I still clearly remember the first time I tried a dragon berry. I saw them in a grocery store and I was awed by the strange way they looked. They are about the size of a mango, colored rosy to bright red with hues of pink spread throughout. The fruits have little green petals growing upwards, toward the top of the fruit, in what looks like an entirely unnatural direction. It looked like something straight out of the original series of Star Trek. I thought “I have to try this.” That is the same feeling I got when I first heard of dragon berry rum.

This rum is a blend of strawberry varieties with dragon berry, also known as pitaya, which grows as the fruit of a cactus native to central and South America (as well as being cultivated quite widely in southeast Asia). The cactus only blooms for one night before wilting in the morning light. Each plant does this just four to six times a year. Its flavor is a little like a cross between a mango and a kiwi, but not quite as sweet.

The rum has a very strong fruity aroma and taste. There is no doubt that one is drinking a fruit-infused rum. This may actually be its biggest flaw in my book – the aroma and flavor are perhaps a bit too strong. I would have enjoyed it even more with a little less of the strawberry and dragon berry goodness. Or, since pitaya have a mellower flavor than strawberries, perhaps going to a blend heavier in dragon berry might offer a mellower flavor.

This rum is going to be wonderful for summer drinks – mixing well with nearly any fruit juice, Sprite, lemonade, triple sec, or any combination of many summer beverages. Try a shooter of dragon berry rum, pomegranate juice, lime juice, and triple sec. Or, how about a martini of this spirit with limoncello, amaretto, simple syrup and lemon juice? Another idea is to serve it as a cocktail with mango syrup, pineapple juice, orange juice, and lemon-lime soda. One unique use for this rum might even be to try it in your favorite fruit smoothie (although, for use with alcohol, I prefer the ice cream to the yogurt variety of smoothies, especially in summer).

If you like fruity drinks, and you enjoy rum, do yourself a favor and try dragon berry rum at home or at your favorite bar.

Always drink responsibly and cheers!

Here’s a quick history of liquor in America that should help to explain a lot about the drinks that were popular 10-20 years ago, and the drinks that are popular now:

• When the country was founded, brandy, rum, and whisky were the most popular spirits around, and could be produced either in America or (in the case of rum) close to our shores. Gin was also in favor, but a bit harder to procure.
• Flash forward to the mid-1850s, and advances in technology give bartenders regular access to ice, which gives rise to the cocktail. The aforementioned popular liquors, along with wines and some cordials, began to be mixed with non-perishable, complementary ingredients like sugar, bitters, and fruit syrups, along with some seasonal fresh fruit.
• By the 1950s, further advances in technology give bartenders year-round access to fruit juices and other perishable ingredients. At the same time, vodka is introduced into the country, and immediately becomes popular. Now, instead of worrying about ingredients complementing a liquor, we have a liquor that complements any other ingredient you mix with it. Traditional cocktails are forgotten.

Now, we’re at a point when customers at bars are developing a newfound appreciation for those old recipes, and the flavors they evoke. And with that, the Manhattan — which never went away, but certainly spent a couple of decades as the unused cousin of the martini — has become popular again.

Some notes on this cocktail: you can use rye, bourbon, or Canadian whiskey in your Manhattan, but not Scotch (that’d be a Rob Roy) or Irish (that’d get you something close to an Emerald.) You can use more sweet vermouth if you’d like; a 3-1 or even 2-1 ratio would not be unheard of, especially if you’re using overproof whiskey. If you use equal parts sweet and dry vermouth, you’ll have a perfect Manhattan.  Angostura bitters are standard, but you can experiment with other brands, or with bitter liqueurs like Campari, Aperol, or Fernet. A splash of cherry juice to sweeten your Manhattan wouldn’t be out of the question. And these can be served on the rocks or strained, with either a cherry or a lemon twist. Enjoy!

Manhattan

• 2.5 oz. whiskey
• .5 oz sweet vermouth
• 2-3 dashes bitters
• 1 tsp cherry juice (optional)

Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker over ice, and shake to combine. Strain either into a cocktail glass or a rocks glass with ice, and garnish with a cherry or a lemon twist.

Jay kay. El oh el.

If one is looking for a nice summertime drink, one needs look no further than a bottle of Ketel One Citroen and some tonic water. Having written about Ketel One’s neutral spirit in the past, I felt that it appropriate to share my thoughts on an oft-used, but under-appreciated flavor of the finely crafted vodka from the Netherlands.

Folks will typically use citrus vodka to throw a bit of an added bite into a lemon drop shot, but I feel like that’s a tired old habit that needs to simply go away. A more interesting way to spice up a spring evening is a bloody mary, utilizing the sour sting of Ketel One’s citrus offering, a little Worcestershire sauce, and some Old Bay seasoning as the special ingredients. Or if you’re looking for something a bit less salty, the aforementioned vodka-tonic or a vodka martini tends to do just fine.

Sure, you could go with Skyy, or Smirnoff, or Van Gogh, or (ick) Burnett’s, but the affordability and the drinkability of Ketel One keeps me coming back to it. I’m not sure exactly what these guys did, but they made a real winner. A crisp, clean taste that doesn’t leave you feeling like you licked a tattoo gun.

