Okay chums, I realize that Saint Patrick’s Day is just around the corner (Monday, I believe), and so many are looking for drinks specifically to celebrate it this weekend and the days around the day. Which is dandy! Though, I am very much of the opinion that you shouldn’t restrict your drinking of Irish-inspired tipples to this time of the year, as there are so many delicious products made there, and so many delicious drinks using said liquid delights. Take the Tipperary, for example. It’s a lesser-known (but should be better known) classic from the 1930s, which combines a nice helping of Irish whisky with two herbally heroes, the sometimes-hard-to-track-down-but-worth-the-tracking Green Chartreuse, along with Punt e’ Mes sweet vermouth (you could sub in another, but the slightly drier Punt e’ Mes goes perfectly here).
Speaking of subbing, you could go subbing in a range of Irish whisky in here, but I’m going with McConnell’s Irish Whisky, which delivers an amiable taste, with vanilla, nutmeg, spice, and a little smokiness. Blended and aged five years in American oak, it plays well with our other bottled partners, and has quite a history, as McConnell’s began whisky making in 1776, before a fire destroyed 500,000 gallons of whisky and a chunk of the distillery itself, not long after which U.S. prohibition came and finished the job. But like a tipsy phoenix, the distillery rose again and began sending out whisky around the world not too many years ago, whisky to be enjoyed any day, and in cocktails like this one.
Not but weeks ago (a short time in the grand scheme of time, which is quite a scheme indeed, and when you think about it, sort-of a mug’s game in a way, but one we can’t get out of, outside of one ending way, much is the pity) I had a variation on The Bobby Burns called The Midshipman Burns. And now, already, I have here another sort-of variation on the theme – but it’s a mighty good theme! This variation takes us a little farther afield, but also, not so far afield. Man, I’m musing today! Which is what happens when you drink a drink as flavortastic as this one, but also one that has a decent-sized wallop of Scotch as the base (going Speyburn single-malt 10 year, which is tasty, and also mixes well while maintaining its Scotch-ness). Makes the mind move, as Mr. Robert Burns himself would agree with. And then our other ingredients, legendary French herbal monk-a-rific liqueur Bénédictine, itself a wonder of time, and spicy, rich, smokey wonder Ancho Reyes chili liqueur, another wondrous number, are such intriguing players on this particular cocktail stage, which bring a very individual nature to this drink, a nature given another highlight via our last ingredient, earthy Peychaud’s bitters. Altogether, they won’t stop time, but they sure will make it more fun to follow.
I was sipping on a Martini with orange bitters added (a classic style of martini-ing) the other night, and while sipping was wracking my brain because I knew I’d read a quote in a classic pulpy book where a couple characters did just that, and it took for until the second cocktail to remember that it was Red Harvest! By legendary Dashiell Hammett! And the Continental Op (one of Hammett’s mainstay detectives) was one of the characters doing said sipping! It’s a grand book, one that any lover of last-century detective-etc. fiction should read, probably while drinking one of these. And while I’ve had the below quote on the Spiked Punch before, well, after the above moments, I decided it should be on here again.
When I came back she was mixing gin, vermouth and orange bitters in a quart shaker, not leaving a lot of space for them to move around in.
“Did you see anything?” she asked.
I sneered at her in a friendly way. We carried the cocktails into the dining room and played bottoms-up while the meal cooked. The drinks cheered her a lot. By the time we sat down to the food she had almost forgotten her fright. She wasn’t a very good cook, but we ate as if she were.
We put a couple of gin-gingerales in on top of the dinner.
I am a little late for suggesting this be a new edition to your Burns Night celebrations, that holiday being January 25th. But you know how the days go. And, honestly, I’m not sure this is a perfect match anyways, for two reasons. Reason one being that the classic cocktail known as The Bobby Burns, which The Midshipman Burns is based one, might not have even been created for the poet Robert Burns, said poet being of course the person celebrated on Burns Night – heck, the cocktail might have been created for a vacuum salesman from Queens or the Bronx. The Bobby Burns cocktail does make a nice accompaniment to the holiday even if it wasn’t originally created for the poet, just due to the base of Scotch, he being famously Scottish. Which brings us to reason two why this take on said cocktail might not be a perfect fit: it changes that Scotch base to a base of dark rum, while keeping some other core ingredients from the drink, so unless Robert Burns spent some time in the Caribbean, it’s probably best I didn’t post this drink on Burns Night, so-as to keep the Burns Night purists from cursing me. However! This is a fine variation on the theme, all poetic connections or not aside, so just drink it tonight, love it, and forget all my ramblings.
