COEUR D'ALENE, Idaho -- Behind Hudson's 17-seat counter, Steve Hudson is a study in economy of motion and culinary austerity. From a pile of freshly ground meat, he grabs exactly enough for a generous hamburger patty, about a quarter-pound I would guess, and forms it with gentle pressure into a half-inch disk.
For my lunch companions -- Drs. Ann and Don Gumprecht and Dr. Larry Garvin and his wife, Patricia -- and me, it's a beautiful thing to watch. Because the demand for his burgers is constant, Mr. Hudson can keep several going at a time on a gas grill older than he is and still have time to slice the kosher pickles and raw onion that are the only garnishes you can order at Hudson's, except for the slice of American cheese on the cheeseburger.
THE BEST BURGER
[Fast Food icon]
Read about Raymond Sokolov's cross-country -- and artery-clogging -- journey to find burger perfection. Plus, what's best to put on a burger? Cast your vote and join a discussion.
Here in Kootenai County, everybody knows about Hudson's, which celebrates its centennial this month. But I didn't know enough to stop in this picturesque lakeside northern Idaho town during my recent hamburger odyssey. Then Dr. Tom Gumprecht, the son of Drs. Ann and Don, and six other readers clued me in. They were the most persuasive of hundreds of you who emailed to complain that I'd left out your own favorites.
Other readers debated the ideal condiments in an online forum at WSJ.com, with a huge vocal contingent coming out in defense of mustard -- French's, brown, spicy and everything in between -- and one lone voice even crying out for crushed corn flakes.
I had no dog in the condiment fight, but what to do about all those places I'd missed?
Just as I couldn't have eaten in every one of them, I couldn't answer all the helpful burgermaniacs without giving up my life. So I decided to pick the most irresistible sounding place from among those most frequently touted, and invite the recommending Pursuits readers to join me there for a burger.
And that is how I came to find myself, after one flight canceled in an icestorm and another eight hours aloft, followed by an hour's drive, in this gorgeous town in the panhandle of northern Idaho at a family restaurant named Hudson's.
But before I tell you about this remarkable and delicious coda to my hamburger odyssey and about the discerning folks who led me to this lakeside Shangri-La of chopped beef, let me take this opportunity to say how sorry I am I couldn't meet each and every one of you at your favorite hamburger hangouts.
[Burger photo]
The Platonic Ideal: Hudson's Huddyburger, with WSJ.com readers' choice: mustard
I am desolate not to have been able to hook up with J.W. and Ann Dunn at the Hull Bay Hideaway in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, for a wood-fired burger with fried onions and a Presidente beer.
It kills me that I couldn't check out the D.C. Chinatown location of the East Coast chain Five Guys with Darryl Austin, an inside-the-Beltway booster who says the Five Guys burger is "a million times better than In-N-Out."
What wouldn't I give to take Dew Pfau of Lewistown, Mont., up on her tip to visit Ruby's, which serves burgers made only from Montana beef? The burger, she writes, comes with "excellent bacon, raw onion, tomato, guacamole, lettuce and some kind of sauce and seasoning on a good bun."
Worst of all, I couldn't return to Detroit, my hometown, to try out the place recommended by more readers than any other: Red Coat Tavern. I could also have pacified cousin Audrey, who was furious I hadn't taken her to her fave haunt, Beau Jack's.
But I could squeeze in one last foray. And, boy, am I glad I chose Hudson's in Coeur d'Alene from the 4-inch-high pile of emails. Burgers sold for a dime when the place was founded, in March 1907 by Harley Hudson in a tent on the town's main drag, Sherman Avenue. Today, Steve Hudson, a great-grandson, continues the tradition with his son, in full, intimate view of the hungry crowd.
Sherman Avenue has gentrified in response to a boom in tourism and second homes, some bought by Hollywood notables. There's a resort whose green lies within reach of accurate tee shots from the shore. But Hudson's has stood fast. The purity of its burgers is as notable as their charred exteriors and juicy interiors. "Our children came here all the time," says Dr. Ann.
Dr. Garvin is equally eloquent about the Huddyburger. Mrs. Garvin polished off a burger and a slice of homemade custard pie, and bought a centennial Huddy hoodie.
The Huddyburger is certainly the best $2 burger in creation. I liked the double burger, but the plain burger was even better. The Platonic ideal of burgerdom. It's the burger Dr. Ann orders, with pickles but no onion. She eschews the secret pink sauce and the ketchup, opting for hot mustard. I tried it that way and was converted, thus falling in line with most of the WSJ.com condiment-forum disputants. Beef, bun, mustard: It is a recipe for happiness.
By RAYMOND SOKOLOV
March 24, 2007
• Email me at eatingout@wsj.com
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Fine Food Nation
SEATTLE -- In cooking as in the other arts, high culture spreads from the center to the periphery. The kind of modern food we used to find only in our biggest cities -- food that blends the French nouvelle cuisine with luxury ingredients from the whole world -- is now showing up at better tables in almost every American urban center. The restaurants that serve this up-to-the minute cuisine are what I'd like to call national restaurants. Whether they're located in Houston or Kansas City, they match the standards and echo the cooking of rivals in the big four culinary centers -- New York, Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles.
[Duck breast and seared foie gras]
Duck breast and seared foie gras at Rover's
The chefs at national restaurants typically have cooked in world-famous kitchens and keep their own kitchens at a big-league level, adding local ingredients, regional dishes and their own creations to the mix. The rise of such places, gradual and uncoordinated, signals a knitting together of well-traveled chefs and elite customers who now make up a viable market of feinschmeckers in what once were at best centers of regional cooking (New Orleans) or gastronomic podunks. While the "best" restaurants of cities like Denver and Kansas City got locally famous serving good raw materials plainly prepared -- grilled steaks and boiled lobsters -- national restaurants in those same towns now feature foie gras with housemade preserves or sushi-grade tuna, elaborately plated and garnished, instead.