If you’re feeling even more sassy than usual, you can even just drop a couple ice cubes into your favorite tumbler and have at it. The smoothness and citrus bite is enough to make this one a sipping vodka, and enough to make me excited to try Ketel One’s other offerings.

If you’ve got any other clever uses for citrus vodka, feel free to share them in the comments. We’d love to read them.

Benedictine falls into the “less exciting” category, for the most part. An herbal liqueur made with a secret blend of 27 herbs and ingredients, Benedictine was falsely claimed to be made by the Benedictine monks, whose recipe was lost to time until it was “rediscovered” by the businessman who actually developed the stuff. Benedictine is a thick, sweet liqueur with complex herbal notes. It’s often paired with brandy to cut the sugary flavors. (There’s actually a pre-mixed version of the drink that’s sold — B&B, for Benedictine and Brandy.)

This week’s recipe is similar to that B&B, but it’s layered like a Pousse L’Amour (just without the raw egg.) It’s a French cafe drink — something that’s served at room temperature, and meant to be a pre-aperitif, to be consumed in the afternoon. Make it in a sherry glass, a narrow white wine glass, or a champagne flute, and make sure you use a spoon to layer the liqueurs.

Brandy Champerelle

• 1 oz . brandy
• 1 oz. curacao
• 1 oz. benedictine
• 3 dashes Angostura bitters

Pour 1 oz. benedictine into a sherry glass or champagne flute. Pour 1 oz. curacao over top of that, using a spoon and pouring slowly to create a second layer. In the same fashion, pour 1 oz. brandy over the curacao. Carefully float 3 dashes of  Angostura bitters to the top and serve.

That one word will save you a lot of trouble the next time you’re offered any of the flavored vodkas by Burnett’s. I’ve detailed the horrors of their orange variant I’d experienced at the hands of a rogue bartender once before, but now I’ve experienced the pain of a thousand suns.

Cinnamon, cherry, sour apple, watermelon, citrus – all of which are horrible – were in full effect at a frat shindig I was invited to a few nights ago. How I keep getting myself into these situations, I’ll never know, but it was a fun learning experience in which the highlight of my night was DJ’ing with YouTube.

Seriously – this is how “the kids” play music nowadays. Doubleyou-tee-eff.

Anyway, my choice of poison for the night was good ‘ol Natty Boh. It’s cheap, it doesn’t taste awful, and it does a good job of quenching your thirst. It’s also Baltimore’s favorite beer. Yeah, I know, PBR‘s a mainstay too, but you hipsters can keep that trash, okay? So National Bohemian it was and, unfortunately for me, it’s not all it was.

Look, it’s not that I couldn’t help myself – it was all for science, and it wasn’t like I was pounding shots of the stuff back like some inexperienced goon, either. Oh no, at the risk of looking like a square in front of a bunch of jocks, I sampled about three or four varieties of Burnett’s, each with a very small sip, a swirl in the mouth and an immediate swallow and gag. Like I said, this was purely to try these out, and since it was free I felt like, why not?

“Why not” indeed…

Here’s how you sum up Burnett’s; take any flavor you can imagine, create the worst-possible candy flavoring for it and mix that in with vodka that’s about an smooth as alligator hide and pour that on an open wound. That’s the Burnett’s experience.

After my ordeal I asked the guys why they’d had such an abomination at their party. “It’s cheap” was the reply.

Let me make this perfectly clear – never buy booze just because it’s cheap. If you’re doing that, you’re drinking for the wrong reasons, my friends. I would never wish Burnett’s on anyone – my studies on the subject confirm my suspicions that it’s good for one thing…

Nothing.

At its core, though, the Cosmo is a model of the blueprint we use to create just about every flavored martini. There’s a long pour of a base spirit (in this, and many cases, it’s vodka.) There’s a smaller pour of a liqueur to add or change the flavor, and a splash of one or two juices — enough to change the flavor and color of the drink without diluting its strength. The same model, with a couple of tweaks, can give you a peach martini, a sour apple martini, a chocolate martini, and countless other derivations. (In fact, by this model, just about any cocktail — Sex on the Beach? Bay Breeze? — could be made into a martini by doubling the amount of liquor and reducing the amount of juice added.)

Cocktail purists could argue (quite successfully) that none of this should be called a martini. They’re certainly not the same as a classic 5-1 gin martini. You can even argue that flavored martinis are ruining their namesake. Witness the rise of the dirty martini, a “standard” martini with a measure of salty olive brine added. (Depending on the customer, most bars now carry much bigger martini glasses to accommodate cocktails with a decent portion of juice added to them, and many customers (especially younger ones) are used to the idea that they should be able to drink martinis that taste like candy. (I’ve had customers send back actual martinis — as in, martinis with vodka and vermouth as the only ingredients — complaining they taste too much like alcohol, so something must be wrong.)

But enough of all that — the Cosmo. So long as you use quality ingredients, it’s a good cocktail. That means more than just springing for good vodka. Make sure you’re using a quality cranberry juice, along with a good orange cordial like Cointreau instead of triple sec. (You can substitute fresh-squeezed lime for the Rose’s lime juice if you like a drier cocktail.)

Cosmopolitan

• 2 oz. vodka
• 1 oz. Cointreau or triple sec
• 1 oz. cranberry juice
• 1/2 oz. Rose’s lime juice, or, the juice of 1/4 lime.

