition.

Their Old Gristmill Corn Whiskey is basically what I would consider moonshine, an unaged bourbon made with 100% corn. The difference is that this has been distilled for flavor rather than strength. This ain’t no firewater, it’s smooth as a baby’s butt, crystal clear and clean with a distinctive corny flavor.

This same corn whiskey is the foundation for Hudson Baby Bourbon which is matured for 4 months in small, charred new American oak barrels (perhaps quarter casks?). The smaller the barrel the more the whiskey comes in contact with the wood, giving it the character of the barrel. This tasted woody, smoky, had more of an edge. Surprisingly, it was not nearly as smooth as the raw whiskey, and had a very deep color, like burnt amber.

My favorite had to be the Hudson Four Grain Bourbon. This one, made with corn, rye, wheat and malted barley, had more depth and character than the Baby Bourbon. It was sweet and smooth.

High West
Ok, yum. I think rye whiskey, and perhaps even more specifically, High West’s rye whiskey could be my turning point to actually liking something other than Scotch.

High West is brand-spankin-new. They have one whiskey, the rye, and one vodka. The distillery was started by a Californian named David Perkins, who is actually a chemist by training. The distillery, along with a tasting saloon, is based in historic buildings right on the main street of Park City. So if you’re in the chair lift line and the line gets backed up into town, you end up standing right in front of the windows and watching the distillery operate.

Their Rendezvous Rye Whiskey is non-chill filtered, and it’s really smooth with a bit of spice and honey. I highly recommend it.

Currently, it’s really hard to get either of these brands unless you are in their state of origin. But the folks at Tuthilltown promised that we’d be able to find their gorgeous little bottles at The Jug Shop in San Francisco by mid-summer. And apparently K&L Wine Merchants just picked up High West and will be carrying their wares soon. I’m keeping my eyes out for both of them.

Photo by Jen Maiser

Casual drinkers beware, cocktail nerds have a new way of ordering drinks in San Francisco. No longer satisfied with set menus or even with drink specials du soir, the true cocktailian now knows how to order custom-made drinks, and it’s definitely the In thing to do.

Don’t believe me? Next time you go to a bar, take a listen. There will probably be at least one or two patrons who, after sampling a few drinks on the bar menu, will leave their next drink up to the bartender. They’ll probably give clues like, “I’d like something with Bluecoat gin and ginger” or “I’m looking for something with a bitter edge, but not Campari-bitter,” and then sit back to wait for their custom drink.

It’s akin to a diner swanning into a restaurant, disdaining the proffered menu, and instead waving a hand at the waiter, announcing, “Tell the chef to surprise me!” In that context, it sounds imperious, arrogant, and more than a bit conceited to assume the chef has nothing better to do than to whip up some special, off-menu delicacy. However, just like a sommelier ferreting out the best wines to pair with dishes, I’ve noticed that some bartenders in the Bay Area seize upon this request from their drinkers as a challenge.

Not only that, but when the drinker can talk at length about their specific preferences — often displaying an informed knowledge of liquors, liqueurs, and mixology in general — the bartender realizes, “Hey, this isn’t just another cosmojitini swiller, who doesn’t care what I make as long as it was pimped on Lipstick Mafia and goes down easy.” The bartender seems to like the fact that the drinker is not just drinking, but thinking. That, in recognition of the bartender’s prowess, the drinker is putting as much care into their ordering as the bartender puts into his or her shaking and straining.

Now, I’m not saying that you should charge into a bar, heedless of the crowds that might be there, and demand your made-to-order drink. I’m saying, take some time to learn the menu, get a rapport going with the bartender, and if he or she is not overwhelmed with orders and customers, make your move. But you can’t just say, “Surprise me!” and expect magic to swirl into your glass. No, you have to do your part as well. Explain the things you like and don’t like. Show some respect for the menu and the bar.

