Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. I have to confess, I sometimes feel like I’m in a rut. I make a lot of drinks that blur together as the night rolls on at the bar. When I write about cocktails, sometimes the margaritas and Mai Tais all feel the same. But just when I thought I’d seen it all, something utterly unexpected crosses my desk. How does a breakfast cocktail made with Guinness and sweetened condensed milk strike you? Let’s make a Guinness Punch. Here’s the recipe.

Surprisingly, this isn’t an Irish recipe — it’s Jamaican. Some of the best Jamaican classic recipes reflect the island’s history as an English colony. Soft buns filled with guava paste, Indian curries laden with turmeric and Scotch bonnet peppers, Christmas cakes made with dried fruit and fiery Jamaican rum — the island’s history is written all over the dinner table. The latest cultural wave to impact Jamaican cuisine is Ital, a Rastafarian interpretation of a vegan diet. Local cuisines always grow and change. In Mexico, you can find taco recipes rooted in Aztec cuisine. You can also drink micheladas topped with gummy bears. “Real” local food is always a moving target.

Guinness beer has passed through Jamaica to foreign ports for centuries. It’s no surprise that the locals have taken a shine to it, even if they drink it in some unique ways. In 1801, Guinness started shipping beer to the Caribbean. The stout survived the trip from Ireland to the Caribbean; Guinness brewed a special “West Indies Porter” with extra hops and extra booze that locals loved. “Guinness punch” was a quick, simple version of the punch plantation owners served hot — something to keep blue-collar workers moving through the day.

In 2026, you can find quick-and-dirty versions of Guinness Punch that incorporate Supligen, a breakfast drink that reminds me of Carnation Instant Breakfast. I’m not an enthusiastic fan of using canned who-knows-what in my cocktails, even if it is supposed to be healthy. This version came from Andre Fowles, author of My Jamaican Table (Wonkette affiliate link). His version skips the overnight wait, but I found that letting the cocktail sit helps the oats soften and puree more smoothly. I think the oats might be Mr. Fowles’s innovation, but I definitely enjoy the heartiness they add to the drink ... even if I sometimes end up chewing the beverage.

Beer for breakfast is certainly … a choice, but not quite as strange as it might seem. A low-proof radler with raspberry syrup is a classic light, refreshing German sipper. Craft breweries have been happily cranking out breakfast-flavored beer for quite some time. It’s not hard to find a bacon-flavored beer, and I’ve seen breakfast cereal-flavored beers on the shelves. I’d be remiss not to mention Brewnuts, a Cleveland institution where you can buy quality craft donuts and craft beer under the same roof. But in the end, I like how this cocktail approaches the whole “beer for breakfast” conundrum. Hearty, bittersweet Guinness melts into the sweet dairy and heavy oats to make a drink that shouldn’t taste good, but somehow goes down easy. As my wife says, “breakfast food is food you eat at breakfast time.” I suppose the same goes for breakfast beverages.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Guinness Beer: Any solid stout, like Left Hand’s Milk Stout Nitro, works great here. Founders makes a coffee-flavored oatmeal breakfast stout that would be amazing.

Whole milk: Use whatever milk substitute you like. Almond or oat milk would be great choices.

Sweetened condensed milk: I am an absolute sucker for sweetened condensed milk; I’ll eat it by the spoonful if given the chance. Surprisingly, vegan alternatives to sweetened condensed milk are also extremely tasty and work well in most recipes. Use whatever works for your diet.

Quick Oats: Quick oats are simply oats that have been chopped up to make them cook more quickly. They’re an ideal choice for this recipe. Don’t use whole oats unless you want to give your blender a workout.

Spices: The fresher the better. Accept no substitutes.

My home bar is Hemingway’s Underground, the hottest cocktail bar in pretty little Medina, Ohio. I’m behind the stick Wednesday-Saturday, 4-10. Last call’s at midnight. Swing on by, and I’ll make this drink for you… or anything else from our little Happy Hour here at Wonkette. We’ll make it through this together.

OPEN THREAD!

Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. And regrettably, I haven’t finished my homework for this column. I’m working on a new cocktail for the fall menu, but I’m not entirely satisfied with how it’s going. Let me show you the work in progress and ask for your suggestions. Here’s the recipe as it stands so far:

This cocktail comes from my love of one of my favorite liquor pairings: rye whiskey and Cynar. [Rebecca here, I LOVE CYNAR TOO! I had it in Rome and it is my favorite and nobody else in the house will drink it, too bitter, so MORE FOR ME!]

I was introduced to this combo back when I worked at The Spotted Owl, and I’m still infatuated with it. Don’t panic when someone tells you Cynar is made from artichokes. That’s just the foundation. This amaro is complex, bittersweet, and somehow interlaces with dark, peppery rye whiskey in a way that sends shivers down my spine. A shot of Cynar and Sazerac is my second-favorite way to start a shift (right behind a slug of Fernet Branca).

I had intended to expand that lovely little shot into a full cocktail for fall — something savory and rich, a Thanksgiving cocktail, something to fill the gap between Halloween and New Year’s. But distractions from that core mission kept pulling me away from the drink’s core concept until I finally ran out of time. This final result seems right, but I still want to fiddle with the ratios and garnish. And the name. This cocktail's name absolutely needs work.

Let’s start with the rye whiskey. We have some orphans in our liquor room right now — some stunning bottles from Archer Eland Whiskey. Wendy Peveich, the master distiller, created some glorious rye whiskeys with beautiful floral notes and bold pepper finishes. They’re delicious. They’re amazing. They’re 126 proof. Even after mixing, they read as hot and ethanol-forward. I badly want to feature this beautiful liquor in a cocktail, but I need to spend a few weeks coaxing out its charms into a drink most customers can enjoy.

Then there’s the plum shrub. We made up a delicious plum shrub from the leftover fruit after a wine dinner earlier in the year. It was tart, nuanced, and felt like the perfect way to capture fall flavors. Plums are underappreciated in American cuisine, and they’re much more interesting than cranberries. Then I was reminded that the wine dinner we hosted was in July … and that plum shrub was well past its prime. I’m tempted to buy some prune juice and try to recreate that shrub someday. But I’m out of time now.

There’s also the issue of bitters. We have some pretty wild bitters lurking in Hemingway’s cabinet. I’m a little obsessed with a bottle of Scarborough Bitters someone gave us — that’s “Scarborough” as in “parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme flavored”, if you were wondering. I’ve been dying to find a proper application for them. Unfortunately, this cocktail isn’t it. Good old Angostura bitters, with its classic baking spice notes, is the way to go here.

Finally, the name. The Spotted Owl cocktail that inspired me to make this drink was called the “Whiskey Fix.” “Fix” is a pretty generic cocktail name, usually for whiskey-and-grenadine drinks. I haven’t tried grenadine in this drink yet, but I’m considering it as I type. (Yes, developing this drink feels like a constant stream of “Look! Squirrel!” moments.) I’m opening the floor to the comments to help me find a better name.

Tip your Wonkettes

Let’s talk (current) ingredients:

Sazerac Rye: Sazerac is my go-to rye whiskey; I love me a Sazerac cocktail dearly. A denser, more peppery rye like Rittenhouse would be better here. Don’t use bourbon or Irish whiskey here; the sweetness won’t cooperate with the rest of the ingredients. A blended Scotch like Monkey Shoulder would be interesting.

Cynar: Non-negotiable. If you love whiskey, go get some. You’ll thank me later.

Chambord: This is occupying the space that the plum shrub would have gone into. I’m using crème de mûre in the photo, but Chambord is similar and probably easier for most readers to get. Crème de cassis or homemade grenadine would both be options. Don’t use Rose’s Grenadine. Please don’t tell me you have any of that bright red goo in your home. I respect you more than that.

Lemon Juice: Acid to balance the Chambord/creme de cassis/grenadine/what have you. In a moment of desperation, I asked AI what to make of this pile of ingredients. It suggested grapefruit juice instead of lemon juice. Grapefruit juice is terrible in this cocktail. Never trust AI to write a cocktail.

Angostura bitters: Or maybe cocoa bitters? With some orange bitters? Sigh. I need an extra week or two to work on this.

OPEN THREAD!

Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. It’s finally fall, and in Ohio that means apple season. I’ve struggled to find a good apple-flavored cocktail in the past, but this recipe, dating back to 1862, fits the bill nicely. My wife and I both prefer hard cider over beer as a fizzy canned alcoholic beverage. A recipe that celebrates this lovely drink is well worth your time. Let’s make a Jersey. Here’s the recipe.

“Professor” Jerry Thomas was the first great American bartender. A wanderer, a bon vivant, and an impeccable showman, Jerry worked at some of America’s finest hotels, wowing crowds with his diamond-studded bar tools and flaming cocktails. He also wrote the first American cocktail book, How to Mix Drinks: Or, The Bon Vivant’s Companion. (Wonkette affiliate link!) Jerry first recorded the Jersey recipe in this volume. Decades later, David Wondrich wrote a companion book to the “Professor’s” Bible called Imbibe! In that volume, Mr. Wondrich had little to say about the drink: “It’s an honest, straightforward drink. Let that be its recommendation.”

Mr. Wondrich’s book was the first cocktail book to win a James Beard award, and it takes a bit of chutzpah on my part to critique him. But Imbibe! was written in 2007, and hard cider quality in America has improved drastically since then. I can get Angry Orchard anywhere, and it’s pretty darn tasty. Your local craft brewery probably has a nice hard cider on the menu. I asked the bartender at Masthead Brewing Company to whip up this version of the Jersey using their house-made semi-dry cider, and it was absolutely delicious.

Apple brandy and apple cider are profoundly American, dating back to Colonial times. Turning your apple crop into a high-value product with a long shelf life was a smart move for any farmer; the Founding Fathers made plenty of cider. John Chapman, aka Johnny Appleseed, was in the cider business as much as the apple-tree business. German beer makers eventually stole the fizzy-beverage market from American cider, but the modern craft beer movement has welcomed hard cider with open arms.

I’d view this cocktail as a template, not a final destination. It’s fundamentally an Old Fashioned made with cider instead of bourbon. There are a ton of classic drinks built using this core recipe. The Sherry Cobbler and Champagne cocktail are simply sherry or champagne, bitters, and soda. The recipe immediately following the Jersey in Jerry Thomas’s book is a “Soda Cocktail,” which is simply seltzer, bitters, and sugar. We can take the Jersey’s apple-forward recipe and play with it to our liking. If you want to lower the proof, there’s no reason not to omit the applejack and just pour cider, bitters, and sugar. It’d be a great way to take an average cider — like Angry Orchard — and make it even better. You can also use another spirit, like rye whiskey, bourbon, or dark rum, instead of applejack to enhance the drink. Or make this drink almost entirely non-alcoholic by using fresh cider instead of hard cider. The bitters add a small amount of alcohol, but it’s not enough to notice. As always, there are no rules. Drink what you like.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Tom Foolery Apple Jack: Real talk: This is the only applejack I’ve ever tasted that was worth pouring. Watershed here in Ohio makes an apple brandy. It’s awful — musty, dry, and zero apple flavor. If you are lucky enough to live in a state that has Clavados, please use it here and tell me how good it is. I’ll be jealous.