So I’m invited over to a good friend’s house to partake in some festivities, excellent food, and refreshing drinks. After a heaping plateful of grilled bratwurst, asparagus, potatoes, and chicken, it was time for some Yahtzee. Now, you may be asking yourself how Yahtzee could possibly be enjoyable, and I don’t blame you. I personally can only go roughly two rounds without wanting to claw my way to freedom – just imagine feeling the need to desperately fight in order to escape certain peril at the nefarious hands of five dice and a sheet of paper. The trick to an enjoyable game of Yahtzee is one simple rule: Whenever a one is rolled, everybody drinks.

At any rate, after so much game and merriment my host decided he wanted to surprise me with a wonderful offering of Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey – Wild Turkey, 101 proof. You could imagine that the night immediately took a turn for the worst. I can assure you, my dear friend, discretion is indeed the better part of valor. One small sip was enough to sample both the intense sweetness of vanilla and honey, and the immense heat and warmth that comes from a drink that is so high in alcohol content that you can light it on fire. I am in no way saying that you should light your booze on fire. Only a fool would do that – a fool named Geoff.

Ha.

Wild Turkey 101 is not what I would consider a sipping whiskey. In my mind, it is much too harsh for such endeavors. However, it is an excellent kick in the mouth when mixed with your favorite root beer. You might be hard pressed to find a suitable root beer for mixing, so let me save you the trouble. You can forget about Mug, or A&W, or Barq’s; all of these do one thing and one thing only – give you the burps without any satisfaction of taste. What you need is a delicious Jones Soda – these things are uniquely made by a unique company, and have that great taste of allspice, chocolate, and cinnamon that makes your taste buds dance.

Put that in your tumbler and sip it.

The extra spice makes ginger beer completely different from its more boring cousin, ginger ale, but it can be used in most of the same drinks — it mixes equally well with whiskey or rum, and would likely mix well with brandy too. (Everything, of course, mixes with vodka. But that’s getting ahead of myself.) Ginger beer is available in most large supermarkets, but if you can’t find it there, your local liquor store should have some in stock, sold in either four- or six-packs of cans or bottles. (I’ve occasionally seen it sold in two-liter bottles as well.)

Today’s recipes, the Dark and Stormy and the Moscow Mule, are the two most common drinks served with ginger beer. The former is popular in the sailing community, and seems to have hailed originally from the Bahamas; the latter became a craze when vodka became America’s liquor du jour in the 1950s. Neither is a complicated recipe, but both have singular flavors because of the ginger beer. Serve either one to guests at your next party and they’re guaranteed to be impressed.

Dark and Stormy

• 1.5 oz dark rum
• 4 oz. ginger beer

Fill a highball glass ice, and fill 2/3 with ginger beer, leaving room for the dark rum. Pour dark rum slowly, against the side of the glass, so that the liquor floats over the ginger beer. (To make this effect easier, you can rest a spoon upside-down at the top of the ginger beer, and pour the rum over the spoon.) Serve with a slice of lime; do not stir, but provide a straw, spoon or swizzle stick so that your guests can mix the drink themselves if they’d like.

Moscow Mule

• 1.5 oz vodka
• 4 oz. ginger beer

Regardless of your school of thought on the matter, the idea of an affordable and delicious tasting vodka is an appealing one. With that, let me introduce Sobieski. A spirit that has been distilled from rye since 1864 (that’s a century and a half, folks), Sobieski is named after Jan III Sobieski, a 17th century Polish monarch. You might call this one “The King of Cheap Vodka” – it’s that good.

After dropping a slightly chilled ounce into a shot glass, I took one look at the crystal clear potion before me before knocking it back – you know, for old time’s sake. I have to say folks, this vodka goes down easier than [REDACTED].

Oo. Burn.

After that little frolic, I decided to pour a small amount for actual tasting. No need to go overboard here; a little dab’ll do ya. A little bit on the tongue goes a long way with this one. Even warm, there’s a gentle sweetness to the vodka that cuts through the medicinal sting of the alcohol like a knife through butter. This might be my new go-to brand.

You can get your hands on a bottle of Sobieski for under twenty dollars at most places; expect to pay around fifteen. Also expect your friends to give you weird looks when they see it’s not Stoli or Smirnoff. And lastly, expect them to fall in love with your mastery of the art of mixology after you make one of the best martinis you will ever have the delight of crafting.

Really though, at some point, you can probably stop blaming yourself and start blaming your bartender. Ahem.

I never take my own advice. I suppose that’s a curse I’m going to have for life. I mean, it was all spelled out for me in the third paragraph:

“DO NOT TAKE SHOTS OF THIS MOONSHINE (or any moonshine, for that matter).”

-Jason Lightner

I guess the correct word here would be “Oops.”

Now don’t get me wrong, here. It’s not like I was at some hick tavern, knocking back shots of moonshine to turn a two into an 8. Not at all, I assure you! I was minding my own business, enjoying a nice glass of Weyerbacher’s Heresy ale, while the lady friend enjoyed a glass of Wolaver’s Wildflower Wheat (which I sampled as well). So there we were, engaged in mindless chatter about various topics of interest and intrigue when up comes our bartender, Joe.