I hate black licorice. I don’t drink pastis or ouzo or sambuca, so why the hell was I standing outside Hangar One-St. George Spirits on a December morning in a thin jacket waiting for them to throw open the doors to Absinthe Verte, the nation’s first absinthe? If you had asked me at 10:30, my wind-numbed lips wouldn’t have issued anything more intelligent beyond, “…’cuz?” At 12:30, my absinthe-numbed lips told a very different story, “Frabjous! Refulgent! EUDEMONIA!” Quite frankly, if the Jabberwocky had a signature drink, Absinthe Verte would be it.

With the doors set to open at 11:00 on a Friday morning on December 21st, we thought we were playing it safe by arriving in Alameda at 10:30. However, as there were about 160 people in line ahead of us, clearly others were playing it safer. We were in line not even 20 minutes when the line behind us snaked and bulged exponentially. When the doors did finally open at 11:00, the news came out that they were allowing in groups of 10.

St. George Spirits made 3600 bottles and after they distributed to their choice stores and bar and other accounts, they had 1600-ish bottles left to sell to those of us who showed up on this chill December morn. Given that they weren’t restricting the amount each customer could carry off, it was going to be tight for some.

Once inside, we smiled at those buying up cases of four, secured our single bottle for $75.00*, and headed to the tasting room for our $10 sip of liquid envy. Sporting green shirts announcing, “Green is the new black,” St. George Spirits’ alchemists slithered bright green, one ounce-pours into elegant and keepable glasses and slipped a small shard of ice on top. We were advised to taste quickly before the ice melted and blanched the clear cheeks a pearly green. Happily complying, I felt my lips go numb and my tongue tingle. I tasted not the dreaded intensity of black jelly beans, but a gossamer haze of fennel, lemon balm, and mint.

Clean and herbaceous, Absinthe Verte is unlike other varieties that often summon up a traditional sugar cube filter to mitigate their bitter edge. Alone or with the tiniest splash of cold water, Absinthe Verte blew my muse to a brillig place of spongy clouds, buzzing with emerald bees. As I swam through my happy mist that also warbled about stinging nettles, basil, tarragon, hyssop, wormwood, meadowsweet, and star anise, it hit me: absinthe does make the heart grow fonder, the meaning of life is easy to find if you just look for it, and St. George Spirits has lusted up one happily wicked drink.

While I have absolutely no desire to profane this blithe spirit with anything beyond ice or water, I spoke with Dave Smith, Assistant Distiller, about cocktail ideas. His eyes glowing, he told me about a cocktail his friend whipped up: simply shake some citron vodka (I think Hangar One’s Buddha’s Hand might do well) with ice and pour it into an absinthe-rinsed cocktail glass. (Rinsed right into your mouth, I would think!) However, at this celebratory time of year, Hemingway’s famous Death in the Afternoon might get your party started (or ended) with just champagne and absinthe. Finally, you can try this historic and area-appropriate tipple from the Stork Club.

Earthquake Cocktail

1 ounce gin
1 ounce bourbon
3/4 ounce absinthe

Shake with ice and serve in a cocktail glass.

All over the city Bay Area bartenders are rushing to create absinthe-based cocktails, because for the near future, absinthe definitely replaces St. Germain as the new It spirit.

For any unfortunates who didn’t manage to wrap their cold fists around any of the first 3600 bottles, don’t despair. Dave said that while Absinthe Verte is their “most complicated product” that they “can’t just make on the fly,” they do hope to have their next batch bottled by the end of January. Get in line now.

*(In the interest of full disclosure, I did pay the full amount for my bottle of Absinthe Verte and my $10 taste. I also didn’t muscle through the patient crowd, flashing my KQED press badge, and jump the queue. Nope. I stood there and waited my turn with everyone else and I’m proud of it.)

It’s getting to be that special time of year again. I will leave the reasons behind its specialness open to interpretation. Holiday party invitations start showing up in one’s mailbox the moment the turkey baster has been dried and tucked away in a drawer. Concurrently, this is the time of year when egg nog starts to muscle its way into your local supermarket’s dairy case.