Angostura Bitters: The “Professor” didn’t specify what sort of bitters to use. Angostura is the default, but try spiced cherry bitters or dandelion bitters and see how it tastes.

Demerara syrup: 2:1 Sugar in the Raw/water, heated on the stovetop until the sugar has melted. Sugar is the tricky part of this cocktail. If the cider is sweet, don’t add much sugar. You might want to omit this entirely depending on the drink.

Cider: A semi-dry cider is the best choice by far. Use what you like, but adjust the bitters-to-sugar ratio to suit your taste.

OPEN THREAD!

Welcome back to my global baking expedition. We’ve heading to Italy this month, specifically to Sicily, home of the mafia and delicious pastries. Hop on a train at any of the major train stations in Italy, and travel down to Villa San Giovanni station in Calabria, where the train is transferred onto a ferry to Messina. Stand on the deck of the ferry and watch as the island comes into view and participate in the time honoured tradition of eating arancini from the vendors on board as the ferry approaches the port.

Now we’ve whetted our appetite, we can begin our quest for something sweeter: the deliciously sweet, cheese filled, fried pastry tubes that are Sicilian cannoli. Or, if actually making the journey to the birthplace of cannoli is not an option, we can make our own and imagine the rest. I like to imagine sitting outside a little pasticceria, watching the world go by as I eat delicious tubes of pastry, stuffed with mascarpone and ricotta. Sadly, the daydreams had to wait, I needed to actually make the cannoli first. I will tell you right now, I have a new appreciation for the upper body strength of the Italian nonna: Between making pasta and rolling cannoli dough, those ladies must be absolute units. If you want to bake this recipe, I recommend a pasta machine or the patience and endurance of a saint. You’ll also need some cannoli tubes if you want to fry them in the traditional manner. If this isn’t an option, you can make them in an air-fryer or oven, using tubes made from rolled up kitchen (aluminum) foil, which is what I did after I was unable to locate my cannoli tubes. I figured attempting to deep fry kitchen foil might do a bit more than blow the bloody doors off (all credit to Sir Michael Caine for the best delivery of that line).

A Little Slice Of History

The origins of cannoli trace back to the Saracen rule of Sicily between the 9th and 11th centuries. The Arabs contributed sugar, almonds, candied citrus, and many of the spices which are used in the traditional varieties of cannoli, while the Normans (from Normandy, France) introduced ricotta cheese. Legend has it that cannoli were first created in the Sicilian province of Caltanissetta, either by the harem of Qalc’at al-Nissa (possibly as a phallic-shaped tribute to the sultan), or by the nuns of a local convent. Whatever their origins, their phallic shape led to them becoming a staple of Carnevale, likely as a fertility symbol. They continue to be sold during Carnevale even now, with a variety of sizes available, usually between 2 and 8 inches in length. Although known the world over as cannoli, the correct term for just one is a cannolo, but who could possibly limit themselves to eating just one, right? Their name comes from the river canes (canna, meaning ‘cane’ or ‘tube’) which were originally used to form the tube shaped pastries and enabled them to hold their shape while they were fried. The cannolo/i made its way to the USA from Sicily in the 1880s, during the great Sicilian Migration, yet another example of the huge benefits of immigration. Interestingly, tradition has it that when serving cannoli to guests, there should be at least 12 cannoli on the plate (not that there will be 12 on the plate for long), and in the Neapolitan tradition of interpreting dreams using numbers, the number 34 is known as il Cannolo and is an omen of good news.

There are many varieties of cannoli; some are decorated with candied citrus or chocolate chips, spiced with cinnamon, dipped in chocolate, covered with pistachio, or even filled with cream or set custard. The Sicilian migrants who brought the dish to the USA adjusted their traditional recipes to suit American tastes, and I intend to take a leaf out of their book and make my own recipes. You should feel free to do the same. I’ve opted to make 3 varieties of cannoli today: a Raspberry Cheesecake-inspired cannoli, a Cherry Bakewell variety, and a Lemon, White Chocolate, and Pistachio version (my daughter’s favourite).

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For fellow members of the Dead Pancreas Society, your carbohydrates for this recipe are 187g for the entire recipe. Individual portions will depend on the diameter of the pastry discs you use to make your cannoli shells and any extra fruit, jam, or nuts added to the filling. I made 18 cannoli using a 3-inch cookie cutter and adding 2 tbsp of jam or lemon curd after splitting the dough and filling into thirds. This results in 6 cannoli of each variety at around 13g of carbs for each cannolo.

Your Ingredients

The Important Bit

Start your preparation the day before you intend to make your cannoli by making the filling. Begin by straining as much liquid as possible from your ricotta using a fine sieve or muslin. In a bowl, mix together your ricotta (250g), mascarpone (100g) and confectioners sugar (2 tbsp). Cover and leave in the fridge overnight to infuse.

The next day, mix your dry ingredients (150g flour, 1 tbsp sugar, pinch of baking soda) in a large mixing bowl. Cut your butter (30g) into small cubes and add to the dry mix, use your fingers to rub the butter into the dry ingredients until they look like fine breadcrumbs.

Separate your egg and retain both the yolk and the whites. Into the yolk, add your Marsala wine (50ml) and mix well.

Pour the egg yolk-Marsala mix into the bowl with your dry ingredients and use your hands to combine them. Knead this mixture until it forms a smooth dough (at least 10 minutes).

Roll out your dough using a rolling pin or pasta machine until it is thin enough to begin looking transparent (about level 6 on a pasta machine). I find the best way to do this is to break the dough into smaller portions and chill any dough not being rolled in the fridge until it is needed.

If frying, heat your oil to 350 F / 180 C, or preheat your air fryer or oven to 390 F / 200 C.

Lightly oil your cannoli tubes (if you don’t have any cannoli tubes, roll some aluminum foil into small tubes approximately as thick as your index finger). Cut out discs of pastry dough using your cookie cutter and wrap them around your cannoli tube until they overlap. Seal the cannoli where the edges overlap using a little egg white. Brush the outside of your cannoli shells with a little egg white. If cooking in an air fryer or oven, lightly spray them with oil.

Fry your cannoli shells for 30-45 seconds or until they are a golden brown colour. For the air fryer or oven this takes around 5 minutes.

Remove the shells from the fryer or oven and allow them to cool for a few minutes before carefully sliding them off the cannoli tubes / aluminum foil rolls. Set aside to cool fully.

Melt your chocolate in a bain marie or microwave then dip the ends of your cannoli tubes in the melted chocolate before rolling them in crushed nuts or crumbled shortbread. Place on a sheet of baking paper and allow to cool completely, or place the cannoli tubes in the freezer for 10-15 minutes to set the chocolate. I combined white chocolate with crushed pistachios for the Lemon cannoli, white chocolate and crumbled shortbread for the Raspberry Cheesecake cannoli, and dark chocolate and crushed almonds for the Cherry Bakewell cannoli.

You’ll want to wait until the last minute to fill the cannoli as they are best served right after filling so that the shells retain their crunch. Simply warm any jam you are using (lemon curd for the Lemon cannoli, raspberry jam for the Raspberry Cheesecake cannoli, and cherry jam for the Cherry Bakewell cannoli) in the microwave for 20 seconds then mix the jam through the chilled ricotta and mascarpone mixture. Use your piping bag and star shaped nozzle to pipe the filling into the cannoli shells.

Serve immediately with an appropriately Italian beverage and imagine yourself sat outside that little Sicilian pasticceria.

I’ll be back next month, when I’ll be heading to Germany to sample some of their world famous bread. Sprechen sie Deutsch?

Until then,

Share joy, share love, share cakes.

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Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. We’re starting some renovations at Hemingway’s. Our initial focus was on opening and creating a welcoming space for guests. Now we’re starting to focus on what kind of space this will be. Hemingway’s will definitely have some fern bar vibes going forward; the place’s sophistication level is steadily growing. With that in mind, I think it’s time to visit some fern-bar-style cocktails for the menu. Let’s focus in on the Espresso Martini. It wasn’t a fern bar drink, but it should have been — and it’s fern-bar material today. Here’s the recipe.

I love the espresso martini’s origin story. Legend has it the original espresso martini was created in 1983 by London-based bartender Dick Bradsell at Fred’s Club. A young, well-known fashion model came into the bar and specifically asked for a drink that would “wake me up and f**k me up.” Mr. Bradsell refused to name the supermodel. He made broad allusions, but maintained his professional discretion and kept his peace. The best guesses so far are Kate Moss or Naomi Campbell. If it was Kate Moss, things would be a bit awkward. She was only 16 back in 1983. Bradsell died in 2016, and he took the secret to the grave with him — along with his unbesmirched liquor license.

What I find interesting is that the fern bar concept was well underway when Mr. Bradsell made his martini. The first fern bar opened in 1965 in the heart of NYC’s East Side. Alan Stillman, the owner, had a vision: If you wanted to pick up girls at bars, build a bar that girls would want to go to. He built a place with pastel walls, bright, clean decor, and ferns hanging from the ceiling. That place was TGI Friday’s, and to put it mildly, it did quite well.

In theory, you could order an espresso martini at TGI Friday’s, or a similar fern bar. In practice, that was unlikely. Vintage menus from the ‘80s at TGI Fridays listed wine and brunch mimosas (and Ramos Gin Fizzes, God help us all), but no cocktails. The espresso martini was big in the ‘80s and ‘90s, but it is undeniably a gangbuster of a cocktail in 2026. When a guest doesn’t know what to order, they order an espresso martini. Every bar can make an espresso martini. They fill a place in the ecosystem of a bar’s menu that makes sense in a fern-bar context. They’re sophisticated, approachable, straightforward, and tasty. Women often order them, but men drink them happily as well. They’re an ideal date cocktail — the definition of a fern-bar drink.

With all that in mind, I wanted to write an elevated cocktail that beats the local competition handily. Let’s talk ingredients:

Zaya Rum: Dick Bradswell used vodka as his base spirit. It was the ‘80s. Vodka was king. We can do better. This dark, sweet rum supports the espresso beautifully, but it’s too intense to carry the cocktail by itself.