ZAGAT SURVEY
[Go to chart] • See restaurants that are top-rated for food in five cities across the country.
I was particularly struck by this phenomenon recently in Seattle dining at Rover's, Lampreía and Canlis, which have national standards of cooking, service and wine.
Will this trend depress business at excellent old-line regional restaurants? Frankly, I think the idea of a golden age of great local food is largely bogus. I spent two years in the 1970s crisscrossing America looking for such places and barely found a one, which is why I called the book based on that research "Fading Feast." Fine dining back then in the interior U.S. was most often no picnic.
Back in 1973, I had to push aside a scrambled Bearnaise sauce at Nashville's most highly touted French restaurant. On my next trip there, I intend to try the ambitious fusion menu at the nationally recognized and honored Restaurant Zola.
[scrambled egges with lime creme fraiche]
Scrambled eggs with lime crème fraiche and white sturgeon caviar at Rover's
From time to time in coming months, I'll be searching out national restaurants wherever they may be. Seattle turned out to be an excellent place to begin the hunt.
In the not-so-long-ago old days, eating well in Seattle meant tucking into generous portions of fat and happy Dungeness crab or wild local salmon, preferably planked on alderwood boards, a technique derived from the campfire cuisine of indigenous Indians. Rover's pioneered in bringing French culinary technique to this not-so-brave New World city. Thierry Rautureau bought the old Rover's (named after a dog whose picture still hangs on a wall near the entrance) in 1987 and turned it into a steadily evolving laboratory for the glorification of local products, from white sturgeon caviar to locally farmed baby lettuce.
[stone crab claws]
Crab claws at Chandler's
Nowadays , the young, classically trained chef Adam Hoffman is celebrating Rover's 20th anniversary with "20 Years Later Menus." The adventuresome diner might start with a "martini" of Dungeness crab with mango and blood-orange-argan dressing. This is a witty turn on the Pacific Northwest's old faithful crab cocktail, served in a martini glass with a ketchup-tinted dressing mixed from reddish citrus juice and a prized Moroccan oil.
Moving right along, to a main course that might be Sonoma quail with foie gras, caramelized turnips and foie gras soup or a North African improvisation based on Alaskan salmon with couscous, Moroccan olive tapenade and a thick, creamy saffron sabayon. There's a hibiscus blossom sorbet for dessert, as well as a plate of Washington and European cheeses and a brown butter cherry tartlet.
The wine list featured a featured a fine cabernet from the small, special winery called Andrew Will.
[poached Maine lobster claw at Canlis]
Poached Maine lobster claw at Canlis
All this and a sense of humor, too. The founder Mr. Rautureau sets the breezy tone by wearing a fedora at all times , proud of being the "chef in the hat," not a toque. In the cozy dining room you feel as if you are in his house, with some amusing guests, for example a surgeon who's a regular at Friday lunch: His license plate reads, Dr. Tush.
At cutting-edge Lampreía in the hip Belltown district of rehabbed commercial buildings near downtown , however, no one cracked a joke or even a smile. They are making beautiful food here, seriously beautiful and seriously tasty food. Their version of Dungeness crab is a long chilled tube on a narrow plate with the letterbox proportions of a modern television. The pure-white crab is edged in red from an apple peel (a subtle nod to local agriculture; no Alice Waters boastful sermons about sustainable farming here). Albacore carpaccio -- very thin raw tuna also arrayed on a letterbox plate -- serves as a staging point for three decorative garnishes: Olympia oysters the size of a little-finger nail, citrus segments and a gelée.
[shaved asparagus]
Shaved asparagus with panna cotta and robiolina cheese at Lampreía
Hard acts to follow, but Lampreía offers a flavor bomb of New Zealand snapper cooked sous-vide at glacial speed with chorizo sausage. The topflight veal chop in a classic veal reduction was estupendo. As were the macerated oranges, cured in sugar until they turned entirely edible, peel and all.
By this point in our visit to Seattle, we began to yearn for an unreconstructed old-fashioned Seattle dinner. We thought we might find such a thing at glamorous Canlis on the city's internal Lake Union. Peter Canlis founded this large showplace with its stunning view, massive old-growth cedar beams, Northwest textiles and copper fixtures in 1950, but time has not stood still, viz., world-class Dungeness crabcakes with carrot-coriander butter, scallions and beet greens; wagyu steaks; wild king salmon in a cherry-red wine reduction; and English pea risotto with white truffle edamame purée, pea vines and endive-shallot salad.
This had to stop. We had a reservation at another lakeside place called Chandler's, right around kickoff time for the Super Bowl. Would they have nachos? No way. Chandler's has oysters from up and down the coast, an encyclopedia of crab dishes all set about with goodies like romescu sauce, fennel and orzo. For plain seafood in Seattle, you need your own kitchen.
By RAYMOND SOKOLOV
April 7, 2007
• Email me at eatingout@wsj.com
[Duck breast and seared foie gras]
Duck breast and seared foie gras at Rover's
The chefs at national restaurants typically have cooked in world-famous kitchens and keep their own kitchens at a big-league level, adding local ingredients, regional dishes and their own creations to the mix. The rise of such places, gradual and uncoordinated, signals a knitting together of well-traveled chefs and elite customers who now make up a viable market of feinschmeckers in what once were at best centers of regional cooking (New Orleans) or gastronomic podunks. While the "best" restaurants of cities like Denver and Kansas City got locally famous serving good raw materials plainly prepared -- grilled steaks and boiled lobsters -- national restaurants in those same towns now feature foie gras with housemade preserves or sushi-grade tuna, elaborately plated and garnished, instead.
ZAGAT SURVEY
[Go to chart] • See restaurants that are top-rated for food in five cities across the country.