Joe’s a guy who knows his booze – a real cool customer, he can lay down a drink you’ve never even thought of before and tell you fifteen different ways to make it. This guy’s got moxie, and unfortunately for us, he’s a bit of a prankster.

“You guys in the mood for shots?” he asks.

Does a fish swim in its own excrement? … I mean, yes sir.

He brings over two shot glasses of a clear liquid with two cranberries in each. When I ask what’s in the shot, he simply smiles and says “Moonshine, my friend!” Bottoms up, I suppose.

We have just lost cabin pressure.

The next thing I know, my lady friend and I are both reaching for our beers quicker than you can say “searing human flesh” to try to fan the flames of what can only be described as the fuel of Satan’s furnace. Like Hell, I’m doing that again.

After regaining composure, I ask again what it was, and this time I have a name to go with the crime – Junior Johnson’s Midnight Moon. While the one we sampled was infused with cranberries (and carried with it a sizzling 50% abv), Midnight Moon comes in a variety of flavors and proofs. From apple pie to strawberry, from 70 to 100 proof, this moonshine runs the gamut of (great?) taste.

While the only use I could suggest for plain-old-shine would be in some sort of a jungle juice concoction, the flavored varieties of Midnight Moon might lend themselves well to various cocktails or as cheap addition to fruit juice.

But then again, if you’re going to drink, why not drink something decent?

I can’t say that I’m surprised; I really should have seen this one coming, but all-in-all I’d say it was not an entirely boneheaded move. One the one hand, it’s not quite as expensive as buying the farm, but on the other hand I really don’t see the need to be spending so much on such a small amount of return. I am talking, of course, about the simple act of purchasing a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue Label rather than ponying up the pounds to procure an entire bottle. I’d say this was the correct decision.

I’m a man of simple tastes. I know what I like, yet I am willing to divert from the familiar if there are appropriate risk-to-reward odds. I prefer my Scotch as a single malt as opposed to blended, however, I am not so precious as to turn my nose up at the latter. With that being said, I can tell you immediately that buying a glass of the Blue Label, rather than the bottle, was indeed worth it for me.

It’s not that Blue Label is bad – far from it – it’s the fact that it’s a genuinely good blended Scotch whisky which is the problem. All things in moderation can only get one so far, after all. At around two hundred dollars per bottle, the spicy and sweet aroma, and the salty and earthy flavour of Blue Label might be too much to resist when attempting to save the bottle for “special occasions”. The big allure here, however, is just how damn drinkable the whisky is. Blended Scotches are simply not supposed to be this smooth.

This, my friends, is what you call achievement. But, like most great achievements, it comes at a cost. I’ll leave it to you to decide for yourself if the price of admission is worth the experience.

I’m still not a believer in the vodka martini (what’s the point, other than “We’re out of gin, and we have to drink something, so here it is”?), but vodka can still help to highlight liqueurs and ingredients that are too rich and sweet on their own (kind of like adding salt to baked goods.) While it’s often mixed with ungodly things (Gatorade, Mountain Dew, Crystal Light), vodka can be part of pleasant cocktails as well.

For example, today’s cocktail, the French Martini, mixes it with the flavors of pineapple juice and Chambord (a sweet French liqueur infused with black raspberries.) Those two things together would be a bit cloying and syrupy-thick. Add vodka, though, and the same combination becomes smooth, nuanced, and very satisfying. I wouldn’t make this for myself very often, but for someone with a sweet tooth — or someone who was big fan of raspberries — this one’s great.

French Martini

• 2 oz. vodka
• 1 oz. Chambord
• 1 oz. pineapple juice

Combine ingredients in cocktail shaker over ice, and shake thoroughly to combine. Strain into martini glass and serve.

There’s a slight variant of this drink called a flirtini, which substitutes champagne for the Chambord. Whatever your opinion of the French martini, you’ll think the flirtini is even more so. If you think the French martini’s a great brunch cocktail to sip while you catch up with your girlfriends, you’ll love the flirtini. If you’re rolling your eyes at this whole post, convinced that I’m pandering to the Sex-and-the-City crowd… chill out, man. Next week, I’ll write about tequila.

Maraschino has to be one of the most completely forgotten ingredients from that time. A clear, thick liquor made by fermenting, distilling, aging, and sweetening the juice from mashed-up marasca cherries, maraschino has a raw, foreboding smell (almost like moonshine), but a surprisingly sweet taste, with a sour punch from the cherries, and a bit of a kick from not-quite-mellowed-out cogeners. It makes for a pleasant, albeit bracing, after-dinner drink, and it’s employed in small amounts to sweeten and flavor many classic cocktails, but it’s not the featured ingredient in many. (The only one I can find, a pousse l’amour, is a layered drink that includes a full raw egg, and may be just a bit too avant garde for your average American drinkers. The recipe linked there includes an illustration that seems to be from Jerry Thomas’s 1860s-era bartending guide.)

This week’s cocktail, the Brandy Crusta, is a lost classic in its own right, and uses a few dashes of the aforementioned lost classic liqueur to punch up its flavor. Preparation for this one is a bit involved, but the end result looks and tastes great — it’s a singular cocktail.