OYO Honey Vanilla Bean Vodka: It’s hard to find a vanilla vodka that isn’t a sugar bomb. This locally made vodka out of Columbus isn’t too sugary and brings honey notes to the drink. I’d recommend Absolut Vanilla as a substitute.

Fresh Cold Espresso: Cold brew concentrate is a poor substitute for real espresso. It makes a flat martini that’s missing the signature head of foam that makes for a great cocktail. I’ve used cold brew and chemical foaming agents like Fee’s Foam in my country club days. It’s not as good as the real thing.

Mr. Black Coffee Liqueur: Dick Bradswell used a couple of different coffee liqueurs in his version of the drink, including Galliano coffee liqueur. (Yech. No. Don’t.) We use Mr. Black’s at Hemingway’s. It’s excellent. Don’t use Kahlua. It’s not excellent. At all.

Demerara syrup: Sugar In The Raw and water, 2:1 ratio. Heat on the stovetop until the sugar melts. Keeps forever in the fridge. (Sidebar: I tried everything in this part of the cocktail, looking for something magic. Cinnamon syrup? Nice, but a touch too “Christmas.” A bartender I trust suggested soy sauce, of all things. I don’t trust that bartender anymore. It was vile.)

OPEN THREAD!

Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. I saw a comment last week asking for “what to have in your tiny little at-home bar”. It’s a reasonable question. I’ve been thinking about it. I finally concluded that it’s a bad question. You don’t need a tiny little at-home bar. You need a bar cart. Let me explain (and rattle off some recipes along the way, because it has, yet again, been a hella week).

American bars are, culinarily speaking, fairly odd places. A decent bar is expected to produce just about every alcoholic drink possible. Okay, okay, dive bars aren’t in that category; when you’re in a dive, you get a cold beer, and you’re grateful for it. But Hemingway’s has a menu of twenty cocktails. Most people order one of those twenty. But sometimes they don’t. And no matter how buck-wild those off-menu requests get, we’re expected to pull it together. Just last week, a customer asked for sangria. I pulled this together on the fly:

Quick Sangria

1 oz. lime juice

1 oz. pineapple juice

½ oz. lemon juice

½ oz. simple syrup

1 oz. brandy

Whatever red wine is open and isn’t too expensive

Shake all ingredients but the red wine. Strain into an iced wine glass. Top with red wine. Garnish with every piece of fruit you have in the garnish tray. Serve.

And that isn’t even the craziest thing I’ve been asked to serve. One bright-eyed, bushy-tailed customer asked me for a Ramos Gin Fizz. I did not hit them. I did turn to Alex - a beautiful, talented bartender who’s built like an Amazon - and whimper slightly. Two solid minutes of shaking is a bit much to ask for at this point in my career.

Ramos Gin Fizz

2 oz. Citadelle gin

½ oz. lemon juice

½ oz. lime juice

1 oz. heavy cream

1 oz. simple syrup

1 egg white

Club soda

Pour 1 oz, heavy cream into a Collins glass. Put the remaining cream in the freezer to chill.

Add all remaining ingredients, except for the club soda, to a cocktail shaker. Shake the cocktail for 30-35 seconds. Strain the cocktail into the small tin. Dump the ice out of the other tin.

Look at Alex with puppy eyes and ask her to shake the cocktail for 1 full minute. Remove the Collins glass from the freezer. Pour the cocktail into the glass with one hand, while pouring club soda into the glass with the other hand. Ideally, two equal streams of fluid should meet and merge before they reach the bottom of the glass. Swearing is permitted.

Stop pouring when the foam reaches the top of the glass. Put the glass back into the freezer for 2-3 minutes. Poke a hole in the foam with a straw and slowly pour soda water into the hole until the head reaches an inch over the lip of the glass. Sigh in relief.

My point here is that a good bar is built to do it all. You don’t go into a Greek restaurant and order tacos, but a bar’s expected to make margaritas, Manhattans, and everything in between. We’ve got hundreds of bottles, and a huge amount of talent. We can do pretty much everything. Your home bar cannot, and should not, try to do everything. I suppose that you could build a decent rail bar at home - one bottle each of cheap tequila, rum, bourbon, gin, and vodka so you could make one-and-ones for unexpected guests. But it’s 2026. Who the hell has unexpected guests anymore? More to the point, why should you have the ingredients for every possible drink at home? Your pantry’s stocked to make your favorite foods. Your bar should be built the same way.

Instead of a “tiny little at-home bar”, I’d suggest building a bar cart for your day drinking. Bar carts are the epitome of upper-crust mid-century elegance. They were probably descended from English tea trolleys; unsurprisingly, Americans took a genteel tradition and inserted booze into it. For a brief, shining moment, it was considered the height of civilization to wheel out a little cart and assemble a martini for a lady guest at the drop of a hat. Bar carts died in the ‘70s with the death of cocktail culture. It’s time to bring them back.

You aren’t obligated to go all out on your bar cart. You aren’t even obligated to make martinis - a margarita cart sounds amazing. You just need to be focused. Don’t try to buy the supplies to make all the drinks for everybody. Buy the booze, fixings, and tools needed to make your favorite drink, in any room of the house, whenever the mood strikes you. You won’t break the bank buying booze you’ll never drink, and you’ll find it easy to experiment and upgrade the cocktail you love best.

If I were building a martini cart from scratch, I’d start by thrifting a bar cart, mostly because that would be fun in its own right. To my immense surprise, you can buy a nice bar cart online for under $50. Grab yourself some nice tools - an ice bucket and tongs are a must, as well as a good bar spoon and stirring vessel. For ingredients, I’d roll with something like this:

Bombay Sapphire Gin

Citadelle J’Ardin Gin

Tito’s Vodka (pint)

Dolin Dry Vermouth

Olive Brine

Sea Salt

Lemon zest

…and see where the spirit moves you from there. The point is to focus on what you love and give yourself the tools to experiment. Make your favorite drink. Make it better. Serve it to your friends. Show them why they should love it, too. Don’t try to please everyone. Please yourself first, and bring your friends along for the journey.

My home bar is Hemingway’s Underground, the hottest cocktail bar in pretty little Medina, Ohio. I’m behind the stick Wednesday-Saturday, 4-10. Last call’s at midnight. Swing on by, and I’ll make this drink for you… or anything else from our little Happy Hour here at Wonkette. We’ll make it through this together.

OPEN THREAD!

Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. I like to start these articles on Monday or Tuesday, but sometimes inspiration strikes, and I need to strike while the iron is hot. In this case, inspiration struck on Wednesday, when Evan artfully described Kash Patel’s explanation of how “nothing weird is happening, they’re just changing the rules so that people who were kidnapped by lusty bonobos in a past life are not being discriminated against in the FBI’s hiring process.”

Well. With an opening like that, how could I resist? Let’s make a Lusty Bonobo tonight, folks. God knows we need something strong after this week. Here’s the recipe.

This is a Bananas Foster cocktail — it tastes almost exactly like the dessert. It’s somewhat unique as a stirred, spirit-forward dessert cocktail; most sweet after-dinner cocktails are shaken and cream-based. We’ve listed it on the menu at Hemingway’s as a “Bananas Foster Manhattan” because we build it the same way as that classic whiskey cocktail. This isn’t quite as sweet as a chocolate martini, but I’d still prefer it with some flan or cookies instead of a plate of pasta.

The Internet has completely failed me when it comes to explaining this cocktail’s origins. Back in 2025, I saw an Instagram post from a bar in Mexico City describing this drink. I believe that the bar was named “Legacy.” I remember the original cocktail was garnished with a small chocolate bar shaped like a yellow LEGO brick. But I can’t find any sign of that bar online now. All I know is that I saw the basic ingredients back then and thought, “I can reverse-engineer that for Hemingway’s.”

This drink has two key ingredients. The first is the cachaça — a Brazilian rum made with raw sugarcane juice. Cachaça is extremely funky, very similar to Jamaican rum but much less fiery. I’ll tell customers that cachaça tastes like “overripe bananas and feet,” and while that seems daunting, it grows on you quickly. There’s a simple cocktail called the “El Draque” that highlights the spirit — nothing but cachaça, sugar, and muddled limes, basically a rustic daiquiri. I’d strongly recommend trying it sometime if you want to explore the weird corners of rum as a spirit. In this drink, the overripe tropical fruit — the “hogo” — melds perfectly with the creme de banana to emphasize the tropical fruit flavors of the drink.

The other key component is sweet sherry. Sherry is a fortified Spanish wine that has a sweet, nutty taste that enhances all sorts of rum and tequila cocktails. The sherry we use at Hemingway’s is super sweet, but extremely flavorful. I love the rich nuttiness sherry brings to a cocktail, but I have to fight down the sugar levels whenever I incorporate it into a drink. This is a dessert cocktail, so sweetness isn’t too much of an issue.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Leblon Cachaça: Feel free to use other brands of cachaça; this is one of the few that’s available to me in Ohio. Use Wray and Nephew with extreme caution if you have plans for the rest of the evening. Haitian clairin is an option, but it’s deceptively strong; the last cocktail I made using clairin deprived me of the power of speech for an hour. (My wife was unamused.)

Crème de Banana: The better the brand, the better the cocktail. Gifford is the gold standard. Use 99 Bananas in a pinch.

Crème de Cacao: Always use the clear stuff; dark crème de cacao is clear cacao with brown food coloring. When you use crème de cacao in moderation, it doesn’t read as “chocolate.” Instead, it provides an earthy sweetness that’s entrancing in all sorts of cocktails.

Fino Sherry: Get the best you can afford. It lasts for months in your liquor cabinet. You won’t regret it.

Send a drink to a friend and OPEN THREAD!

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Would you believe me if I told you it’s been 10 years since I last had a holiday (or “vacation” for all of you on the other side of the Atlantic)? I don’t get to travel much, mostly because finding pet care is kind of expensive. I’m not about to let a little thing like that prevent me from exploring the world though, not when I can re-create the food of the world in my own kitchen. To that end, I have decided to defy the technocrats of the world and reclaim the internet for the purpose for which it was intended — to expand access to information and culture, and thus, to bring the world closer together. It has long been said that nothing brings people together more than food. With that aim in mind, I’m starting something new: I’m making it my mission to re-create a baking recipe from as many cultures as I can, with the aim of travelling around the world through my baking — cheaper, and more environmentally sustainable than travelling by plane.

For my first excursion, we’re heading to the Caucasus in Eastern Europe, to the beautiful country of Georgia, formerly part of the USSR. Their national dish is Khachapuri, a leavened bread stuffed with cheese.