I was particularly struck by this phenomenon recently in Seattle dining at Rover's, Lampreía and Canlis, which have national standards of cooking, service and wine.
Will this trend depress business at excellent old-line regional restaurants? Frankly, I think the idea of a golden age of great local food is largely bogus. I spent two years in the 1970s crisscrossing America looking for such places and barely found a one, which is why I called the book based on that research "Fading Feast." Fine dining back then in the interior U.S. was most often no picnic.
Back in 1973, I had to push aside a scrambled Bearnaise sauce at Nashville's most highly touted French restaurant. On my next trip there, I intend to try the ambitious fusion menu at the nationally recognized and honored Restaurant Zola.
[scrambled egges with lime creme fraiche]
Scrambled eggs with lime crème fraiche and white sturgeon caviar at Rover's
From time to time in coming months, I'll be searching out national restaurants wherever they may be. Seattle turned out to be an excellent place to begin the hunt.
In the not-so-long-ago old days, eating well in Seattle meant tucking into generous portions of fat and happy Dungeness crab or wild local salmon, preferably planked on alderwood boards, a technique derived from the campfire cuisine of indigenous Indians. Rover's pioneered in bringing French culinary technique to this not-so-brave New World city. Thierry Rautureau bought the old Rover's (named after a dog whose picture still hangs on a wall near the entrance) in 1987 and turned it into a steadily evolving laboratory for the glorification of local products, from white sturgeon caviar to locally farmed baby lettuce.
[stone crab claws]
Crab claws at Chandler's
Nowadays , the young, classically trained chef Adam Hoffman is celebrating Rover's 20th anniversary with "20 Years Later Menus." The adventuresome diner might start with a "martini" of Dungeness crab with mango and blood-orange-argan dressing. This is a witty turn on the Pacific Northwest's old faithful crab cocktail, served in a martini glass with a ketchup-tinted dressing mixed from reddish citrus juice and a prized Moroccan oil.
Moving right along, to a main course that might be Sonoma quail with foie gras, caramelized turnips and foie gras soup or a North African improvisation based on Alaskan salmon with couscous, Moroccan olive tapenade and a thick, creamy saffron sabayon. There's a hibiscus blossom sorbet for dessert, as well as a plate of Washington and European cheeses and a brown butter cherry tartlet.
The wine list featured a featured a fine cabernet from the small, special winery called Andrew Will.
[poached Maine lobster claw at Canlis]
Poached Maine lobster claw at Canlis
All this and a sense of humor, too. The founder Mr. Rautureau sets the breezy tone by wearing a fedora at all times , proud of being the "chef in the hat," not a toque. In the cozy dining room you feel as if you are in his house, with some amusing guests, for example a surgeon who's a regular at Friday lunch: His license plate reads, Dr. Tush.
At cutting-edge Lampreía in the hip Belltown district of rehabbed commercial buildings near downtown , however, no one cracked a joke or even a smile. They are making beautiful food here, seriously beautiful and seriously tasty food. Their version of Dungeness crab is a long chilled tube on a narrow plate with the letterbox proportions of a modern television. The pure-white crab is edged in red from an apple peel (a subtle nod to local agriculture; no Alice Waters boastful sermons about sustainable farming here). Albacore carpaccio -- very thin raw tuna also arrayed on a letterbox plate -- serves as a staging point for three decorative garnishes: Olympia oysters the size of a little-finger nail, citrus segments and a gelée.
[shaved asparagus]
Shaved asparagus with panna cotta and robiolina cheese at Lampreía
Hard acts to follow, but Lampreía offers a flavor bomb of New Zealand snapper cooked sous-vide at glacial speed with chorizo sausage. The topflight veal chop in a classic veal reduction was estupendo. As were the macerated oranges, cured in sugar until they turned entirely edible, peel and all.
By this point in our visit to Seattle, we began to yearn for an unreconstructed old-fashioned Seattle dinner. We thought we might find such a thing at glamorous Canlis on the city's internal Lake Union. Peter Canlis founded this large showplace with its stunning view, massive old-growth cedar beams, Northwest textiles and copper fixtures in 1950, but time has not stood still, viz., world-class Dungeness crabcakes with carrot-coriander butter, scallions and beet greens; wagyu steaks; wild king salmon in a cherry-red wine reduction; and English pea risotto with white truffle edamame purée, pea vines and endive-shallot salad.
This had to stop. We had a reservation at another lakeside place called Chandler's, right around kickoff time for the Super Bowl. Would they have nachos? No way. Chandler's has oysters from up and down the coast, an encyclopedia of crab dishes all set about with goodies like romescu sauce, fennel and orzo. For plain seafood in Seattle, you need your own kitchen.
By RAYMOND SOKOLOV
April 7, 2007
• Email me at eatingout@wsj.com
They're Not Martinis
The most common complaint I hear about the offerings on the current cocktail scene concerns the epidemic of "Martinis" that aren't Martinis. For the purists, it's bad enough that a drink of vodka and vermouth is referred to as a Martini. But one doesn't have to be a stickler to bemoan the candy-colored cocktails with labels like "Raspberry Martini" or "Apple-tini" that fill out the "Martini List" at innumerable bars and restaurants. A drink of vodka, sweet liqueur and fruit juice is not a Martini.
Some linguists might contradict that assertion. It has, after all, become common usage to refer to any drink in a stemmed cocktail glass -- a "Martini glass" -- as a "Martini." And usage is usage. The compilers of dictionaries struggle endlessly with the descriptive/prescriptive question: Do they document the way language is actually used, or do they present language as it should be used? The prescriptivists are usually engaged in a fighting retreat -- even dear old Fowler's succumbs to new editions every now and then. Though the transformed meaning of "Martini" may be regrettable, it is an evolution no more dramatic than that which altered the word "cocktail" itself.