Brandy Crusta

• 1 1/2 oz. brandy
• 1/2 oz. curacao
• 3 dashes Maraschino liqueur
• 1 tsp. lemon juice
• 1 dash Angostura bitters

Pare a lemon peel into one long spiral. (Reserve the fruit inside to squeeze lemon juice for this and other cocktails.) Wet the rim of a wine glass, then dip it in sugar to coat the rim. Place the lemon peel spiral in the wine glass, then fill the glass with ice. Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker, and shake to combine. Strain into the prepared wine glass.

p.s. — If you can’t bring yourself to buy a bottle of maraschino to attempt this, or if you can’t locate maraschino in your liquor store, this drink is almost as good if you substitute an equivalent amount of grenadine or a teaspoon of sugar. You could even omit the sweetener altogether.

As I was looking for some Irish fare, I was delighted to know that was indeed all they were serving that weekend. I ordered the corned beef and cabbage, and to go with it, a Jameson Redbreast. Some of you may be scratching your head, wondering why I didn’t order a Jameson. Everyone orders a Jameson for St. Patrick’s Day – this is the issue. I’m a fan of offbeat experiences. If I can try something different, no matter the outcome, I figure I’m all the better for it. Besides, Jameson and I have a storied history, and I’d be seeing my good friend the next night anyway. In addition, Redbreast doesn’t fall too far from the tree as it’s manufactured by the same company who put out the Irish greats like Powers, Paddy, and Jameson – Irish Distillers.

I ordered my glass of Redbreast 12-Year whisky neat and waited for my food to arrive. The aroma of the whisky was strikingly similar to that of various other Irish whiskies I’ve sampled – full of oak and salt, with flavor to match. On the first taste it was very plain, but after allowing the whisky to air out for a bit, it opened up with nuances of vanilla and spice. The 80-proof burn that this whisky produces as it goes down the gullet is a fierce one, but not one that can’t be fended off. Just be sure to sip slow and and purposefully. This is a spirit you have to drink like you mean it.

You can have the golden honey glow of Redbreast for typically less than fifty dollars. For the kind of quality you’re getting, I’d say it’s worth it. For folks looking to sample it without going all-in, check out your local Irish pub. They’re certain to have a few drams of it laying around somewhere.

But I digress. During the majority of history of human drinking, if you wanted to drink something other than beer, wine, or straight liquor, you didn’t reach for your cocktail shaker. You made a cordial.

Cordials (or liqueurs) are defined as any spirit with added sugar, but the real way to look at them is any distilled spirit with added flavor. Whether you’re soaking neutral spirits in lemon peels to make limoncello, or mixing berries with rotgut to make sloe gin, you’re adding some sort of extra flavor to the alcohol. So instead of ordering a cocktail with orange juice, someone would just ask for a glass of Cointreau, an orange liqueur. (Which is a good thing — since until less than 200 years ago, ice wouldn’t have been readily available to bartenders. Imagine drinking a room-temperature martini, and you can understand why cordials seemed like a better option.)

Today, we think of liqueurs (or cordials — you can call them either) as potential flavorings for cocktails, and a lot of cut-rate schnapps is produced to that end. (Think anybody wants to sip Peachtree or Sour Apple Schnapps slowly on the rocks?) But there are still quality cordials out there that can be enjoyed on their own — or as a major ingredient in a simple cocktail.

Today’s cocktail features Drambuie, a complex honey-and-herbal liqueur made from a base of Scotch. Company materials claim the recipe is at least 250 years old, and hearkens back to the English royal family Stuart. Today, it may be enjoyed on its own, but its main use (and the only reason most bar managers keep it around) is to make the Rusty Nail, a cocktail that mixes Drambuie with Scotch, its mother liquor. As a cocktail, it takes the bite off modestly priced Scotch (though you wouldn’t want to waste a single malt on it.)

Rusty Nail

• 1 oz. Scotch
• 1/2 oz Drambuie

Combine ingredients over ice in a rocks glass and stir; if preferred, combine over ice in a cocktail shaker, stir, and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon peel if desired.

P.S: The same recipe yields a Godfather if you substitute amaretto for Drambuie. Vodka and amaretto in the same proportions is a Godmother. And the same drink with Southern Comfort and amaretto is a Sicilian Kiss, and a terrible  idea.

This particular tasting occurred in an old shoebox apartment, amongst friends who were much more friends-of-a-friend-of-a-friend than anything else. Honestly, why and how I get myself into these situations, I’ll never know – or rather, remember, but I do find them to be good ideas at the time. To be fair to the brandy, the environment in which I was attempting to enjoy it was not ideal. The tenants were heavy smokers, and being that the apartment had but one window, there was a thick haze that sat in the air, permeating one’s clothes and hair, and even skin. Ashes littered the carpet, everywhere. Needless to say, I wouldn’t be removing my shoes.

The introductions seemed to go on for ages and I thought for a moment that I might actually die of boredom. A funny thing, I thought – dying of boredom. If that were possible, I’d imagine sloths might do such a thing. Absolute rubbish, it is. Words can’t begin to describe my elation when the phrase “Would you like a drink?” crept out from behind the pursed lips of the female tenant.

Oh sweet Jesus, I’d love a drink.

She trotted over to the cabinets, which were a classic dark brown – the kind of wood grain you would see on the basement paneling in a house built in the ’50s. These were usually the kinds of places that had light gray linoleum flooring and a pool table in the middle that was used much more for folding laundry than it was for any game of billiards.