A Slice Of History

Khachapuri has a very long history, dating to at least the 11th Century, and possibly even further back than that. One school of thought is that Khachapuri is actually a precursor to pizza and arrived in Georgia via the Byzantine empire. There are no significant historical events tied directly to the origins of Khachapuri, however, its reputed 11th century origin coincides with the Georgian Renaissance, a period of cultural prosperity which predated the European Renaissance by around 300 years. There is just something perfect about the idea that a cultural Renaissance coincided with eating hot cheese stuffed bread, it’s just so incredibly ... human. One of the central figures of the Georgian Renaissance is Tamar the Great, who ruled as Georgia’s first female monarch from 1184 to 1213, overseeing a period of military, cultural, and economic growth which led to the saying that in Georgia the peasants lived like nobles, the nobles lived like princes, and the princes lived like kings.

Tamar is a fascinating figure, having overcome the resistance of the Georgian nobility to the idea of a female ruler to eventually become one of the most successful monarchs the country had ever seen. Tamar’s position as ruler was secured in part through the pragmatic actions of her father, George III, who made her co-ruler during the later years of his reign to secure the succession after dealing with a rebellion of the nobility and an attempt to replace him as king with his fraternal nephew, Demna. George’s way of dealing with this attempted coup was gruesome and effective; the noble who led the coup, Ivane Orbeli, was executed, and then George had Demna castrated and blinded to extinguish his line and prevent future insurrection attempts. Demna did not survive this mutilation, dying in prison soon after it was carried out.

There are many varieties of Khachapuri as each region of Georgia has its own variety. For this recipe, I’ll be making the most widespread version, Imeruli Khachapuri, a fairly simple variety from the Imereti region of western Georgia. Making the traditional version of this recipe requires access to two varieties of Georgian cheese which are almost impossible to find outside of Georgia, however the cheeses in question (Imeruli cheese, and Sulguni) can be approximated by combining Mozzarella and Feta. This combination creates an almost cottage cheese-like texture, if this is not a texture you find palatable, I’d suggest using just Mozzarella for the filling.

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For fellow members of the Dead Pancreas Society, your total carbohydrates for this recipe are 166.5g for the whole recipe, it will comfortable serve 4 at 41.6g of carbohydrates per portion.

Your Equipment

Digital kitchen scales

Large mixing bowl or stand mixer with dough hooks

Medium mixing bowl

Baking tray

Cheese grater

Your Ingredients

200 g All-purpose flour

100 ml Milk (lukewarm)

1 tsp / 4 g Salt

1 tsp / 4 g Fast-acting yeast

Up to 50 ml water (lukewarm)

2 tsp Oil (vegetable or sunflower oil is ideal)

150 g Mozzarella (not pre-grated)

50 g Feta

20g Butter

1 Egg

Melted butter to brush over the finished Khachapuri

The Important Bit

Combine the dry ingredients of the bread dough (200 g flour, 1 tsp salt, 1 tsp yeast) in your mixing bowl or stand mixer, then add the milk (100 ml). Bring together using your hands, or with the dough hooks on a low speed, then slowly add water until the dough comes together (how much water you need will depend on the flour you are using, it is unlikely you’ll need the full 50 ml).

Knead your dough on a lightly floured surface for at least 5 minutes, or until the dough is smooth and elastic. The easiest way to do this is to stretch out the dough by using the heel of your hand to push down into the centre of the dough and push it away from you, then fold it back onto itself, turn the dough 90 degrees and repeat. Alternatively, using the stand mixer and dough hooks on a low speed (1 or 2 is perfect) for around 7 or 8 minutes will achieve the correct consistency.

Lightly grease the dough with your oil, place in the mixing bowl, cover and leave to rise for at least an hour. Ideally, the dough should double in size.

Once your dough has finished rising, grate your cheese (150g mozzarella and 50g feta or 200g mozzarella) and butter (30g), place in the medium mixing bowl and combine them with the egg.

Roll out your bread dough into a circle with a diameter of roughly 20cm (just under eight inches). Roll the edge to form a lip.

Form the cheese, butter and egg mixture into a ball using your hands and place it in the centre of your circle of dough and fold the dough over until it fully encases the cheese. Dust your baking tray lightly with a little flour. Now turn over the dough encased cheese, very carefully as you don’t want to tear the dough, place it in the centre of the baking tray and gently roll it out until it is a disc, roughly 1.5 to inches thick. Leave to rest for 10 minutes. Alternatively, divide both the dough and the cheese mixture into 4 and make individual Khachapuri.

Preheat your oven to 390F / 200C. Place the Khachapuri into the oven and bake for 15 minutes.

Remove the Khachapuri from the oven and brush the top with melted butter. Leave to cool for 10 minutes before serving.

This Georgian delicacy makes a great light lunch, just pair it with a vegetable salad. Alternatively, just enjoy it as a delicious, hot snack — exactly as it is served in Georgia.

I’ll be back next month, when, by special request of Mr Cakes, I’ll be taking a trip to Italy and making Cannoli.

Until then...

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Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. My wife’s away for work on weekends this fall, which gives me a chance to go out and hit some bars on my “to-visit” list. Last weekend I swung by Happy Dog, “a neighborhood corner bar in the best sense of the term,” and had one of the great cocktails a place like this deserves. Belly up to the bar, folks. Let’s have a boilermaker or two. Here’s what to order (“recipe” is too fancy a word):

Boilermaker

12 oz Miller High Life (1 can)

2 oz Jim Beam (1 shot)

Drink the beer. Drink a little more. Drink the Jim Beam all in one go. Drink the rest of the beer.

Let’s get one thing out of the way first: Happy Dog isn’t a dive bar. It’s got all the decor and charm of a dive, but the food is much too good for it to be called a “dive.” Dive bars don’t do food. Dive bars toss mysterious things into the fryer and hand them to you in a basket lined with waxed paper. (Ghost Bar in New Orleans? Total dive, great place, try the chicken cracklings.) Happy Dogs has hot dogs and tots, but the toppings … well, they run the gamut from gourmet to lowbrow. If you ever wanted to have Froot Loops on top of your hot dog, here’s the place. I had some tater tots with black truffle honey mustard dipping sauce. I had no idea truffles and cheap beer were so good together.

But let’s talk drinks for a moment. The boilermaker — a shot and a beer — has been around for a very long time. For most of that time, it didn’t have a name; it was just “a shot and a beer.” Somewhere around the 1800s, the combo picked up the name “boilermaker.” Rumor has it that it came from railroad workers who put away a few of these after a hard day’s work. There are some more extravagant stories of exploding trains and drunk engineers, but I’m pretty sure that the name just sprouted up organically over time. At a “real” dive bar, calling it a boilermaker would be fairly pretentious. “Shot and a beer” is just fine.

The drink itself is evergreen, but how you drink a boilermaker has changed over time. Before the turn of the century, you’d chug the beer, down the shot, and order another one. But as boilermakers have found their way onto craft cocktail menus, things have gotten a little more refined. These days, you sip on the beer, sip on the booze, and let the flavors of both interplay with one another. Cobra’s menu lists a carefully curated selection of boilermakers. (Cobra is another amazing corner bar in Columbus, recently voted one of the best bars in America.) The offerings run from a can of Hamm’s and a shot of Fernet, to a Mexican lager paired with Patron, to a Taiwan beer and a very pricey shot of sake — $42 for that one.

Amazingly, boilermakers really do work as a genteel, culinary drink. The whole is more than the sum of its parts. The hearty maltiness of American lager mellows out with a shot of sweet, thick bourbon. It’s like butter on toast — simple, but satisfying.

There is so much that’s so satisfying about going to a corner bar like this. Especially on nights when there’s live music. There’s something magical about sitting in the corner of a tatty old bar, listening to a screaming vocalist, shredding guitars, and a drummer trying his best to keep up. The music isn’t good, but it’s loud, and it’s real. Nothing around you is digitized; phones fall away. The news stops mattering. You’re headbanging in unison with the rest of the crowd. Everything is analog. Welcome back to the real world. It’s been a long time.

Let’s talk ingredients — more specifically, how to order a solid boilermaker at the bar:

Beer: If you’re new to the game, start simple. Miller High Life, Coors Banquet, or Budweiser are all excellent starting points. Hamm’s or PBR are also solid choices. DO NOT ORDER AN IPA. Likewise, pumpkin spice beers are right out. Think regional — if you’re at a cheap Mexican joint, a Modelo and a shot of tequila will get a thumbs-up from behind the stick. Snooty beers are worthy of scorn if you’re pairing them with a shot.

Shot: Don’t get fancy. Stay true to the blue-collar roots of the boilermaker. Cheap bourbon is a solid option. Jim Beam is a great starting point. Jack Daniel’s is a classic, but I’m not a fan (sorry, Lemmy). A shot of Jameson paired with Guinness is an instant classic. Tequila and Mexican beer are great together. And, of course, everything goes with Fernet-Branca.

OPEN THREAD!

Friends. Wonketeers. Countrymen. This week was a rough one, with the loss of Dolly Parton, Tim Curry, and now Gloria. There was another piece of bad news here in Cleveland that cut the craft cocktail community to the quick as well. LBM, one of the most badass cocktail bars in the area, announced it would be closing in the first week of October. Let’s mourn the end of an era with this absolute dumpster fire of a cocktail. LBM deserves no less. Here’s the recipe.

We just got the details on what killed LBM today: The insurance costs were through the roof. LBM’s gone through five different insurance providers through three brokers in the past nine years. It’s a damn shame. Eric Ho and his friends literally built LBM with their bare hands. They remodeled the space from scratch and bet that, somehow, a Viking-themed craft cocktail bar would make it in the suburbs of Cleveland. And it really, really worked. LBM hung in there for almost a decade, which is a really good run for a craft bar. I suspect Eric will have another bar in him, once he and the staff have had some time to mourn.

FirstEnergy, the local power company, also bears some of the blame. There were repeated power outages in Lakewood over the summer. When you run a restaurant and the power goes out for several days, it’s a huge loss. Not only do you lose business, but everything rots in your coolers. You have to file an insurance claim to survive. FirstEnergy is on the hook for millions in fines, but I suspect they’ll never pay a dime. They’re a ridiculously corrupt corporation that was front and center of a huge bribery scandal last year.

The most notorious cocktail on LBM’s menu is the Dumpster Fire!!, a cocktail served in a dumpster-shaped tiki mug and showered with flaming overproof rum. (According to rumor, one of the reasons the insurance company upped LBM’s rates was because of this monster.) I wanted to honor their work with an in-your-face version of my least favorite cocktail of all time, the Long Island Iced Tea. A standard LIIT is a hot mess — four different boozes in a glass, none of which particularly like each other, topped off with some lemon juice and cola. For those of you who don’t know, the Long Island Iced Tea has no tea in it. The meager amount of cola in the drink gives the cocktail it’s “iced tea” color.