SAVOY HOTEL SPECIAL
[Drinks]
2 oz gin
½ oz dry vermouth
¼ oz Dubonnet (rouge)
Shake with ice and strain into a stemmed cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist of orange peel.
INTERNATIONAL
2 oz gin
¼ oz dry vermouth
dash crème de cassis
Shake with ice and strain into a Martini glass. Garnish with a twist of lemon peel.
When the cocktail first turned up a little over 200 years ago, it wasn't a category of drink, but a specific quaff -- liquor, sugar, water and bitters. One could have a Brandy Cocktail, a Whiskey Cocktail, or another variation based on the spirit used, but that was the full extent of the word's elasticity.
It wasn't until after the Civil War that the term "cocktail" started to be used for a class of mixed drinks -- those with bitters. By the teens, just about any mixed drink served as a preprandial was considered a "cocktail," bitters or no. And by the time Prohibition was shown the door, a "cocktail" had come to mean any mixed drink at all. Now the word is applied, by metaphorical extension, to anything that is mixed. If the term "Martini" stretches as expansively as "cocktail" has already done, some day we will refer to treating difficult diseases with combinations of medicines called "drug martinis."
And what a shame that would be. Though hardly the purest of the purists, I am firmly of the belief that a Martini is a drink of dry gin and dry vermouth. No other drink has what songwriter Frank Loesser called the "slam, bang, tang" of the original. But beyond my unshakeable fidelity to the basic ingredients of the Martini, I must admit a tendency to apostasy. For example, I like to have an olive or three in the glass (two olives is bad form), which is anathema to the most orthodox, who insist a twist of lemon peel is the only acceptable Martini garnish. And even more heretically, every now and then I like to doctor Martinis with a smidgen of liqueur.
Let's remember that the classic dry Martini wasn't always so pure. It was common well into the 1930s to douse one's "Dry" with a dash or two of orange bitters. And perhaps the most common variant on the Martini was to mix it with absinthe. In F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Beautiful and Damned," this is just the sort of drink that the aristocratic Anthony Patch serves up to Geraldine, the theater usherette, when he invites her up to his apartment for some canoodling: "He wheeled out the little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth, gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant." A Martini with absinthe-substitute (the real stuff is not allowed in the U.S.) is still served in New Orleans, where it is known as an Obituary Cocktail.
Messing about with the essential Martini recipe, however, is not without risk. In his book "Martini, Straight Up," classics professor Lowell Edmunds champions what he calls the "communal" Martini. With a standardized recipe, the cocktail is a civilizing force: a secular "sacramental drink that unites in spirit even those who have never met." As such, the classic Martini "resists the pompous intrusion of personality," and Mr. Edmunds declares that efforts to individualize the drink "are doomed in advance."
The point is well taken, which is why I think we should make it clear that any cocktail that varies from the strict Martini paradigm is no Martini, but rather a drink of some other name altogether. Thus we can enjoy the occasional permutation on the Martini theme without contributing to the linguistic erosion of the Martini.
David Embury, in his opinionated 1948 classic "The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks," decrees as acceptable "occasional interesting variations in your Martinis," but each variation he suggests comes with a name attached. Add a couple of dashes of orange curaçao to a Martini and you have a Flying Dutchman. If instead you add a touch of the herbal French liqueur Chartreuse, the drink is called a Nome. A dash of crème de cassis and you get an International. Embury is so serious about correct Martini nomenclature that he insists a Martini is not worthy of the name if it has not been stirred: "If you shake the Martini, it becomes a Bradford."
It is only natural that a popular cocktail will breed variations on the theme -- witness the proliferation of Pomegranate Margaritas and Mango Mojitos. When the dry gin Martini was at its peak, there were dozens of "special" cocktails anchored with gin and vermouth. One of my favorites is a house cocktail that was served at London's Savoy Hotel: Dry gin, dry vermouth and a little mellowing Dubonnet. The Savoy Hotel Special is a fine, sophisticated drink, and one that might appeal to those who like the idea of a Martini but who find gin and vermouth alone to be a bit demanding.
Just please don't call it a Martini.
By ERIC FELTEN
March 24, 2007
• Email me at eric.felten@wsj.com.
Some linguists might contradict that assertion. It has, after all, become common usage to refer to any drink in a stemmed cocktail glass -- a "Martini glass" -- as a "Martini." And usage is usage. The compilers of dictionaries struggle endlessly with the descriptive/prescriptive question: Do they document the way language is actually used, or do they present language as it should be used? The prescriptivists are usually engaged in a fighting retreat -- even dear old Fowler's succumbs to new editions every now and then. Though the transformed meaning of "Martini" may be regrettable, it is an evolution no more dramatic than that which altered the word "cocktail" itself.
SAVOY HOTEL SPECIAL
[Drinks]
2 oz gin
½ oz dry vermouth
¼ oz Dubonnet (rouge)
Shake with ice and strain into a stemmed cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist of orange peel.
INTERNATIONAL
2 oz gin
¼ oz dry vermouth
dash crème de cassis
Shake with ice and strain into a Martini glass. Garnish with a twist of lemon peel.
When the cocktail first turned up a little over 200 years ago, it wasn't a category of drink, but a specific quaff -- liquor, sugar, water and bitters. One could have a Brandy Cocktail, a Whiskey Cocktail, or another variation based on the spirit used, but that was the full extent of the word's elasticity.
It wasn't until after the Civil War that the term "cocktail" started to be used for a class of mixed drinks -- those with bitters. By the teens, just about any mixed drink served as a preprandial was considered a "cocktail," bitters or no. And by the time Prohibition was shown the door, a "cocktail" had come to mean any mixed drink at all. Now the word is applied, by metaphorical extension, to anything that is mixed. If the term "Martini" stretches as expansively as "cocktail" has already done, some day we will refer to treating difficult diseases with combinations of medicines called "drug martinis."