At any rate, the bottle she pulled from the cabinet was a 750 of E&J VS Brandy. Having at least a rudimentary idea of what I was getting myself into this time, I decided to have the brandy both neat, and with coffee.

Perhaps it’s because I wanted desperately to feel like the night wasn’t a total bust, but I really enjoyed this drink, especially in the coffee. Even through the instant Folgers crystals, I could taste the hints of dried fruit and smell the aromas of spice and vanilla. The drink was a bit rough on the way down, especially neat, but I’d sooner attribute that to the sensitivity of my throat from the lingering fallout cloud than I would from the drink itself.

Now, normally when I’m out at a place such as this I wouldn’t care which kind of gin is used. The bartender is going to make it the way he wants to anyway, and by the fifth one I’m not really going to taste it anymore. However, after watching him make several other various cocktails, I notice the bottle of house gin that looks like it hasn’t seen action since the Reagan administration. “What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.

“Tanqueray and tonic, please – with lime.”

You see, the great thing about Tanqueray is that it’s affordable, even at a bar where you’d be much safer eating the roaches than you would be eating the food. A gin and tonic is a difficult thing to screw up, but I’ve seen my fair share of bozos, and as anyone who’s ever had a glade of straight tonic water can tell you, it’s not worth the price of admission. Mix up a bit of gin and some lemon or lime, however, and you’re in business, son.

The bartender comes back with probably the goofiest glass of British gin and fizz water I’ve ever seen, with ice that looks like it were chipped off a tacky mermaid ice-sculpture and a lime wedge that must have owed the bartender money. Reluctantly, I take a sip.

“Not bad.”

You see, Tanqueray is a British gin, but it’s mostly produced in Scotland. Now, if the Scots know about anything, it’s distilled spirits. Using three key botanicals in the distillation process – juniper, coriander, and angelica root, Tanqueray has a more straightforward flavor than that of Bombay. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t point angelica root out on a map, much less taste it. The juniper, however, showed up to the party on time, yet the coriander was nowhere to be found. I guess he called in sick.

All in all, however, Tanqueray has made a dull evening far more interesting.

Before we begin, I feel it’s necessary to record exactly what Hennessy is and the nature of the spirit. Hennessy is cognac – a variety of brandy produced in the Cognac region of France and crafted to specific legal standards. Brandy (or brandywine) is a spirit distilled from wine, which can be either aged in oak barrels or artificially colored. Much like whiskey, brandy (or cognac) can be served neat, or on the rocks, and are great spirits for mixing cocktails.

I do apologize for that short diatribe, but if you’re anything like me, and tend not to venture into the unknown a whole lot, it helps to have a refresher. At any rate…

We begin our journey in a room full of mustached gentlemen, smoking big cigars and sampling various beverages. Don’t ask me what I was doing in such a place, for I couldn’t tell you honestly. Perhaps it could have been for the sheer surreality of the situation… that will have to suffice. As I made my way over to the refreshments table, I spied the bottle of Hennessy Black and thought for a moment that I should imbibe a glass to simply see what the fuss was about.

Now mind you, Hennessy Black is a cognac that, from what I later learned, is really for mixing and nothing else. At the time I had the spirit neat and was astonished at the rigid fire that burned its way to the depths of my stomach. The flavor was sweet and floral, but with a burning bite of a bitter honey – a combination that I could only describe as “oddly unique”. It was at this point that I remarked on the spirit’s color as it wasn’t black at all, but rather a pale gold. If you’ve ever seen mustached men furrow their mustaches, you know how silly you feel being the target of such furrowing.

While not a drink I can see myself having on the regular, I can certainly see the appeal of brandy (and cognac). For folks with a taste for the aberrant, Hennessy Black may just be right up your alley.

Lucid is a brand of absinthe manufactured for New York-based Viridian Spirits by producers in France. Having sampled absinthe in the past, I thought I knew what I was in for – apparently not all absinthe is created equal. Being one for getting it right, I prepared the drink in the traditional fashion. This meant balancing an absinthe spoon over a small chalice, resting a single sugar cube on the spoon and slowly dripping water over the cube until it dissolved completely, turning the elixir from a bright glowing green to a cloudy greenish-white color. At this point, the aroma of the absinthe began to fill the room with the sweet scent of licorice. Let the games begin.

Hurriedly, I put on some Skrillex and took my first sip – bang – probably the spiciest hit I’ve taken from a drink in a long while. At 124 proof, I really should have known better. Apart from the alcohol content, however, a great variety of herbs and botanicals gives Lucid a hefty dose of Holy Hell. An intense smattering of anise-flavor, followed by a medicinal and minty burn that lit a fuse all the way down my gullet and into the depths of my stomach. Needless to say, my next sip was much smaller.

As the glass wore on, however, I warmed up to the drink and the drink warmed up to me. It complimented the mood music well, the plodding wubwubwub sounds of dubstep marching on as I continued my own march onward to the completion of the glass.

I suppose being developed by absinthe historian T.A. Breaux gives this one a leg up on the competition, at least in the United States. Selling for roughly $50-$65 at most spirit shoppes, Lucid is an acquired taste that goes from being an immediate turn-off to being mildly enjoyable. Fans of licorice and anise may disagree with me. However, the exceptionally high alcohol content in Lucid may be a barrier-to-entry for some.