My dumpster-fire drink uses two different pairings of spirits, instead of disparate liquors, to build a riot of a cocktail. Cynar and whiskey are a natural pairing. Ginger and rum love each other as well. The end result isn’t precisely harmonious, but it’s intriguing, bold, and outside the box — a solid cocktail to send off one hell of a bar.

As for the cocktail name? Well, raccoons and dumpsters always go together. This is a small, cute version of the legendary LBM Dumpster Fire, so why not? And I’ve been dying to make the pun into a cocktail name. You’re welcome.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Sazerac Rye: My rye of choice. Not too dark and heavy, but crisp and peppery in a way that bourbon can’t match.

Cynar: The artichoke-based amaro tastes nothing like artichokes. It’s bitter and herbaceous. Somehow, it pairs with whisky beautifully — the herbal notes lengthen and complement the natural pepper of rye, making them greater than the sum of their parts.

Planteray OTFD: A dark, flavorful overproof rum. My “secret sauce” in some of my tiki drinks; the extra boost of dark, rich rum notes takes any drink over the top, this one included.

Ginger Liquor: I considered using something spiced, like allspice dram, to complement the rum. Unfortunately, the allspice dram clashed with the Cynar in a way that muted both liquors. A sweet and spicy ginger liquor proved to be the better option.

Lemon Juice: You are absolutely not using bottled juice in this drink after we tossed four liquors into the glass. You will use fresh juice. Don’t make me come over there.

Cola: Whatever’s on the soda gun; I’m not too picky. I’ll be shocked if you can taste any cola flavor in this glass. The pop’s here for bubbles and color.

OPEN THREAD!

Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. I’m pretty good at this bartending stuff. I write some pretty decent cocktails. But there’s one aspect of bartending that I genuinely suck at. And it’s time to admit my flaws and talk about the one bartending style I absolutely do not do well. Let’s talk about shots. Here’s some recipes:

For the record, the B-52 is named after the World’s Greatest Party Band, not the WWII airplane. The origin of the cocktail is murky; the best guess is that it was created by Peter Finch, the head bartender at the Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada. Peter, like many bartenders, liked to name drinks after rock-and-roll bands and songs. (I’m guilty of this as well. I poured a cherry-flavored cocktail for a young woman last week; I called it “Hello World I’m Your Wild Girl.”)

I love balance in cocktails. Finding the elegant sweet spot between sweet and sour, bitter and smooth, salt and sugar fuels my soul. So when I pour sugar, on top of sugar, on top of sugar, and serve it to a guest, a part of my soul shudders. Mind you, it’s a tour de force of a drink. The specific gravity of each layer is obvious. You can see that the coffee liquor is denser and heavier than the Irish coffee, which is heavier than the Grand Marnier. It’s a fairly easy version of the pousse café, a seven-layer monstrosity that would drive me insane if I attempted to make one. But the B-52 tastes like syrup. I’d never drink one willingly.

Here’s another example of a shot that drives me nuts:

Blessedly, we make our own grenadine from scratch at Hemingway’s. (And you should too; Rose’s Grenadine is corn syrup, red food coloring, and sadness.) But the sweetness of the sugary vanilla vodka combined with literal syrup in a glass … I’m sorry. Ick. I’ll drink one for a safety meeting at work, when a quick jolt of calories helps me finish the night. But this is no way to start an evening. (For the uninitiated: “Safety meeting = A round of shots in the kitchen near the end of a rough shift.” Generally speaking, around 10 on a Friday, I’m feeling very unsafe. I can still remember one night where our new bar back — a charming young man who strongly resembles Scooter the Muppet in human form — downed his shot, looked around, and earnestly asked, “So what’s the safety issue?”)

I prefer a shot of something straight from the bottle. Something bitter and strong, like my battered soul. Yes, I’ll do a Malort shot, but I consider that a professional hazard instead of recreation. When a table’s on the fence about doing Malort shots, I’ll offer “double or nothing” — buy me a shot, buy yourself a shot, we’ll see who breaks first. Inevitably I “lose,” add an extra $7 to their check, and everyone’s happy. (One table paid to watch me take a shot, but refused to down one themselves. They were not my friends.)

Here’s my shot of choice:

I got hooked on Fernet-Branca years ago at Spotted Owl, when I was finding my footing as a craft bartender. The bitter, herbal liquor isn’t for everyone. Most of the staff shudders when they drink it. I do, too. But this little glass of mentholated evil kicks me in the pants and keeps me moving when the chips are down behind the bar. If you want something sweet and pretty to finish your night, that’s on you. Give me something complex, strong, and bitter to make my night happen. I don’t want a shot that pats me on the head and tells me things are OK. I need something to slap me in the face and get me moving. Maybe we all do, at this point.

OPEN THREAD!

Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. We’ve just flipped the menu at Hemingway’s, and there are some banging savory cocktails on the menu for fall. I had a chance to taste some of the other bartenders’ work, and I have to brag about Kiki Kunarac’s new cocktail. Kiki’s been a part of Hemingway’s as long as I have, and her sense of taste and proportion always impress me. Let’s talk about her Black Garlic cocktail. I love this drink. Here’s the recipe.

Black Garlic Cocktail

(Kristen Kunarac, Author)

2 oz black pepper-infused vodka

1 oz Hayman’s Old Tom Gin

½ oz dry vermouth

Pinch smoked sea salt

1 garlic clove

Add all ingredients to a cocktail shaker. Muddle the garlic clove. Double-strain into a chilled martini glass. Garnish with drops of extra virgin olive oil and a grind of fresh black pepper.

Black Pepper Infused Vodka

3 tablespoons cracked coarse black pepper

750 ml Luksusowa vodka

Add pepper to vodka and let sit 24 hours. Strain into a clean bottle before service.

I should note that this isn’t a “black garlic” cocktail per se. Black garlic is made of carefully fermented garlic cloves; it’s a sticky, molasses-like form of garlic. This cocktail uses black pepper and raw garlic cloves. It’s a “Black” and “Garlic” cocktail, not a “Black Garlic” cocktail, if that makes any sense.

With that out of the way, this cocktail is going to be an amazing food pairing. Black pepper is good with everything. Garlic is great with everything. This drink is going to be killer with beef, or lamb, or … well, just about everything on our menu. It’s such a beautiful piece of work; Kiki deserves to be proud.

What I love about this cocktail is how it uses the Old Tom gin and dry vermouth to announce, loudly, that this drink is a martini before getting down to business. I love classic martinis. I’ve come to the conclusion that juniper in a classic dry gin is there to wake up your palate and announce that you’re about to taste a really good drink. Old Tom gins are similar to classic gins like Beefeater and Bombay, but better balanced and more definitive in flavor. Hayman’s Old Tom gin really does hit the mark here. It’s crisp and herbaceous without tasting like Pine-Sol. I am shamelessly stealing this approach the next time I write a martini.

The change in Hemingway’s menu is a bit startling. We’ve gone from 60+ cocktails to just 20, and the focus in our menu is impressive. Three of the cocktails on the current menu are savory — this black garlic cocktail, the Filthiest Martini Ever, and a blue cheese cocktail that I’m dying to share with you later this fall. For the first time ever, Hemingway’s has no Malort cocktails listed. It’s a more mature cocktail list, less edgy, more formal. I’m a little sad about that, but I’m convinced it’s the right choice. Our audience skews older. We’re meeting them where they live. And a new hotel is opening up across the street, with a steakhouse on the first floor. This menu will be perfect for that sort of clientele.

Not that we’re throwing out any cocktails, mind you. As I’ve told guests before, “We’ve got a database, and we aren’t afraid to use it.” We’ve got all our old recipes on file, and every one of our bartenders is good enough to write a drink on the fly for a picky customer. The Regrettable Tattoo is not going away. Neither is Malort. You’ll just have to know what to ask for, who to trust, and what to expect when you leave the printed menu behind. Exactly what you want from a classic speakeasy.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Black Pepper Vodka: A neutral potato vodka like Luksusowa is a must here. Tito’s would be far too sweet and mellow to serve as a base for a black pepper spirit. If you love black pepper as I do, this little treat will find all sorts of uses in your liquor cabinet. We were drinking it neat at Hemingway’s for “quality control” before making the first cocktail.

Hayman’s Old Tom Gin: Feel free to use Bombay or Beefeater here, but the impact of that first note of the cocktail will be muddled. Do not use Hendrick’s. Black pepper, rose, and cucumber are not friends.

Dry Vermouth: Always keep your vermouth in the fridge. It’s white wine, not liquor. Leave it out too long, and it gets nasty. We use Dolin, but I’m not too picky about the brand here.

Smoked Sea Salt: A simple saline solution works just fine here. I like smoked sea salt because it plays well with the black pepper and garlic.

Garnish: The oil mellows some of the garlic's harshness, and the grind of pepper adds a spicy aroma to the drink. These garnishes make it very clear that you’re drinking a savory, culinary cocktail tonight.

OPEN THREAD!

How do you take something good and make it great? We’re condensing Hemingway’s menu to 20 cocktails; it was close to 65 last winter. My drinks are well represented on that list of 20. I need to make sure each of my drinks earns its place on the menu every day. That means tearing the drink apart, re-examining every choice that made it succeed, and seeing if it can be improved. This week, I worked on The Filthiest Martini Ever. It’s become a lot more sophisticated. Does that make it … Soiled? I’m not sure. In any case, here’s the latest recipe for a very popular, very successful drink:

I taught a class on this cocktail at the end of May, and realistically, not much has changed about the drink. It was already a successful cocktail. Every bar in town has a dirty martini. Ours had to be unmistakably better than every other glass in 50 miles. Muddled olives made it murky; salt made it brinier; olive oil made it sweeter. It was a hit.

But now that it’s one of only 20 featured cocktails, “better” isn’t good enough. This drink’s been put on a pedestal. It’s become a genuine piece of art, and every choice I made about the cocktail deserves to be re-examined. There was a joke we made back in college:

Q: How many theatre students does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: Why does it need to be a lightbulb?

I’m asking, “Why does it need to be a lightbulb?” about every part of this drink. Why is this ingredient there? What purpose does it serve? Does it contribute to the cocktail’s core mission? This cocktail is meant to be cold, briny, rich, and olive forward. Does everything in the glass serve that purpose?