And what a shame that would be. Though hardly the purest of the purists, I am firmly of the belief that a Martini is a drink of dry gin and dry vermouth. No other drink has what songwriter Frank Loesser called the "slam, bang, tang" of the original. But beyond my unshakeable fidelity to the basic ingredients of the Martini, I must admit a tendency to apostasy. For example, I like to have an olive or three in the glass (two olives is bad form), which is anathema to the most orthodox, who insist a twist of lemon peel is the only acceptable Martini garnish. And even more heretically, every now and then I like to doctor Martinis with a smidgen of liqueur.
Let's remember that the classic dry Martini wasn't always so pure. It was common well into the 1930s to douse one's "Dry" with a dash or two of orange bitters. And perhaps the most common variant on the Martini was to mix it with absinthe. In F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Beautiful and Damned," this is just the sort of drink that the aristocratic Anthony Patch serves up to Geraldine, the theater usherette, when he invites her up to his apartment for some canoodling: "He wheeled out the little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth, gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant." A Martini with absinthe-substitute (the real stuff is not allowed in the U.S.) is still served in New Orleans, where it is known as an Obituary Cocktail.
Messing about with the essential Martini recipe, however, is not without risk. In his book "Martini, Straight Up," classics professor Lowell Edmunds champions what he calls the "communal" Martini. With a standardized recipe, the cocktail is a civilizing force: a secular "sacramental drink that unites in spirit even those who have never met." As such, the classic Martini "resists the pompous intrusion of personality," and Mr. Edmunds declares that efforts to individualize the drink "are doomed in advance."
The point is well taken, which is why I think we should make it clear that any cocktail that varies from the strict Martini paradigm is no Martini, but rather a drink of some other name altogether. Thus we can enjoy the occasional permutation on the Martini theme without contributing to the linguistic erosion of the Martini.
David Embury, in his opinionated 1948 classic "The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks," decrees as acceptable "occasional interesting variations in your Martinis," but each variation he suggests comes with a name attached. Add a couple of dashes of orange curaçao to a Martini and you have a Flying Dutchman. If instead you add a touch of the herbal French liqueur Chartreuse, the drink is called a Nome. A dash of crème de cassis and you get an International. Embury is so serious about correct Martini nomenclature that he insists a Martini is not worthy of the name if it has not been stirred: "If you shake the Martini, it becomes a Bradford."
It is only natural that a popular cocktail will breed variations on the theme -- witness the proliferation of Pomegranate Margaritas and Mango Mojitos. When the dry gin Martini was at its peak, there were dozens of "special" cocktails anchored with gin and vermouth. One of my favorites is a house cocktail that was served at London's Savoy Hotel: Dry gin, dry vermouth and a little mellowing Dubonnet. The Savoy Hotel Special is a fine, sophisticated drink, and one that might appeal to those who like the idea of a Martini but who find gin and vermouth alone to be a bit demanding.
Just please don't call it a Martini.
By ERIC FELTEN
March 24, 2007
• Email me at eric.felten@wsj.com.
This Lady Is Tart in Taste
Long before Dr. Atkins promoted a carb-free regimen, actress Jayne Mansfield was following a similar one. To maintain her rather improbable figure, she ate just one meal a day, and every day the same meal at that -- a well-done steak for dinner. It's not clear whether she kept the excess pounds off because her diet was protein-rich, or just because it dampened her enthusiasm for eating: "I really don't like meat," she told a reporter in 1961. The one bright spot in her culinary routine: "I do like a cocktail," she said, "a pink lady, before dinner."
[Jayne Mansfield]
Jayne Mansfield and husband Mickey Hargitay enjoy a cocktail.
Mansfield styled herself something of a pink lady. Her Sunset Boulevard manse was pink, inside and out. Dubbed the "Pink Palace," it even featured pink fluorescent lighting. No wonder she chose to drink Pink Ladies. And that has been a problem -- though a tasty drink worthy of inclusion in the cocktail canon, the Pink Lady has found its reputation dogged by association with a dubious aesthetic.
Newspaper columnist Westbrook Pegler would win a Pulitzer Prize in 1941 for his articles on big labor's racketeers, and after the war he scourged the red menace in Hollywood. But in 1938 he took aim at the drinks ladies were apt to order in a bar -- whether a Sidecar, a Honeydew, or a Brandy Alexander. But worst of all, Pegler said, was the Pink Lady, which he jokingly described as a drink made of "shaving lotion, buttermilk and strawberry extract."
There have been worse concoctions called "Pink Lady." A favorite skid-row dram was once made by heating Sterno cans -- when the paraffin melted, it could be separated from the alcohol, which poured off with a pinkish hue. With a wry nod to the highfalutin, hoboes called the drink "Pink Lady." Submariners in World War II enjoyed (if you can call it that) a similar cocktail. The fuel powering torpedoes was straight alcohol, manufactured by the same distilleries that had been making whiskey before Pearl Harbor. When the Navy brass learned that sailors were draining the fish to get at the "torpedo juice," they had a noxious red chemical added to the fuel to discourage the practice. Not to be denied, the men found that a loaf of bread, with the heels cut off, made an admirable filter. In one end they poured the red torpedo juice; out the other end came a marginally less noxious tipple they named "Pink Lady."
And how is the unironic drink of the same name made? In its prime, there was no shortage of competing recipes.
PINK LADY
1½ oz gin
¾ oz applejack (apple brandy)
½ oz fresh lemon juice
¼ to ½ oz grenadine (to taste)
1 egg white (fresh or pasteurized)
Shake with ice and strain into a stemmed cocktail glass.
TORPEDO JUICE
Same as above, but drop the egg white.