Enter The Kraken.

From Wikipedia:

Kraken ( /ˈkreɪkən/ or /ˈkrɑːkən/) are legendary sea monsters of giant proportions said to have dwelt off the coasts of Norway and Iceland.

Having a taste for folklore and the sea helps in this moment. Don’t be scared, though. This is one monster that can be tamed. Distributed by Proximo Spirits, makers of 1800 (a respectable tequila with a not-so-clever ad campaign), The Kraken is a rum that is both versatile and easy to drink. This may come as a surprise when you factor in the fact that The Kraken weighs in at an astounding 94-proof; however, the expert blending of several molasses-based rums has created what can only be described as a legendary rum.

Infused with 11 different herbs and spices, the aromatics of the rum are as much of a joy as the taste. Hints of vanilla and cinnamon fill the nostrils as well as the taste buds. Don’t go rushing off to mix it with your favorite cola or ginger ale just yet, though. Take the time to enjoy the subtle nuances of The Kraken neat, on the rocks, and chilled. Each provides a distinct experience that is rarely matched by more mainstream offerings.

The beauty of this rum is not just in its taste and application, however, but in its honesty. It doesn’t try to be something it isn’t – it’s not flashy, and it’s not going to immediately turn you into the life of the party. The Kraken’s graceful bottle tells as much of a story as the rum’s graceful flavor. Men and women who drink The Kraken needn’t be particularly distinguished; however, particularly distinguished men and women are likely to drink The Kraken.

(Image: Pierre Denys de Montfort, 1766–1820)

I’ve read that both cognac and brandy make excellent sipping drinks in the winter.  What is the difference between the two?  Is one a better choice to try first?

Not to get too cute, but cognac is brandy.

Just like Champagne is a specific type of wine,  cognac is a specific, premium type of brandy, made in the Cognac region of France and following a specific set of rules outlined by the government. Both brandy and cognac can be great winter tipples — they have much of the same body and effect as a good Scotch or bourbon, but with an underlying grape-like sweetness.

Now, brandy could technically be any liquor made by fermenting fruit juice, then distilling the resulting cider, but “brandy” means grape brandy. Others will be referred to specifically as “apple brandy” or “peach brandy” , or other names, like applejack, or kirschwasser — German for “cherry water”.

Until around 1950, when vodka became popular, brandy — with gin, whiskey, and  rum — was one of the most popular liquors, both in America and elsewhere. Today, brandy has fallen out of favor as an everyday drink, but it’s still considered a great digestif by the country-club set. (Also, incongruously, cognac has become popular in the hip-hop community.)

Cognac, according to regional regulations, must be aged for at least two years in French oak. Master artisans at each cognac distillery blend much older cognacs with younger batches to create products meeting the same standards as bottles  produced generations before (and, ideally, bottles that will be produced in generations to come.)

Cognac-producing distilleries use  acronyms to describe the various grades of cognacs they sell.  I cribbed a list from this entry on dummies.com :

• A.C. – The youngest cognac in the blend was aged for at least two years.
• V.S. (Very Special) – The youngest cognac in the blend was aged for at least three years.
• V.O. (Very Old) – The youngest cognac in the blend was aged for at least four years.
• X.O. (Extremely Old) – The youngest cognac in the blend was aged for at least eight years.
• V.S.O.P. (Very Superior Old Pale) – The youngest cognac in the blend was aged for at least eight years, with extra care taken to ensure the others  are of superior quality. The average age of cognacs in a V.S.O.P. blend will be between 10 and 15 years old.

You may recognize some of those acronyms from whisky bottles –  though their usage there isn’t  regulated.

Any cognac is guaranteed to be a high-quality product, and will be sold at a premium price. Most other brandies are made using the same techniques as cognac, though, and a decently aged brandy — especially one whose producer uses and abides by the above definitions — can be just as good, and possibly a much better buy. Either way, drink from a snifter you hold constantly in your hand — it’s  best consumed as close to body temperature as possible, and the heat from your hand will help. (You could also fill the glass with hot water, then discard it immediately before pouring your drink.) And remember, brandy and cognac are sipping drinks — nobody will be impressed if you gulp it back all at once.

-Clique Vodka

Now, to be fair, this isn’t a bad vodka. I don’t hate it because of the taste (I’ll have a bit more on that in a bit). I hate it because it’s trying to emulate the success of Patron by marketing itself to the hip hop crowd, when Patron didn’t do anything for its success but be an expensive and smooth tequila. That’s something that current mainstream hip hop culture has going against it, in my opinion – the more money you can spend on crap you don’t need, the more you’re seen as successful. In my opinion, that just makes you an idiot. But what do I know? I don’t chug Heineken and Jagerbombs all night, so I guess my opinion can’t be all that clever.

So anyway… this is a vodka, alright. When you pop the top and take a whiff, you’ll find that out pretty quickly. If I had to compare the aroma to something, it would be that of a lower-midshelf vodka. This is essentially Smirnoff in a bottle that looks like Snooki rubbed her face on it, which makes sense as Smirnoff is still slightly Russian and Clique is crafted “by fine vodka Artisans in the country of Latvia“. On a side note, if you click that link and then read about Premier Innovations’ other spirit offering, Don Pantaleon Tequila, you’ll see this little gem:

“Don Pantaleon is competitive in price with any house tequila and boasts incredible value with almost 100% pure agave and no additives or artificial flavorings”

If your tequila is not 100% de agave, it has additives, you twits. Moving on…

The taste of Clique vodka is what you’d expect for a bottle that costs 16 bucks. It’s got a good bit of smoothness to it, the vodka fire is there, along with a peppery finish. This is a good vodka for mixing, but not for sipping.