Some of the changes I made were just best practices I’d been ignoring. Chilling the glass keeps the cocktail at the ideal temperature longer. Using smaller, more precise drops of olive oil means we don’t need as much oil behind the bar; we can also rotate it more frequently and keep it in the fridge so it doesn’t develop off-flavors. As for the rest… well, let’s walk through the ingredients and see what can work better.

Chopin vodka: We’ve been using an inexpensive potato vodka in the drink to date. Previous experience taught me that a light, sweet vodka, like Tito’s, undercut the core flavors of the cocktail. This drink needs to be earthy, briny, and rich. We also needed to manage a bitter vegetal flavor in the front of the cocktail.

So how about gin? Nope. The juniper didn’t hit the palate at the same time as the bitterness, creating a confusing drink, alternating between bitter and sweet in all the wrong places. Bisongrass vodka? Yuck. Bisongrass vodka has some rich coconut notes. Coconut and olives don't taste good together.

A premium potato vodka — Chopin — proved to be the answer. The bitter note died down to a whisper with a better quality base spirit. Using a better vodka means raising the drink’s price by a few bucks, but the cocktail’s quality justifies the premium.

Olive brine: Does making our own brine from scratch make sense? Maybe. Do we have the kitchen space, storage space, and time to make it? Regrettably, no. We’ll re-examine this issue later; for now, commercial brine is good enough.

Muddled olives: Our menu is Greek. We’re already using some terrific olives for muddling. I’ve been using two olives, which made the drink murky. Three olives make the drink opaque. Now that, neighbors, is filthy.

Smoked sea salt: The salt’s smokiness adds another dimension to the cocktail. Plain sea salt would make a cleaner-tasting drink, but, well, it’s a filthy martini. What about a little MSG instead of salt? I tried it once, and the MSG’s flavor was too strong. I’ll try a weaker solution and see what happens. We’ve already got smoked sea salt in the kitchen. We might be able to improve this, but it’ll take experimentation.

Three stuffed olives: I’ve been using only one olive in the cocktail to date, out of frugality. Three olives stay balanced on the cocktail rim better and convey the sense of luxury the drink deserves. They also provide a big olive scent when the customer first brings the cocktail to their lips. A drink that smells good, tastes great.

Extra virgin olive oil: The EVOO provides a long, fruity richness at the end of the sip that can’t be matched. If the cocktail is as cold as possible, the oil will congeal slightly at the edges, preventing the oil droplets from coalescing into a large pool in the middle of the glass. A cocktail that’s shaken firmly for 13 seconds is as cold as it can possibly get. (Yes, we’ve done the science.)

The Filthiest Martini Ever? Certainly. The Best Filthiest Martini Ever? Possibly. It’s always a process. The work deserves no less.

My home bar is Hemingway’s Underground, the hottest cocktail bar in pretty little Medina, Ohio. I’m behind the stick Wednesday-Saturday, 4-10. Last call’s at midnight. Swing on by, and I’ll make a drink for you … or anything else from our little Happy Hour here at Wonkette. We’ll make it through this together.

OPEN THREAD!

Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. On Monday, I had the singular experience of competing in a cocktail competition at the Green Dragon Inn, here in Akron, Ohio. That was the good news. The bad news: it was a Malört competition. Nine other bartenders and I duked it out for the chance to win bragging rights and a trophy shaped like a toilet bowl. It was … an experience. Here’s the recipe I went to war with:

Fight Your Trinidad

1 ½ oz Malört

1 oz orgeat

1 oz fresh lime juice

1 oz cinnamon syrup

½ oz Angostura bitters

½ oz pomegranate molasses

Shake all ingredients and strain into an iced tiki mug. Garnish with a paper umbrella. Set the umbrella on fire before service.

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I thought this cocktail was over the top. I thought it was extreme. I took a Trinidad Sour — a cocktail notorious for using a full ounce of Angostura bitters, the mixologist’s equivalent of the notorious TikTok cinnamon challenge — and added a full ounce and a half of Malört to this beast. This was going to be an infamous, exciting drink. I truly believed that.

Then we had the pre-competition meeting.

“One of the judges is a vegetarian,” the tournament organizer announced. “Do any of your cocktails incorporate meat? Raise your hand if your cocktail uses meat.”

Four competitors raised their hands.

At that point, I knew I was playing a whole different ball game. I showed up ready to throw some fast pitches; the rest of the field was ready for Calvinball. Some truly bizarre cocktails were coming our way. I no longer expected to win. But I expected a wild ride.

I shouldn’t have been that surprised. Malört has won the hearts of bartenders across the Midwest. The advertising slogans are legend: “Malört: Tonight’s The Night You Fight Your Dad.” “Malört: When You Need To Unfriend Someone In Person.” The long, lingering, vile aftertaste is the perfect shot to pour for guests you don’t really like. Bartenders have been creating gross infusions of the spirit for years now. (I’m no exception.) I should have known that the big guns would be rolling out.

Sure enough, the first competitor offered four tapas and a Malört cocktail influenced by miso and green tea. I saw a literal dumpster fire of a cocktail with a firework perched on it. I saw a Malört Blue Hawaiian. The winning cocktail was a Skyline Chili-infused Malört drink.

No, I didn’t taste it. The option did not present itself, and if it did … well, I love Yr Editrix with all my heart, but no one could pay me enough to taste that. I have a few remaining standards. Skyline Chili-flavored alcohol would be one of them.

One of my competitors mentioned after the brouhaha that Malört was an astonishingly versatile spirit. After reviewing the carnage of that contest, it’s hard to disagree. Malört has a very, very long and very, very horrid aftertaste. But the space before that nastiness is pretty empty. Malört doesn’t taste or smell like much until it punches you in your face while your back is turned. I follow an account on Instagram titled “Cursed Malört,” where every week a man who’s given up on life infuses Malört with something — chicken-flavored ramen, sardines, Doritos — and tests them for our viewing pleasure. The visceral sadism is pleasant, but the shenanigans also demonstrate that Malört readily takes on a variety of flavors. Someday, somehow, I might make a bottle of Malört that tastes good. A man can dream.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Malört: The Chicago legend. If you don’t know what Malört is … well. Start here. And then don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Orgeat: This almond-flavored syrup is the most sane ingredient in the glass.

Lime juice: Fresh. Please. There are enough horrid things going on in this drink.

Cinnamon syrup: The Angostura bitters have a clove flavor so intense it’ll burn out your taste buds. The extra syrup helps to even them out, and the cinnamon complements the clove nicely.

Angostura bitters: Angostura bitters are usually added by the drop to a cocktail. Half an ounce would be excessive in any glass other than this. Here? It’s fine. Knock yourself out.

Pomegranate molasses: I use this thick, rich syrup as a hardcore version of grenadine in punk-rock drinks. It barely makes a dent in this one.

My home bar is Hemingway’s Underground, the hottest cocktail bar in pretty little Medina, Ohio. I’m behind the stick Wednesday-Saturday, 4-10. Last call’s at midnight. Swing on by, and I’ll make this drink for you… or anything else from our little Happy Hour here at Wonkette. We’ll make it through this together.

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Here in the United Kingdom, we continue to melt in a heatwave which has lasted for well over a month. It’s the kind of weather that means baking is the last thing you want to be doing, and crawling inside the freezer for a brief reprieve is starting to seem like a very good idea. This kind of weather is when light, creamy, fruity desserts really come into their own, and today’s recipe, the Fool is a brilliant example of this kind of dessert which traces its origin back to at least the 16^th Century, with some variations possibly being even older than that. There is some debate as to where the name of this dish originates from, with some claiming it comes from the French word, ‘fouler’, meaning “to crush” or “to press” due to the fruit compote element associated with many variations of the Fool. Another possibility is that the name comes from the simplicity and unpretentiousness of the dish, perhaps linking it to the profession of Fool and the jesters of Royal courts who entertained Kings and Courtiers with agility and humour whilst maintaining the ability to disappear into the background when their services were not required.

A Little Slice Of History

The earliest recorded recipe for a Fool or Foole dates from 1655, when it appeared in a collection of English Royal recipes titled The Compleat Cook, although an Italian dish described as “like a foole” is mentioned in the Italian – English dictionary, A Worlde of Words, which was written by John Florio and published in 1598. This would suggest that the history of the Fruit Fool precedes the written record by a considerable time period. An alternative name for a Fool during the 16^th and 17^th Century was Trifle, although the modern Trifle has evolved to include a cake element and sometimes a fruit jelly (Jello in the United States). “Trifle” is also used to describe something which is small and unpretentious; a gift might be described as “just a trifle” in order to downplay its significance. Originally, both Fool and Trifle described a simple dish of cream and crushed and boiled fruit. It was actually considered the safest way to eat fruit during the 15^th Century as there were concerns that raw fruit was unhealthy – a quick look at the Republican Party will show that some haven’t moved on from these crazy medieval ideas about health.

Literature has a long existing trope of the “wise fool”, frequently a seemingly insignificant character who hides intelligence behind a facade of simplicity or humour, or reveals deep wisdom through clumsy or unintelligent antics. This trope has existed at least since Ancient Greece, and spans every culture and religion, from Diogenes, the Cynic philosopher who carried a lamp during the day in a quest to find an “honest man” and mock what he considered false wisdom of elite society, to the Islamic tales of Mullah Nasreddin, who’s naïve and often absurd antics were used to moral and philosophical lessons. William Shakespeare perfected this trope with various characters in his plays such as Touchstone in As You Like It, Feste in Twelfth Night, or the Fool in King Lear.

As many of you are aware, Wonkette has recently lost a beloved friend in Gav Ashdown, also known as FukuiSanYesOta. I was trying desperately to think of a way to honour him in this recipe blog, and I came to the realisation that Gav was a man who faced the world with humour and just a little madness, yet behind that humorous antics was a kind and generous individual who was frequently among the smartest people in the room. Truly an example of the Wise Fool. And I think he’d probably have a good laugh over that.

The Fruit Fool is a light, refreshing summer dessert, perfect for dining al Fresco on a summer evening, and although a little bit of work over a hot stove is needed, the result is worth the effort. Just about any fruit will work for this recipe, but it is absolutely ideal for using up summer berries such as strawberries, blueberries and raspberries. Fresh or frozen doesn’t really matter either, so it is great for using up whatever you have in the fridge or freezer. If you want to make a vegan version of this dessert then I would suggest keeping your eyes open for Birds Custard Powder in the UK section of larger grocery stores, this is an egg-free custard mix which can be made of the stove or in the microwave and simply requires the addition of milk (use coconut milk) and sugar. Combining this with some coconut cream will give you a fully vegan version of this recipe.