"Have you ever made a 'Pink Lady'?" asked the newspaper ad copy for Fleischmann's dry gin in 1934. "It's that popular new cocktail with the white foamy top -- that slips down your throat so smoothly, so quickly you hardly realize it's gone -- except for the mild pleasant glow that steals over you." The Fleishmann folks turned to Freddie Roth, "chief mixologist" of New York's Roosevelt Hotel, to show how the drink is made. He used the juice of half a lime, an equal amount of grenadine, a tablespoon of sweet cream and a generous jigger of gin.
A few years later, Seagram's promoted its King Arthur Gin with a recipe from another New York bartender, Ray Teller. His Pink Lady called for the juice of a whole lemon, one tablespoon of grenadine, a teaspoon of cream and gin.
Neither recipe was correct. Though it became common to use cream to approximate the milky froth of a Pink Lady, the proper construction of the cocktail calls for an egg white. And though the drink is indeed anchored with gin, that isn't the only spirit in the mix. With gin alone, the Pink Lady can hardly be distinguished from the Clover Club -- gin, lemon or lime juice, grenadine and an egg white. What made the Pink Lady distinct was the addition of American apple brandy. The most venerable brand, Laird's -- distilled in New Jersey since 1780 -- is still widely available, and it is the essential ingredient in a proper Pink Lady.
Apple brandy is not to be confused with modern products like Pucker apple liqueur. Applejack is not sugary-sweet. Unless you have a heavy hand with the grenadine, the Pink Lady turns out remarkably dry-tart, surprising for a cocktail so long dismissed as a girly drink.
Which leads me to believe that the Pink Lady's reputation is a function less of the drink's taste than of its name. In his book "Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails," Ted Haigh laments that because of the exaggerated femininity of its name, no self-respecting man has ever bellied up to a bar to order a Pink Lady -- at least not for himself. Mr. Haigh suggests the drink should be rechristened the "Secret Cocktail."
I have another idea for a unisex alternative to the Pink Lady. Drop the egg white and you get a fine gin and applejack sour that we can name with a nod at the submariners' cocktail of convenience -- Torpedo Juice. Such a drink even has the virtue of sharing a resemblance to an old cocktail called the Torpedo, which was made of applejack, cognac and a dash of gin. Shake it well and strain -- though not through a loaf of bread -- into a cocktail glass.
By ERIC FELTEN
March 31, 2007
• Email me at eric.felten@wsj.com.
[Jayne Mansfield]
Jayne Mansfield and husband Mickey Hargitay enjoy a cocktail.
Mansfield styled herself something of a pink lady. Her Sunset Boulevard manse was pink, inside and out. Dubbed the "Pink Palace," it even featured pink fluorescent lighting. No wonder she chose to drink Pink Ladies. And that has been a problem -- though a tasty drink worthy of inclusion in the cocktail canon, the Pink Lady has found its reputation dogged by association with a dubious aesthetic.
Newspaper columnist Westbrook Pegler would win a Pulitzer Prize in 1941 for his articles on big labor's racketeers, and after the war he scourged the red menace in Hollywood. But in 1938 he took aim at the drinks ladies were apt to order in a bar -- whether a Sidecar, a Honeydew, or a Brandy Alexander. But worst of all, Pegler said, was the Pink Lady, which he jokingly described as a drink made of "shaving lotion, buttermilk and strawberry extract."
There have been worse concoctions called "Pink Lady." A favorite skid-row dram was once made by heating Sterno cans -- when the paraffin melted, it could be separated from the alcohol, which poured off with a pinkish hue. With a wry nod to the highfalutin, hoboes called the drink "Pink Lady." Submariners in World War II enjoyed (if you can call it that) a similar cocktail. The fuel powering torpedoes was straight alcohol, manufactured by the same distilleries that had been making whiskey before Pearl Harbor. When the Navy brass learned that sailors were draining the fish to get at the "torpedo juice," they had a noxious red chemical added to the fuel to discourage the practice. Not to be denied, the men found that a loaf of bread, with the heels cut off, made an admirable filter. In one end they poured the red torpedo juice; out the other end came a marginally less noxious tipple they named "Pink Lady."
And how is the unironic drink of the same name made? In its prime, there was no shortage of competing recipes.
PINK LADY
1½ oz gin
¾ oz applejack (apple brandy)
½ oz fresh lemon juice
¼ to ½ oz grenadine (to taste)
1 egg white (fresh or pasteurized)
Shake with ice and strain into a stemmed cocktail glass.
TORPEDO JUICE
Same as above, but drop the egg white.
"Have you ever made a 'Pink Lady'?" asked the newspaper ad copy for Fleischmann's dry gin in 1934. "It's that popular new cocktail with the white foamy top -- that slips down your throat so smoothly, so quickly you hardly realize it's gone -- except for the mild pleasant glow that steals over you." The Fleishmann folks turned to Freddie Roth, "chief mixologist" of New York's Roosevelt Hotel, to show how the drink is made. He used the juice of half a lime, an equal amount of grenadine, a tablespoon of sweet cream and a generous jigger of gin.
A few years later, Seagram's promoted its King Arthur Gin with a recipe from another New York bartender, Ray Teller. His Pink Lady called for the juice of a whole lemon, one tablespoon of grenadine, a teaspoon of cream and gin.
Neither recipe was correct. Though it became common to use cream to approximate the milky froth of a Pink Lady, the proper construction of the cocktail calls for an egg white. And though the drink is indeed anchored with gin, that isn't the only spirit in the mix. With gin alone, the Pink Lady can hardly be distinguished from the Clover Club -- gin, lemon or lime juice, grenadine and an egg white. What made the Pink Lady distinct was the addition of American apple brandy. The most venerable brand, Laird's -- distilled in New Jersey since 1780 -- is still widely available, and it is the essential ingredient in a proper Pink Lady.