Once again, I can’t stress this enough. Clique is a decent vodka which won’t break the bank. However, Clique’s marketing department should be waterboarded with it. Pick this one up if you plan on attending a party with a lot of people who have fake tans.

(Editor’s note: Our reviewer received a complimentary bottle of Clique Vodka, but the opinion reflected in this article is solely his.)

I had the opportunity to attend a college party this past weekend and, as it was 80’s themed, I couldn’t pass it up. “Aren’t you a little old to be going to college parties?” you might ask. Well… yes. Yes, I am. But that’s beside the point. You see, I’ve never been to these sorts of shindigs, and I found the whole idea fascinating. Like Donnie Brasco, I infiltrated the college lair and found out the kids’ dark secrets. Mwahahaha.

It was not nearly as exciting as I’d imagined, although it afforded me the opportunity to sample some Everclear, so it was decidedly worth it.

Here’s the thing about this drink. You don’t shoot it unless you’re already missing a few million brain cells. Just don’t do it. I had a small sip out of the bottom of the bottle used for making the evening’s jungle juice mixture and let me tell you, I wish I’d stayed in the jungle. Everclear is nasty on its own. The smell is straight astringent and the taste is how I imagine sipping gasoline might be. I would rather chew glass than do that again.

In the jungle juice, however, it was quite pleasant. It was mixed in the appropriate proportions, so it gave a slight kick and an enveloping warmth that lingered well after the sip. In my mind, this is the only sensible way to drink this evil behemoth.

Everclear has other uses as well, like in cooking and furniture polishing; it’s even adaptable enough to be used as fuel in camping stoves.

The price can vary depending upon where you are, geographically speaking (and the legalities of the spirit in your area), however, a 750ml bottle of 190-proof Everclear will usually set you back under twenty bones. Just be careful, okay?

On a side note, anyone who can tell me exactly how this is done gets a cookie.

It’s a cozy little pub, with chic decor and a warm atmosphere amidst dim lighting – perfect for meeting a random stranger whom you might eventually find out is not so attractive, after all. Fortunately for me, that game is long in my past. The liquor selection in this place is pretty nice; they stock Hendrick’s gin, which makes the best gin & tonic you will ever have. This particular night, however, I was looking for something darker. You see, I’ve been on this kick of beer and light spirits and I felt I needed to get back to my roots. Luckily, this place allowed me to do just that.

At first I didn’t even see the bottle of The Glenlivet 18 Year staring me right in the face. I could see were Johnnie Walker Red, Black, Gold and Blue. I felt defeated… but off to the right – just a shelf away, was my adventure for the evening. I was elated. It wasn’t The Glenlivet 12 Year, but the 18. This was going to be something special. I ordered it neat and added a small splash of municipal tap water – you know, for flavor.

The 18 Year is slightly darker than the 12 Year, although now that I think about it I could very well have been tricked by Sapphire’s sexy mood-lighting. The aging has done this one well, though, as the subtle aromas of fruit have been enhanced by the brilliance of oaky sweetness. On the first sip, you get the oak in all of its glory, while the finish lingers with the warmth and hint of ash. Each subsequent sip becomes smoother and smoother until it’s just liquid silk dancing on your tongue, bringing you peace and joy in the harsh winter months. This easily became one of my favorites.

At about sixty-five dollars per bottle, it’s a bit of a pop, but hey, it’s really tasty and you deserve to treat yourself every now and then. Right?

In addition to keeping it simple, I’m never caught with my pants down when the bartender comes up and asks what I’ll have. One cannot always be prepared, and one needs to be quick on their feet when it comes to these sorts of decisions, lest one be viewed as a dolt or worse by their company. This will be on the final, so pay attention.

As I was saying, I’m not much into big mixed drinks as I find them distasteful. There has been a perpetual exception for the past few weeks, however, and that is the Long Island Iced Tea. Made with vodka, gin, tequila, rum, triple sec, sour mix, and Coke, this is both one of the most complex drinks one can make as well as one of the simplest. It’s quite simple to remember all the ingredients, and it’s not like it matters, anyway. This is simply a delightful-tasting way to get silly.

When going out to various establishments, you may be tempted to try their various takes on the Long Island. This can be a fun experiment in certain places – particularly those which make it a habit out of crafting unusual and creative beverages. I would caution against this, however, in chain restaurants and bars, which tend to throw expensive ingredients into the mix in an effort to jack up the price, while disregarding the matter of taste, which is what the drink is supposed to bring to the table anyway.

So when a drink is advertised with Grey Goose vodka, know that you can use Ketel One and be fine. When Patron is parroted in the description, opt for 1800 instead. Long story short, you can get a great tasting drink cheaper, and it will go down all the same. And if you’re getting an extremely mixed drink like a Long Island, the kind of booze you add to it won’t matter much anyway.