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This recipe will comfortably serve 3, you could probably stretch it to 4. For fellow members of the Dead Pancreas Society, that means your carbohydrates will be 121.4g for the fool, or between 30 and 40g per portion, to this you would need to add your fruit, and anything else you wished to serve with it. For the cornflake granola, that would be around 6g per 2 tablespoons, for the shortbread, this would be 17.5g per biscuit.

Your Equipment

For the Fool:

Digital kitchen scales

Saucepan

Mixing bowl (large)

Whisk (electric or hand powered)

For the Granola:

Digital scales

Rolling pin

Baking tray

For the Shortbread:

Digital scales

Food processor or mixing bowl

Rolling pin

Baking tray

Baking parchment

Sharp knife

Serving dishes or wine glasses

Your Ingredients

For the Fool:

3 Egg yolks

65 g Sugar (superfine/caster sugar is best, but regular sugar will work)

20 g Cornstarch (Corn flour in the UK)

20 g All purpose flour

300 ml full fat milk

1 tsp Vanilla essence

250 ml heavy cream

Alternatively, use approximately ¾ pint of custard made using Birds Custard Powder, or a tin of Ambrosia Devon Custard and ½ pint of heavy whipping cream0 coconut cream.

For the Fruit Compote:

150 g Blue berries, raspberries, or soft fruit of your choice

1 tbsp Sugar

2 tbsp Water

Alternatively, use around 150 g of raspberries or strawberries, 1 tbsp of raspberry or strawberry jam, and 1 tbsp of hot water.

For the Granola:

30 g Rolled oats

30 g Pecan nuts

4 Digestive biscuits or around 60g of Graham crackers

20 g Cornflakes

20 g Raisins, sultanas, or mixed fruit (optional)

40 g Runny honey

For the Shortbread:

125 g Butter

55 g Sugar

180 g All purpose flour

The Important Bit

The fool will need to be prepared a few hours in advance as it needs to chill in the refridgerator for at least 2 hours before you serve it. Start by whisking your egg yolks (3), flour (20g), cornstarch (20g) and sugar (65g) in large mixing bowl. Whisk it until the egg yolks are thick and pale.

In your saucepan, heat the milk (300 ml) and vanilla essence (1 tsp) until it boils, then remove it from the heat immediately.

Add your hot milk into your egg yolk very slowly (around 1 tbsp at a time), whisk the egg yolk mix constantly while you do this to avoid scrambling the eggs. Once the milk mix has been added into the yolk mixture, transfer it back to the saucepan and simmer on a low heat for 4 to 5 minutes, or until the custard mix is smooth and thick. Give your mixing bowl a quick wash and then place the custard into the mixing bowl to cool for around 30 minutes.

Use this time to prepare your granola. Firstly, heat your oven to 360F/180C. Use the rolling pin to smash up the pecans (30g) and Digestive biscuits or Graham crackers (4 biscuits/60g), place these on a baking tray along with the cornflakes (20g), the rolled oats (30g), and the raisins or sultanas (20g) if using. Mix well and spread across the baking tray and then drizzle with runny honey (40g). Bake the granola for 15 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove from the oven and allow to cool, store in an airtight container until needed.

Take your cooled custard and fold in your heavy whipping cream (250 ml). Place this mixture into the fridge to chill for a few hours until you’re ready to serve it.

This is the perfect time to prepare your shortbread. Preheat your oven to 360F/180C and mix your flour (180g) and sugar (55g) in a mixing bowl or food processor. Cut your butter (125g) into cubes and add to the dry ingredients. Use your fingers to rub the burrer into the flour mixture until it forms a breadcrumb-like texture, then knead until it comes together to form a thick dough. Alternatively, use the pulse function on your food processor until the mixture forms a thick dough.

Line your baking tray with baking parchment and roll out your shortbread until it forms a rectangle of approximately 12 by 8 inches. Place the shortbread onto the baking tray and use a knife to score it into 12 portions (cut it into ½ lengthways, then divide each half into 6 fingers measuring 1 by 4 inches). Gently score the top of the shortbread fingers using the knife, then sprinkle with the remaining sugar (10g).

Bake in the oven for around 15-20 minutes, or until the shortbread is a pale golden brown. Set aside to cool.

The final step is to make your fruit compote. Take your saucepan and fruit (150g raspberries, blueberries or strawberries), add 2 tbsp of water and 1 tbsp of sugar. Cook the fruit on a medium heat until boiling, then turn down the heat and simmer for around 5 minutes whilst gently crushing the berries with a spoon. Once the compote has thickened enough to coat the back of the spoon, remove from the heat and allow to cool until you are ready to assemble your Fools.

Take your dessert dish or wine glass and place a spoonful of fruit compote at the bottom. Top with 1-2 spoons full of the custard mixture, then another spoonful of compote. Continue alternating layers of compote and custard mixture until you have filled the dessert dish or wine glass. Top with 2 tbsp of the granola mixture, and/or a shortbread biscuit. Serve immediately.

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Join me next month when I’ll be taking a trip to Georgia (the country, not the state) and making a return to bread making with a recipe for Imeruli Khachapuri, a popular, cheese-stuffed bread which would make a lovely lunch served with a vibrant, leafy salad, or just a delicious, fun snack.

Until then…

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Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. It’s garage sale season here in Ohio. Every weekend, our neighbors spill the contents of their garages/basements/attics onto the front yard and hope you’ll pay them for the pleasure of hauling their junk away. At Hemingway’s, we’re doing something similar — we’re planning the fall menu, which entails using up bottles of stuff we don’t want taking up shelf space. In that spirit, let’s rummage through my liquor cabinet and cobble together a cocktail from bottles I need to use up. Let’s make a Garage Sale. Here’s the recipe.

First things first: I do not, in any way, shape, or form, advocate making this particular cocktail. If you comment on this post with, “I’d make this, but I don’t have the ingredients!” I will reach through the Internet and gently smack you on the wrist with two fingers. I mean, if you wanted to go pick up a bottle of Another Hendrick’s just on principle, I wouldn’t say no. It’s really good gin. But that’s not the point of this exercise.

This is a fridge-cleaning cocktail, a rummage through my (admittedly eclectic) liquor cabinet in an attempt to find ingredients that love each other enough to make a cocktail. The orange blossom and cocoa nibs Hendricks has been staring at me for weeks. It’s delicious. But you can’t make a G&T with it, and diluting it with soda water felt like a crime. Aperol is a kissing cousin to Campari — another bright red bitter Italian amaro. I infused this Aperol with orange for a cocktail competition months ago. Gin plus Campari is two-thirds of a Negroni. Orange in the gin, orange in the Aperol … we’ve got some synergy here. Do we have sweet vermouth to finish the drink? Yes, we do, and that vermouth is close to expiring. Bingo.

Pulling this stunt off requires some cocktail knowledge. As a professional, I’ve memorized most of the basic recipes, and it’s easy for me to take those templates and swap in some ingredients to make something good. But you can perform this trick with very simple recipes. Do you love Mount Gay rum and cola? What if you cook down that bottle of yesterday’s flat soda into a syrup, stick it in the fridge, and splash a little into tomorrow’s cocktail? What if you add two lime wedges instead of one? How about a pinch of salt over the rum before you add the pop? A basic drink, like a gin and tonic, can be that much better if you think a bit about how to use your leftovers.

Look at your liquor cabinet. Think about what tastes good with other things. Are you a vodka fan? Good news. Vodka goes with everything. Pick bold flavors, things that taste good together. Don’t be afraid to try something that isn’t ordinary, but uses stuff you have already. Be brave. Try something you haven’t tried yet. Raid the fridge — if I didn’t have a bag of fresh limes in the citrus drawer, I would be utterly lost at the end of the shift. You already bought the bottles of booze. Be bold.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Another Hendricks: This is an amazing gin. But if you’re building a cocktail using the Negroni as your base recipe, non-amazing gin is fine. Beefeater works. So does Citadelle Jardin d’ete, if you want a cheap citrus gin. So does vodka, if you want something that isn’t as intensely flavored. If you use bourbon, you’ve made a Boulevardier, a perfectly respectable cocktail. Tequila? Rum? Why not? Put things into a glass that taste good. There are no rules.

Orange-Infused Aperol: If you’re following the Negroni as a base recipe, this is where the rubber hits the road. I am of the opinion that you should stick a bitter Italian amaro in your liquor cabinet on principle. A flavor bomb that isn’t laden with sugar is always going to be useful. Aperol is the default — Aperol spritzes will never go out of style. But if you fall in love with Cynar or Fernet Branca, who am I to say no?

Sweet Vermouth: Use dry vermouth if you have that. Use leftover wine if you have that. Put whatever you think is tasty into the glass. Experiment. Be bold. Your favorite cocktail is waiting for you. You just have to try.

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The very first thing I do when I arrive in New Orleans is walk to Jean Lafitte’s Olde Absinthe House and order a Sazerac. And the very last thing I do when I leave New Orleans is to drink one last Sazerac at the Absinthe House. I spent all week in the city of my dreams, making friends and learning my craft at Tales of the Cocktail. I drank a lot of Sazeracs while I was there. But it’s the first, and the last, that matter the most. Here’s the recipe.

Sazerac

2 oz. Sazerac rye whiskey

½ oz. absinthe

½ oz. simple syrup

4-5 dashes Peychaud’s bitters

Fill a small rocks glass with ice. Add absinthe and swirl until the glass is cold. Dump out the glass. Add syrup, rye, and bitters to the empty glass. Swirl again. Garnish with a lemon twist.

This is a perfect dive bar Sazerac, simply for the economy of effort. At Hemingway’s, I’ll use a stirring vessel to get my Sazerac perfectly mixed and chilled. Behind the stick at Jean Lafitte’s, you’ve got one tiny dishwasher and a surly barback. No stirring vessels, no spoons, no wasted effort - just grab and go. The perfect drink for its place and time.

A perfect Mai Tai in a fancy tiki bar, an ice-cold beer in a backwater dive bar, an elegant French 75 in a bar where the writers wear white tuxedo jackets - each is the perfect drink, because they are a part of the place you drink, and sights and sounds and scents flavor every cocktail when you taste them. Taste is memory, and we are making memories with every breath we take. I love making cocktails with long, intriguing, expressive flavor profiles, because the process of tasting and making memories stretches out and gains intensity. A cold Bud in a dive bar is a power chord. A beautiful cocktail in an elegant speakeasy is a song.