Apple brandy is not to be confused with modern products like Pucker apple liqueur. Applejack is not sugary-sweet. Unless you have a heavy hand with the grenadine, the Pink Lady turns out remarkably dry-tart, surprising for a cocktail so long dismissed as a girly drink.
Which leads me to believe that the Pink Lady's reputation is a function less of the drink's taste than of its name. In his book "Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails," Ted Haigh laments that because of the exaggerated femininity of its name, no self-respecting man has ever bellied up to a bar to order a Pink Lady -- at least not for himself. Mr. Haigh suggests the drink should be rechristened the "Secret Cocktail."
I have another idea for a unisex alternative to the Pink Lady. Drop the egg white and you get a fine gin and applejack sour that we can name with a nod at the submariners' cocktail of convenience -- Torpedo Juice. Such a drink even has the virtue of sharing a resemblance to an old cocktail called the Torpedo, which was made of applejack, cognac and a dash of gin. Shake it well and strain -- though not through a loaf of bread -- into a cocktail glass.
By ERIC FELTEN
March 31, 2007
• Email me at eric.felten@wsj.com.
The Pear Essentials
"Is it sweet or not?" The woman had been puzzling in front of the fruit brandies and liqueurs and was finally asking for help from the liquor store clerk. Hers was not a silly question. Open a bottle of raspberry eau-de-vie expecting a sweet cordial resembling a raspberry syrup and you will be shocked to get a mouthful of firewater. Yet the eau-de-vie and cordial may both say "framboise" on the label. How do you know which is which?
Old cocktail books can be particularly confusing when it comes to fruit brandies. Does a recipe calling for "cherry brandy" mean a brandy distilled from fermented cherries, or a liqueur made by macerating cherries in an already distilled spirit and then adding sugar? It will make a big difference in how the cocktail turns out.
The former is what is called an "eau-de-vie," and it is usually colorless (though occasionally eaux-de-vie are aged and take on a slight honeyed hue). The thick sweet stuff can be labeled with the word "liqueur" or "crème" (which, by the way, does not mean that the liqueur has cream in it). The American term "cordial" might also be found on the label. But the simplest cue comes from a peek at what's inside: Liqueurs are generally jewel-toned. This is not, however, a rule. Though I can't think of any candy-colored eaux-de-vie, there are plenty of sweet liqueurs that abjure gaudy dyes -- Cointreau, triple sec, and the clear varieties of such staples as crème de cacao and crème de menthe.
PEAR RICKEY
[Pear Drinks photo]
1 oz pear brandy (eau-de-vie)
1 oz pear liqueur
juice of ½ lime
Build on the rocks in a highball glass and top with soda water. Garnish with the lime shell.
LENNART
1½ oz pear brandy (eau-de-vie) or pear vodka
juice of ½ lime
Build on the rocks in a highball glass and top with lemon-lime soda, such as Sprite or 7UP.
I suspect that the eau-de-vie that has most often surprised the unsuspecting palate is "poire William," in particular that version that comes with a pear trapped inside the bottle. Not all pear eaux-de-vie employ this eye-catching shtick, but those that do pull off the trick by sticking bottles right on the branches of pear trees when the fruit is just starting to bud. The pear grows in the bottle and the two are harvested together. One can be forgiven for expecting something sugary sweet with luscious ripe fruit sitting there pickled in the brandy. But poire William is classic eau, dry and hot, with just a hint of elusive sweetness.
If you buy a bottle of pear-in-bottle brandy, also be prepared to purchase one of fruit-free poire to keep the fancy one topped up. As long as the pear is fully submerged in the eau-de-vie, it will be preserved, a permanent lab specimen for your bar. But should the brandy level fall to the point that the pear is even the least bit exposed, the fruit will rot and ruin what's left of the spirit.
There are a number of excellent poire William brandies -- with or without fruit -- available in the States. I tried two French versions, Massenez and Trimbach, along with two from artisanal distillers on the West Coast -- California's St. George Spirits and Oregon's Clear Creek Distillery. When I tasted them blind, I found that I preferred the American pair.
The Massenez was so dry that hardly any of the fruit was left in the flavor; there was more pear in the Trimbach, especially when I rolled the spirit forward in my mouth, but it was even hotter with alcohol than the Massenez. St. George's poire William had, by far, the headiest pear perfume, but the taste in the glass -- elegant and smooth as it was -- didn't quite live up to the pronounced nose. The Clear Creek poire William combined a welcoming pear scent with a lovely, mellow and subtle taste of the fruit.
I also tasted several pear liqueurs, all of which leaned toward the simple-sweet. Unlike oranges -- which combine bitter peels with sweet fruit -- pears are just plain sweet, which makes it hard to devise a complex pear liqueur. My favorite of the bunch, the Trimbach liqueur, compensated for the cloying sweetness of the pears by upping the alcohol heat. Most of the liqueurs are bottled at a mild 20% alcohol (40 proof) level. The Trimbach uses more eau-de-vie and less fruit syrup, making for a well-balanced 80-proof spirit.
In between the understated pear eaux-de-vie and the sybaritic liqueurs are a couple of anjou-flavored vodkas from Absolut and Grey Goose. They have a far more pronounced pear flavor than the pear brandies, but the fruit is unnaturally dry in the flavored-vodka manner. Absolut Pears had the more aggressive pear taste of the two, but Grey Goose La Poire was lighter and smoother.
But what to make with all these pear spirits? They have long been neglected in cocktail construction. There are hundreds of drinks that employ orange liqueurs. And not only do plenty of drinks call for sweet cherry "brandies" such as Cherry Heering, there are a number that use the cherry eau-de-vie, kirsch. But hardly anything for the poor pear. A rare exception is the Lennart, a European highball made with pear brandy, lime juice and lemon-lime soda. The moniker is Swedish for "Leonard," and though I don't know whom the drink was named for, I like to imagine it is a tip of the hat to the modern realist artist Lennart Anderson, whose still-life of a pear and a jug is one of his better-known paintings.