Egg Nog. It’s a heart-stopping, cholesterol-laden, alcohol-spiked, phlegm-producing cup of Holiday goodness. And I’m a huge fan. I always have been.

As a child, the appeal was obvious; what eight year-old is going to say no to a sweet, creamy dairy product? I imagined I was drinking melted nutmeg ice cream. Given the ingredients, I didn’t know how close to the mark I was. I would drink several glasses at holiday gatherings. If I accidentally got into the rum-spiked nog for adults (which was understandable since the crystal punch bowl full of alcoholic nog looked exactly like the cardboard carton that contained the booze-free liquid), so much the better. Open a container, pour out its contents, mix in a little rum, and get the party started. Egg nog punch is that simple. Or was, until I had my first taste of the real stuff.

It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that my family would pay a call on my stepmother’s friend Charlene and her family, who had a sort of open house party every Christmas Eve. The house was always dressed to the teeth in holiday drag, complete with a sort of Christmas-on- Main-Street, U.S.A. recreation in miniature spread out over the tables in the living room and onto the grand piano. I’d peek into the tiny cellophane windows looking for any signs of domestic unhappiness or violence, but was invariably disappointed in my search. Booze-spiked cocktail wieners, prawns, and every kind of dip imaginable were there for the taking, and our hosts were always warm and in a festive mood, which is just the thing my family needs during the holidays. For me, the two main attractions of the party were the Presentation of the Egg Nog, and the Wheeling-in of Grandpa. This quiet old gentleman was missing one of his legs and an eye. At least, I assume he was missing an eye since he wore an eye patch. This in itself is nothing unusual, since it it very likely that he suffered from diabetes, though I never asked. What I always found interesting was the fact that he was always parked against the wall near the center of the main room, slightly to the right of a parrot cage, which hung near (but wisely not over) the dessert table. He was, to me, a sort of pirate centerpiece to the party.

The Presentation of the Egg Nog was not a heralded event, but one I always watched with interest. Charlene and her husband Bill would be in the kitchen fussing over the bowl, stirring in something here, adding a little nutmeg there. They’d do a little tasting, adjust favoring, do a little more tasting, add more booze, then Charlene would pick up the enormous bowl and walk it to the buffet table very carefully, the whitecaps of stiffened egg white gently rising and falling against the sides. When her mission had been successfully accomplished, people would grab their cups and huddle around the bowl, waiting their turn to dip in. It was a revelation, in terms of my nog-drinking experience. It was fresh and frothy. I finally understood where the egg part of egg nog came in– the subtle yellow coloring from yolks beaten without mercy, the foam of egg whites folded in for body. It ruined my enjoyment of store-bought nog forever.

I won’t assume that all three of you reading this have ever tried homemade egg nog. If you haven’t, and you don’t have problems consuming dairy, cholesterol or alcohol, I say go ahead and try it. It’s really, really good. And you only get it once a year, so drink up.

Egg Nog

The rumor behind the word “nog” is that it derived from the English word “noggin”; a small, carved, wooden mug used to serve drinks in various taverns. The full name of this beverage might have been “egg and grog in a noggin”, which does not sound especially appetizing. There also seems to be some disagreement as to whether the beverage is spelled as one word or two. I like two, it sounds more important that way.

Ingredients:

4 egg yolks
1/3 cup sugar, plus 1 tablespoon
1 pint whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup rum, bourbon, or whatever poison you prefer
4 egg whites

Procedure:

1. Beat egg yolks until pale yellow in color. Gradually add 1/3 cup of sugar until it is totally dissolved.

2. In a medium saucepan, over high heat, combine milk, cream, and nutmeg and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and temper the hot milk mixture into the eggs and sugar. Return everything to the pot and cook until mixture reaches 160 degrees F. Remove from heat, stir in alcohol and extract, pour into a medium-sized mixing bowl and chill in your refrigerator.

