Jeffrey Morgenthaler

Just when I think I’ve run out of things to say, my friends over at Imbibe Magazine drop me a note telling me that there’s a new video up, and it’s almost like the content writes itself.

Hey, here’s a fun way to illustrate karma. If you’ve, say, built a large web presence upon a not-so-generous string of public criticisms of bar-related web videos [1, 2, 3, 4], then one day somebody will ask you to appear in a series of videos yourself.

That’s what happened last month when Imbibe Magazine called me up and stuck it to me by asking that I appear in some instructional videos for their new website. And like a rabbit to a carrot I leapt at the big, bright, orange opportunity called fame.

So grab yourself a scorecard and sit back, relax, and count the screw-ups as I try to demonstrate the difference between shaking and stirring a cocktail:

Speaking of great cocktails made with cachaça, let’s take a moment before the weekend and see what our old friends at the American Bartending School would do when confronted with a bottle of the stuff.

In this segment, we’ll learn how to make the Brazilian classic, the caipirinha (kai-peer-EEN-ya)

1. Announce to your friends that you will be making them a kah-pree-ANN-nah kah-pree-EE-nah kah-pree-EE-nah.

Note: the caipirinha is made with a special type of Brazilian liqueur called cachaça (kuh-CHA-ka, or however it’s pronounced). Like rum, cachaça also comes in different colors.

2. Introduce your friends to the cachaça bottle, then return to its original location. It will not be needed again during the construction of this cocktail.

3. Take your rock glass.

4. Add an undisclosed number of pieces of lime and some simple syrup.

5. Mash limes with a miniature baseball bat.

6. Add ice and top with one ounce of “cachaça”, which is suspiciously identical to the simple syrup bottle.

7. Top with either soda water or sweet-and-sour mix.

8. Enjoy!

Not to be confused with the Spanish wine-and-fruit-based alcoholic beverage sangria, sangrita (meaning “little blood”) is a traditional accompaniment to a tequila served completo; a non-alcoholic sipper that cleanses the palate between fiery doses of agave.

Years ago I was taught that sangrita is a blend of tomato and orange juices, with the addition of something spicy (hot sauce, typically) for a little kick. But further research has convinced me that this American sangrita recipe, while still enjoyable and certainly prevalent, is not altogether authentic.

Real sangrita from the Lake Chapala region of Jalisco is made with Seville orange and pomegranate juices, with powdered chiles added for heat. Taking into account that even the most cocktailian bartender (professional or otherwise) doesn’t typically stock sour oranges or pomegranate juice behind the bar, I’ve worked up a recipe that should approximate the flavor of this spicy little sour orange and pomegranate chaser while still providing an authentic experience.

1 oz orange juice (freshly-squeezed)
¾ oz - 1 oz lime juice (depending on the sweetness of your oranges)
½ oz real pomegranate grenadine
3 dashes hot sauce or ¼ tsp chile powder

Mix ingredients, chill, and serve.

This is far from the final word on sangrita. I’ll still continue to enjoy the tomato varieties (1,2,3), but I think you’ll find a brightness and depth of flavor from this version that plays better with a wider variety of mezcals and tequilas than its heavier gringo cousin.

What’s your experience with sangrita? Chime in with your stories and recipes in the comments section.

Some of you are here to find out how to make my pinot gris reduction for the East of Eden, and as the directions will tell you, you’ll need to reduce the wine by half. But how can you tell when a liquid is reduced by half without pouring it into a measuring cup every five minutes? Here’s what I do:

Before you apply heat to your liquid, dip the end of a wooden spoon into the pot and let it sit there for a few seconds. You know, so that it soaks into the wood a little bit.

Then, using your fingernail or a table knife, make a mark where the liquid level was on the wooden spoon.

Make another mark halfway between your nail mark and the end of the spoon. Now you have a gauge that will tell you when you’re done. When the liquid in the pot is the same height as your halfway mark, you’ve reduced that liquid by half.

A couple of notes:

This is only mildly accurate with straight-sided, flat-bottomed saucepots. Anything with curved or beveled edges won’t quite have the same effect.