The Midshipman Burns
Cracked ice
2-1/2 ounces dark rum
1/2 ounce Carpano Antica
1/2 ounce Bénédictine
Lemon twist, for garnish.
1. Fill a cocktail shaker or mixing glass halfway full with cracked ice. Add the rum, Carpano, and Bénédictine. Stir well.
2. Strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with the lemon twist.
Before jumping to the below Cocktail Talk quote, be sure to peep your peepers on the Skuldoggery Part I Cocktail Talk, to learn more about the mostly satiric, jolly, book itself, and also the author, Fletcher Flora (for that matter, and to see some more serious stuff from the normally noir-ish writer, check out all the past Fletcher Flora Cocktail Talks). Then come back for more from Uncle Homer in the below quote, where he’s dealing with his “grief” Martini-style.
“As his only surviving son,” Uncle Hester said, “I am in no position to deny it. What I am in a position to do, however, is to offer everyone a nice Martini. Father, as you know, was drier than Woodrow Wilson, but I took the opportunity, immediately after his sad departure, to lay in a small stock of gin and vermouth. Just to see me through the difficult days of final arrangements, you understand. It’s in the kitchen and so I’ll just go and mix up a pitcher.”
Poor Harriet, she was so sad, as she didn’t have a partner to sip bubbly cocktails with on Valentine’s Day (it is, by the way, Valentine’s Day today, if you’d forgotten), and was thinking she’d spend the whole day alone, staring out the window, sighing as sad music played in the background. But then she came up with this very drink, with a gin base (London-dry style here I think), and lover’s favorite, the pretty Parfait Amour (which, if you don’t know, is florally with citrus and spice cuddles), a bit of fresh orange juice (brilliant Harriet knows fresh is best), a dash of Peychaud’s bitters, some bubbles in the form of prosecco, and a tiny bit of simple syrup (she wavered a bit here – you might too, and dropping the simple is okay). Once she whipped up this drink, she had offers for days from people wanting to be her valentine. But then she realized spending a day alone and not buying into the corporate holiday is actually quite lovely, and she made herself one of these and enjoyed it immensely.
We’ve had a fair amount of Fletcher Flora Cocktail Talks, he being one of the pulp mag pulpsters I enjoy, and also being one who lived in Kansas, the state I grew up in (though he lived in Leavenworth, which is sorta fitting for someone who wrote a lot about crime), so, you know, connections. Like many who wrote for the mags and pocket-sized books, Mr. Flora’s oeuvre (so to speak) covers a fairly wide spectrum, though I tend to think of him of a slight tad more literary-minded than some, a bit off the beaten track in some of his subjects and narrators and such. But normally, those books of his I’ve read, slot nicely into a wider noir-crime area. Until Skuldoggery! While there may be light crimes committed (against good taste if nothing else), it’s way more a kind of comedic farce, with nearly all of the characters being, to be kind, idiots. There is a death of a patriarch, from natural causes, a rich one naturally. But one who leaves all his money to the care of his dog. A sentiment I can get on board with! But one which his descendants and relatives, a rum lot, aren’t as happy about. Which leads to Cocktail Talk moments, especially from Uncle Homer, who liked his gin even before the death of his father, and who, below, dreams a dream I’ve dreamt before.
Of all the mourners, though, the most impeccably impressive by far was Hester. Throughout the brief ceremony, her eyes were lifted to a cotton cloud drifting slowly across a pale blue sky as if Grandfather were riding it bareback into heaven and her face was so serene and lovely that Uncle Homer, observing it, felt a faint twinge in his leathery heart and was diverted for a few seconds from his dream of a five-to-one Martini.
It is almost silly to have an intro to A Study in Scarlet Cocktail Talk – I mean, is it the most famous detective story of all? Mayyyyybe not, and maybe not even the most famous Sherlock Holmes story (Baskerville, I suppose), but it is the first appearance of the most famous detective ever, and therefore has had not only bunches upon bunches written on it, but numerous versions on screen (and maybe stage?) and take offs and all. But! It is a bit weird and worth mention that even though I love Sherlock (though I wouldn’t call myself a Sherlockian or expert Holmesian or such), I have never had a Cocktail Talk from an ACD (Arthur Conan Doyle, natch) book on the Spiked Punch before – or that I can remember! There are lots of posts. But I was re-reading A Study in Scarlet and a few other Sherlock yarns, and came across the below quote, and figured it was about time the world’s only consulting detective made a showing here – or, at least, a quote from a story featuring him made a showing.
I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,’ he said. ‘My time is from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the White Hart; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o’clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher – him who has the Holland Grove beat – and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin’s Presently – maybe about two or a little after – I thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a-strollin’ down, thinkin’ between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who won’t have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o’ typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the door-‘