3. In a medium bowl, beat egg whites to soft peaks. Gradually add one tablespoon of sugar as you beat until stiff peaks form. Whisk egg whites into chilled mixture.

4. Put your now fresh and somewhat safe beverage in the noggin or vessel of your choice and drink up.

This early summer heat has left me wilted and without much of an appetite for aught but cold salads and homemade fruit smoothies. However, it brought out a special request in my husband, “I want Hawaii in a cocktail,” he announced the other night when the temp was still hovering above 75° after 7:00. Knowing them to be a fabulous place for cocktails — both seasonal and inventive standbys made with the highest quality ingredients — we betook ourselves to Nopa on Divisadero and Hayes and cooled off with their Mumbai Iced Tea. A heat-beating concoction of gin, vodka, tequila, tamarind syrup, rhum orange, the tropical cocktail is topped off with spicy ginger beer and garnished with a sprig of mint.

We paired a few of these with a some cold salads and sides — their toasted barley and pea shoot side is served at room temp and is simply delectable — sat back, and decided the heat wasn’t so bad after all.

That brings me to my traditional summer cocktail: Pimm’s Cup. Last year, Sam of Becks and Posh beat me to the posting punch, but as she’s actually British and I just wish I was, I guess I’ll forgive her. This time.

As Sam noted, normally a proper Pimm’s Cup has to be mixed with Sprite or 7-Up to approximate what you get with British lemonade. However, I’ve finally managed to dig up authentic British lemonade at Andronico’s. It’s made by Belvoir and the same company also has an elderflower pressé and a British ginger beer so spicy it stings going down. Refreshing in Pimm’s Cup, that sort of ginger beer is also wicked important when making the definitive Dark and Stormy.

What do I think Pimm’s tastes like? Curry. Definitely. I’ve always maintained that there’s an elusive curry flavor that overrides — but doesn’t overpower — all others. For me, anyway. Some people look at me like I’m crazy when I say that, so “herbal” might be a better descriptor. Whatever you call it, there’s no debating that Pimm’s Cup is one of the best summer refreshers.

Pimm’s Cup of Joy

3 oz. Pimm’s No. 1
4 or 5 mint leaves
2 fresh strawberries, halved
1 slice of cucumber
Lime quarter
Sprite, 7-Up, British lemonade, or ginger beer

The Shake:

In a tall glass, add Pimm’s and mint leaves. Use a muddler or the handle of a wooden spoon to crush the mint leaves a bit. Toss in the strawberries, cucumber, and lime quarter with some ice cubes and fill the rest of the glass with your desired mixer.

I used to think I was a tonic water snob because I was hopelessly devoted to Schwepps. There is something about Canada Dry’s cloyingly sweet, glue-like flavor that makes it vastly inferior to the one John Cleese used to pimp. However as I trudged down the endless rows of food and drink and food and drink and food and drink at this year’s Fancy Food Show, I learned that I had not even begun to understand how snobbish I could get.

Last quarter’s Imbibe Magazine had a recipe detailing how you (yes, you!) could brew your own tonic water. A process which, as CHOW blogger James Norton noted, seemed excessively time consuming just to squeeze out a puddle of brown water that dirtied up your gin and tonic. However, the piece is a testament to the fact that people are getting just as sniffy about their mixers as they are about their high-end alcohols. After all, if you are banging down top dollars for Hendrick’s, Van Gough, or Grey Goose, why taint their delicate flavors with heavy-handed, overly-sweet mixers?

No good reason, I slur. And this is why I am currently obsessed with Fever-Tree’s line of tonic water, ginger ale, and bitter lemon. Previously available only in the UK (Fever-Tree’s managing director is Charles Rolls, the former owner of Plymouth Gin) these minute bottles of sublime refreshment will soon be poured into a cocktail near you. In fact, I have it on good authority that California’s favorite liquor superstore, Beverages & More!, will be stocking Fever-Tree by the end of this month.