This technique works equally well for recipes that call for a liquid to be reduced by two-thirds, or a fourth, or what-have-you. Fingernail your spoon accordingly.

I considered naming this article “How To Take an Order Behind the Bar”, since there seems to be a problem with bartenders and servers not fully understanding the vocabulary used in their workplace. I was reminded of this while reading this thread on the StraightBourbon.com forums some time ago. Yes, there seems to be some confusion about the terms “neat”, “up” (or “straight up”) and “with a twist”, and my goal is to try to help straighten this mess out.

Neat

The first - and simplest - term we’re going to examine is “neat“. “Neat” - as applied to drinks served in bars - refers to a shot of liquor poured directly from the bottle and into a glass. There is no chilling involved with a “neat” drink. There is never an additional ingredient in a drink served “neat”. You can not have a Screwdriver served “neat”. That’s not how we use the word.

Up

If you walk into a bar and order a Dry Martini, “neat”, you might be served a tepid shot of Martini and Rossi Dry Vermouth in a room-temperature glass. That’s how the term “neat” is used. Although you know how much I love vermouth, nothing about that order sounds appetizing. What you were probably looking for was a Dry Martini, served “up. “Up” implies that there was some preparation involved, and that there is no ice in the final product. You can have a Manhattan on the rocks, or I can give it to you “up”.

Straight Up

Where the real confusion lies is with the term “straight up”. Although I don’t know where the choaos began, these days there is a bit of conversation required when that phrase is used.

Let’s say you order a Wild Turkey, “straight up”. Your bartender should assume you mean that you want your bourbon “neat”, and serve it as so. However, if you were looking for a chilled shot of whiskey in a cocktail glass, you probably should have dropped the “straight” and asked for your drink “up”. And if, as a bartender, you’ve received an order for a Ketel One “straight up”, you should probably check with your customer to make sure they’re looking for chilled vodka and vermouth, and not a glass of warm vodka.

Twist

The third term that causes some confusion on both sides of the bar is the word “twist”. I’ve ordered a gin martini with a twist (my preferred garnish) and received a big wedge of lemon on the side of the glass. I’ve taken an order for a gin and tonic with a twist, and had the drink sent back because I garnished with a thin strip of citrus peel. A delicate blend of gin and vermouth, the Martini is ruined by a big squeeze of lemon juice. Conversely, the bold flavors of a gin and tonic need more than a light spritzing of lemon or lime oils on the surface of the drink.

To recap:

Neat: Right out of the bottle.
Up: Chilled, and served in a cocktail glass.
Straight Up: Usually means “neat”, but check first.
Twist: A thin strip of citrus peel. Default is lemon.

As far as I’m concerned, springtime is Dark and Stormy season. As the rain pummels the ground here in the Pacific Northwest, a little window of blue sky nestled between two dark clouds in the neighboring distance makes me wish I were watching the rain fall from across a dark ocean, my little Caribbean fishing boat safe and sound under that warm patch of sunlight.

I’d fill a tall glass with ice and a generous dose of Gosling’s Black Seal rum from Bermuda, then reach into a wooden crate and withdraw a chilly little bottle of homemade ginger beer. I’d sip the cloudy mixture of liquid sunshine and sweet, dark nectar while I mindlessly squeezed a fresh lime into the glass. Feet: Up.

The problem with living in Oregon when this mood strikes is the absence of little wooden shacks that sell cases of fresh ginger beer stacked on back porches. But with some readily-available ingredients, a recipe I’ve been revising for several years - and a few free minutes - I can easily transport myself to that little fishing boat on the sea.

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I own a small library of books on the subject of bartending. Some of these books are geared toward the professional bartender, while others are written for the home mixologist. But regardless of the intended audience, almost every book I own heartily recommends that we use paring knives for cutting fruits and garnishes. The Art of the Bar, The Joy of Mixology, The Craft of the Cocktail, Larousse Cocktails, The Bartender’s Black Book, they all say the same thing: that a 4-inch paring knife is the right tool for the job.

But for my money (and the safety of my hands), there’s no better knife than a nine-inch, serrated, offset-handled sandwich sword.

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