In a similar highball vein, I found that pear brandy and pear liqueur together make for a refreshing "rickey" -- a category that combines just about any liquor with fresh lime juice and club soda on the rocks.
Then again, you can't go wrong drinking a good eau-de-vie de poire all by itself, chilled to cellar temperature. Save it for the end of a meal and enjoy it slowly -- the only way you'll get the elusive pears, shy at first, fully to reveal themselves.
By ERIC FELTEN
April 7, 2007; Page P8
• Email me at eric.felten@wsj.com.
Old cocktail books can be particularly confusing when it comes to fruit brandies. Does a recipe calling for "cherry brandy" mean a brandy distilled from fermented cherries, or a liqueur made by macerating cherries in an already distilled spirit and then adding sugar? It will make a big difference in how the cocktail turns out.
The former is what is called an "eau-de-vie," and it is usually colorless (though occasionally eaux-de-vie are aged and take on a slight honeyed hue). The thick sweet stuff can be labeled with the word "liqueur" or "crème" (which, by the way, does not mean that the liqueur has cream in it). The American term "cordial" might also be found on the label. But the simplest cue comes from a peek at what's inside: Liqueurs are generally jewel-toned. This is not, however, a rule. Though I can't think of any candy-colored eaux-de-vie, there are plenty of sweet liqueurs that abjure gaudy dyes -- Cointreau, triple sec, and the clear varieties of such staples as crème de cacao and crème de menthe.
PEAR RICKEY
[Pear Drinks photo]
1 oz pear brandy (eau-de-vie)
1 oz pear liqueur
juice of ½ lime
Build on the rocks in a highball glass and top with soda water. Garnish with the lime shell.
LENNART
1½ oz pear brandy (eau-de-vie) or pear vodka
juice of ½ lime
Build on the rocks in a highball glass and top with lemon-lime soda, such as Sprite or 7UP.
I suspect that the eau-de-vie that has most often surprised the unsuspecting palate is "poire William," in particular that version that comes with a pear trapped inside the bottle. Not all pear eaux-de-vie employ this eye-catching shtick, but those that do pull off the trick by sticking bottles right on the branches of pear trees when the fruit is just starting to bud. The pear grows in the bottle and the two are harvested together. One can be forgiven for expecting something sugary sweet with luscious ripe fruit sitting there pickled in the brandy. But poire William is classic eau, dry and hot, with just a hint of elusive sweetness.
If you buy a bottle of pear-in-bottle brandy, also be prepared to purchase one of fruit-free poire to keep the fancy one topped up. As long as the pear is fully submerged in the eau-de-vie, it will be preserved, a permanent lab specimen for your bar. But should the brandy level fall to the point that the pear is even the least bit exposed, the fruit will rot and ruin what's left of the spirit.
There are a number of excellent poire William brandies -- with or without fruit -- available in the States. I tried two French versions, Massenez and Trimbach, along with two from artisanal distillers on the West Coast -- California's St. George Spirits and Oregon's Clear Creek Distillery. When I tasted them blind, I found that I preferred the American pair.
The Massenez was so dry that hardly any of the fruit was left in the flavor; there was more pear in the Trimbach, especially when I rolled the spirit forward in my mouth, but it was even hotter with alcohol than the Massenez. St. George's poire William had, by far, the headiest pear perfume, but the taste in the glass -- elegant and smooth as it was -- didn't quite live up to the pronounced nose. The Clear Creek poire William combined a welcoming pear scent with a lovely, mellow and subtle taste of the fruit.
I also tasted several pear liqueurs, all of which leaned toward the simple-sweet. Unlike oranges -- which combine bitter peels with sweet fruit -- pears are just plain sweet, which makes it hard to devise a complex pear liqueur. My favorite of the bunch, the Trimbach liqueur, compensated for the cloying sweetness of the pears by upping the alcohol heat. Most of the liqueurs are bottled at a mild 20% alcohol (40 proof) level. The Trimbach uses more eau-de-vie and less fruit syrup, making for a well-balanced 80-proof spirit.
In between the understated pear eaux-de-vie and the sybaritic liqueurs are a couple of anjou-flavored vodkas from Absolut and Grey Goose. They have a far more pronounced pear flavor than the pear brandies, but the fruit is unnaturally dry in the flavored-vodka manner. Absolut Pears had the more aggressive pear taste of the two, but Grey Goose La Poire was lighter and smoother.
But what to make with all these pear spirits? They have long been neglected in cocktail construction. There are hundreds of drinks that employ orange liqueurs. And not only do plenty of drinks call for sweet cherry "brandies" such as Cherry Heering, there are a number that use the cherry eau-de-vie, kirsch. But hardly anything for the poor pear. A rare exception is the Lennart, a European highball made with pear brandy, lime juice and lemon-lime soda. The moniker is Swedish for "Leonard," and though I don't know whom the drink was named for, I like to imagine it is a tip of the hat to the modern realist artist Lennart Anderson, whose still-life of a pear and a jug is one of his better-known paintings.
In a similar highball vein, I found that pear brandy and pear liqueur together make for a refreshing "rickey" -- a category that combines just about any liquor with fresh lime juice and club soda on the rocks.
Then again, you can't go wrong drinking a good eau-de-vie de poire all by itself, chilled to cellar temperature. Save it for the end of a meal and enjoy it slowly -- the only way you'll get the elusive pears, shy at first, fully to reveal themselves.
By ERIC FELTEN
April 7, 2007; Page P8
• Email me at eric.felten@wsj.com.
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