In a taste test performed under the most scientific of conditions — there was a control group and everything — it was unanimously determined by a blind panel that Fever-Tree’s light, clean, and sharply bubbled flavors blew my previously favored Schwepps clear out of the tonic water. Next to Fever-Tree, Schwepps tasted heavy, fake, and sugary. While the ginger ale is still not equal to my preferred ginger beer, the Fever-Tree bitter lemon also put its Schwepps counterpart to shame.

Drink deep, my fellow tipplers, drink deep.

I went, I drank, I conquered.

Although the reservation and password hoop-jumping smacks of exclusivity and a certain snobbishness, when you see the neighborhood you see why it might be practical. Right on the corner of O’Farrell and Jones, Bourbon & Branch is firmly in the Tenderloin. I haven’t exactly been taking advantage of restaurants, bars, shops, and cafes that are apparently turning this neighborhood into the Trendyloin, and now I know why. Maybe it’s my Twin Cities upbringing, but I don’t exactly relish walking down blocks that smell of urine and having local denizens spit at me and growl crazily as I try to look like I know where I’m going. Given that sort of thing, I understand why Bourbon & Branch might not want to have their unmarked door thrown wide to the general public.

Davina and I stood under the Anti-Saloon League sign while I grappled for the buzzer and croaked my password. The door swung open to reveal a smiling face and we were welcomed and ushered to our table. Inside, Bourbon & Branch is dark and darling. Spiky frosted glass chandeliers swing and toss their gentle cotton balls of light against mottled mirrors and the hammered copper ceiling. The cute little wooden booths have cute little wooden tables that are just wide enough to hold your drinks and just narrow enough remind you that this is not a restaurant.

After many trips to Absinthe, I have finally drunk myself to a point where I had effectively sampled all the cocktails that interested me and could leave the rest. Faced with Bourbon & Branch’s massive cocktail menu, I was back at square one. I’d light on a cocktail that I was definitely going to order and I’d be all, “Check it out, this one has THYME in it!” and then a few pages and a dozen cocktail descriptions later and I’d totally forget what that original cocktail was because, “Ooh, hang on — THIS one has pimento dram in it. Wait, what’s pimento dram? I’m getting that one. No, but hang on…” and so on and so forth. I’ll tell you what, I really could have used those shameless shopping stickies Lucky Magazine is so proud of.

For some reason I was expecting all the cocktails to be upwards of fifteen dollars, but there were far more ten-dollar cocktails than anything else, and since that shruggingly seems to be the average price of cocktails in the Bay Area, I wasn’t bothered. The drinks are pure and clean and inventive. After the delightful Prosecco-based amuse bouche cocktail they offered us — a cocktail amuse bouche? I’m loving this idea! — I started out with a delicious and refreshing Cracked Thumb (gin, lemon oil, elderflower syrup, mint). Given that I’m a gin girl and elderflower really crushes my ice, it was sort of a safe bet for me. What wasn’t a safe bet was my order of an Aperol Spritz. Davina, who likes Campari, encouraged me, who does not like Campari, to give it a whirl. I did and I liked. Maybe it’s the gentian and rhubarb, but I found the Aperol to be a kinder, gentler version of its bitter, angry spinster aunt.

My one complaint is that when Davina asked our server if the bartender could concoct something using gin and falernum, the server was clearly rattled. Bartenders do this all the time — hello? It’s pretty much their job description — so this shouldn’t have been a big deal. It’s not like Davina asked for something bizarre like hot chocolate, benedictine, and Cynar. I don’t blame the bartender, who did pour out something delicious, I just don’t think the server should have acted as though it was a weird or inconvenient request.

Some out there are already sneering that B&B “ripped off” Milk and Honey’s concept. Well, but see, Milk and Honey is in New York, and I’m in San Francisco and B&B is in San Francisco, so I say rip away! I mean really, isn’t the country large enough for several of these speakeasies? I would certainly hope so.

The other night, I was having dinner at Boulevard with two friends who do not drink. One friend commented, “You know one of the things I regret about not drinking? I missed the mojito.”

Missed the mojito. How can anyone miss the mojito? It’s everywhere. Everywhere. I examined the tables around us and noticed glasses pasted with the telltale bruised mint on two of them. In February.

As a waiter, I see people ordering them all the time. All the time. I cringe when I order them because I know the bartenders are going to hate me. When one person orders a mojito, invariably, someone else will say, “Oh! I’ll have one of those, too.” and then the question and following anecdote are generally uttered (well, I have heard this exact exchange twice in the past month– enough to trip my trendy alarm) to any remaining non-mojito-ordering guests, “Have you ever had a mojito? I discovered them at such-and-such-a-place.” Funny, I didn’t know sheep could actually discover anything, unless it was a patch of grass uneaten by cows. Or that they secretly thrill at the approach of a Greek man. Discover? My cloven foot.

The fact is (or legend, at least) that mojitos, or some variation thereof, have been with us for a very long time. This is a classic cocktail, drunk in one form or another for since perhaps the late 16th century when the pirate Richard Drake created for himself a beverage of aguardiente (an unrefined rum), lime, sugar and mint. He named it El Draque (The Dragon). Pirates do not typically shy away from self-promotion. This concoction has been drunk for centuries in Cuba and the various other Caribbean lands Drake terrorized.

The other, more likely story is that the mojito originated as a thirst quencher for Cuban sugar cane harvesters in the late 1800’s. Apparently, the rum made available to them wasn’t of the finest quality, so cane juice, mint and lime were added to make the alcohol more palatable. The mojito became a popular drink among the working class at the Playa de Marianao in Havana by the early 20th century. The upper crust were still drinking daquiris. What is it with Cubans and yummy cocktails? Oh yes. Rum.

By the 1940’s a little restaurant called La Bodeguita del Medio had served one or, more likely, twenty to Ernest Hemingway. He liked them so much he wrote about them. Other great writers who popped by La Bodeguita were Pablo Neruda and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Even Brigitte Bardot is rumored to have let the condensation drip from her glass to cool her ample bosom. Of course, she is not famous for her writing skills, but she does love cats.

After Fidel Castro seized power in 1959, Cubans fleeing to the United States brought their mojito mixers with them making them very, very popular in Miami. I do believe if one watches Miami Vice long enough, one might spy Sonny Crockett sipping one. So, America-wise at least, the mojito might be considered a retro 80’s drink. Eew. Yet, somehow not. It’s a great drink– just not one I would chose to drink in 45 degree weather.

The Classic Mojito

Ingredients:

For one drink (though, even if you chose to drink alone, rest assured that about 20,000 other people in San Francisco are probably drinking one at the same time)

5 to 6 mint leaves
1 lime, quartered
3 drops Angostura bitters
2 ounces light rum
1 ounce guarapo (sugar cane syrup). If you are too lazy to find guarapo, simple syrup will have to do, but it’s not the same. Really.
Ice Crushed ice is ideal, but smallish cubes aren’t bad either.
Club soda

Preparation:

1. Muddle mint leaves, bitters and 3 of the lime quarters in the bottom of a tall glass.

2. Fill glass to the top with ice.

3. Add rum.

4. Fill remainder of the glass with guarapo, leaving roughly 1/2 inch at the top. Top off with club soda.

5. Cover glass and shake vigorously for a few seconds. Garnish with remaining lime wedge and a slice of sugar cane flown in from your father’s sugar plantation. It has been suggested that one serve this drink with a straw. This might be fine if the person drinking is worried about lipstick smudges on his or her glass. If this is not a particular worry of yours, I would forgo it, since the bruised and battered mint tends to clog the straw at the first hint of suction.

A special little shout out to MojitoCompany.com for their help and information.