We talked a lot about ideas like this at Tales of the Cocktail. I had the distinct pleasure of hanging out with thousands of the best bartenders in the world, making friends, learning, and getting shitfaced drunk together. And boy howdy, did we drink. There were dozens of tasting rooms set up all week, filled with distillers and distributors begging you to taste their booze. A 21-year-old bourbon? Don’t mind if I do. A brand new citrus gin from one of your favorite brands? Certainly. An Islay scotch finished in sherry casks? Absolutely. A gentian-flavored spirit from a brand you’ve never heard of? Why not? I didn’t spend one full hour sober on my first day at Tales. That’s nowhere near as much fun as you’d think.

As the days went on, I focused less on the booze and more on the people and the classes. I met bartenders who traveled all the way from Hawaii for a seminar. I met more rum and pirate fanatics. I met Midwestern bartenders from bars I’ve never heard of. (I now have a “to-drink” list for when I get out of town.) I took classes on making your own booze. (I made Malort! Deliberately!) I took classes on taste, and sense, and place. I took a class on how to start writing the book.

But I didn’t go to many parties at night. As big as Tales of the Cocktails was, the city was bigger. I sauntered through the Quarter in my straw fedora, nursing my bad knee with an elegant walking cane, drinking in the sights and scents and feelings of this old, elegant, battered town. I sat down in white-glove restaurants for supper. I ate chicken cracklings in skeevy dive bars on the Quarter’s edge. I made friends at the Old Absinthe House. As much as four short days would let me, I became a part of this town.

It’s not always a pretty place. Madmen argue with themselves on street corners. The pavement’s been ripped away in the name of progress. The roadside puddles... well, the locals call them “street gravy” for a reason. But this city will love you if you let it. There’s no place like it in the whole world. I’ve only begun to explore this beautiful town, and it’s gotten deep under my skin. I can’t wait to go back and have another Sazerac. That drink, that bar, that place, that time will always call me back.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Sazerac Rye Whiskey: I’m pretty sure that the Absinthe House uses a cheaper rye. But I’m snob enough to use this balanced, peppery rye that’s native to New Orleans. Visit the Sazerac House when you’re in New Orleans; the museum is elegant, polished, and more fun than a bourbon museum ought to be.

Absinthe: The Old Absinthe House is undoubtedly a dive bar. Hundreds of cards are stapled to the walls. Old sports jerseys hang from the rafters. And yet, they have one of the largest selections of absinthe in America. When you go, ask for an absinthe flight. You’ll be amazed. The House has a rail absinthe; I have no idea what it is. I was too drunk to care. Use your favorite.

Simple syrup: 1:1 sugar and water. Stir it and let it sit in the fridge until it’s dissolved.

Peychaud’s Bitters: Be generous. This brightly colored bitters has a strong anise component that reinforces the absinthe flavors and gives the cocktail its color.

I’ve got the day off from Hemingway’s; Courtney and Zane sensibly decided that my feet and liver needed a day to recover. Ask me anything in the comments. I’ll be here all night to talk about the trip.

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Greetings, Wonketeers! I’m Hooper, your bartender. I’m in the process of packing for and panicking about Tales of the Cocktail, a national bartender’s convention held in New Orleans every year. (So. Many. Parties.) I expect to have many, many things to tell you. This trip wouldn’t be possible without the help of Yr Editrix, so if you aren’t a subscriber to Wonkette, please join in, or at least toss some money into the kitty to help out. Seriously. I couldn’t have done this without her.

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Before I go, I wanted to bring you a very, very upscale version of a cheap cocktail served on Bourbon Street. Here’s my culinary take on a classic — the Strawberry Daiquiri. Here’s the recipe.

This recipe was inspired by a bottle of rhubarb syrup my wife found at a local farmer’s market a few Saturdays ago. Strawberry and rhubarb are a classic flavor pairing, and one I’ve never had time to explore in a cocktail. I’ve muddled strawberries into tequila for a strawberry margarita before. Muddling provided a light, subtle strawberry flavor in the margarita, which was perfect in that application. This time, I wanted a big strawberry bomb in a glass. I decided to use two different techniques to hammer the strawberry flavors home — raw muddled berries and a cooked syrup

I knew in theory that cooked strawberries and raw strawberries provided different flavors. But having the two side by side in the same glass was a revelation. Raw strawberries are tart and vegetal; cooked strawberries are sweet, unctuous, and barely acidic. I can understand why cooked rhubarb and strawberries are natural companions; the rhubarb’s tartness balances the sweetness of cooked strawberries, bringing the fruit back into harmony.

The tartness of the muddled fresh berries made the drink too sour on first taste. I didn’t want to use a sugar syrup when fresh ingredients were on hand; there’s nothing wrong with sugar, but it seemed like a missed opportunity to add more flavor to the drink. Local honey syrup rebalanced the cocktail while keeping us on point with flavors. Berries and honey love each other.

There’s already a lot going on in this glass, but the basil adds an herbaceous finish that just screams summer.

Let’s talk ingredients:

Planteray Three Star Rum: This rum is dry and refreshing, with a slight funky Jamaican undertone. It’s a “clear” rum, but it’s made very differently than Bacardi. I’m not a fan of Bacardi overall, but it’s a solid daiquiri ingredient, so use that if you can’t find this gem from Planteray.

Rhubarb Syrup: I bought this ingredient from Sage Lane Syrups, a local business out of Canton, Ohio. Please shop local — order from them or a farmer’s market local to you.

Honey syrup: 1:1 honey to water, heated and stirred until combined. If you add pure honey to a cocktail, it’ll harden up and turn into taffy.

Lime juice: Always fresh.

Strawberry Syrup: This is a thin, simple, homemade strawberry jam; if you wanted to save some for your morning toast after making cocktails, I wouldn’t blame you.

Fresh strawberries and basil: So produce is a little … iffy in America these days. I used strawberries from a market I trust and basil from a plant growing in my backyard. Use caution and good sense. I can’t promise the rum will kill any wigglies.

Rhubarb Bitters: A great addition if you have them — they smooth out the drink wonderfully. Orange bitters will do in a pinch.

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Sometimes, you write a cocktail because you’re trying to find a vehicle for a clever flavor combination that you’ve just discovered. Sometimes you want to try a recipe you’ve read on social media and end up riffing on it to create a brand-new cocktail. Sometimes you write a crowd-pleaser to welcome the start of a new season.

And sometimes you write a cocktail because one of the owners of Hemingway’s drops a bottle of carrot juice in front of you at the beginning of a shift and says, “Make a cocktail out of this.”

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Well, like they say, necessity is a mother. Let’s make a Silly Wabbit. Here’s the recipe.

I don’t hate carrot juice. I can’t recall ever having tasted it on its own before this; most of the time I’ve had it in a nine-ingredient juice cocktail from a “healthy” smoothie bar. That’s pretty much consistent with its history. Carrot juice was first promoted as a health food by Norman Walker in 1936 at the dawn of the fresh juice movement. Ever since, carrot juice has been recommended as a natural, healthy beverage that promotes well-being. No one has ever claimed that it’s tasty.

It’s not bad. Honest. Sweet, a little creamy, vegetal, but not “green” tasting. My first impulse was to lean into the vegetable flavors and make something with a mezcal base. A little genepy, some lemon, and some other odds and ends, and I had … something. I offered it to the hostess and owner for tasting. They nodded, smiled, and said it tasted “nice.” Not what I was hoping for.

I called my wife and asked her to pull one of my reference books off the shelves — The Flavor Bible (Wonkette cut link) by Karen Page and Andrew Dornenburg. This book is worth its weight in gold when dealing with a new ingredient. It’s a “cookbook” with no recipes; just a list of what flavors go well with specific ingredients, an endless list of flavor pairings and inspiration. According to Karen and Andrew, carrots have a cooling flavor that pairs well with soft, round flavors like butter and cream. Lemon was a solid pick. So was maple. I kept looking.

I stumbled across a recipe from Robbie Dow from Bespoke in Wilmington, North Carolina. He’d written a version of the Surfer on Acid — a banging ‘90s cocktail featuring Jaegermeister, rum, and pineapple — and elevated it using some broad rum choices and lime juice to balance things. A splash of coconut rum intrigued me. Carrot and coconut had great potential. The idea of building a shell of a tiki drink, with multiple rums, pineapple, and citrus, to surround and elevate a problematic ingredient had potential. Could I use the core of this drink to make something special?

The answer was a resounding “yes.” When I offered a “carrot and coconut” drink to my audience, there were a lot of oohs and ahs over the notion. The final flavor profile was rich, smooth, comforting, and funky all at once. A parsley garnish for brightness and color completed the drink. Who says carrots have to be good for you?

Let’s talk ingredients:

Planteray 3 Star: This clear rum doesn’t taste a thing like Bacardi. Not all clear rums taste the same, or are made the same. Bacardi is an aged rum; it’s filtered for clarity, sort of like cristallino tequila. Planteray 3 Star is an unaged rum with mildly funky Jamaican notes. Find this rum and try it. It’s a real eye-opener.

Pineapple Juice: Pineapple and rum provide a stable base for this drink, a platform to tame and smooth out unfamiliar flavors. It worked for Jaegermeister in the original Surfer on Acid, and it works here. I use canned pineapple juice; fresh pineapple is too acidic.

Carrot Juice: All-natural, obviously. If you can juice your own, more power to you.

Maple Syurp: Carrot and maple play together wonderfully. I tried a turmeric syrup out of curiosity, but it didn’t add much to the cocktail.

Lemon Juice: Some acid to brighten the drink. Always use fresh.

Planteray Cut and Dried Coconut Rum: One of the advantages of working in a craft bar is that I’ve got access to wonderful, pricey ingredients like this. It’s an indulgence. Use coconut syrup at home; be ready to add more lemon juice to balance the cocktail.

Leblon Cachaca: Wray and Nephew would be even better here, if you’ve got some lying around.

OPEN THREAD!

If there’s one thing everyone knows about Great Britain, it’s that we still have a Royal Family, and even though their role in these modern days is purely ceremonial, they’re still very involved in public life. The Royal family have also had a considerable influence on British food, with dishes such as Coronation Chicken invented for special events such as the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953, or the granting of Royal warrants to popular UK food production companies, such as Kellogg’s UK, or Walkers Shortbread. The Royal family have become intrinsically linked to certain foods throughout history, from the Victoria sponge cake to the crustless cucumber sandwiches associated with the garden parties of Queen Elizabeth II.

The dish I am providing for you today was reputed to be a favourite of Queen Victoria, from whom it gets its modern name. It’s a pretty simple dish using bread, custard, jam, and meringue to make an easy to eat dessert that is surprisingly filling; it’s also delicious served with cream or ice cream. This dish is known as Queen of Puddings. It is considered a little old fashioned now, and you won’t find it on the menu in many restaurants, but it’s a creative and tasty way to use up the remains of a loaf of bread and a bit of leftover milk. That’s another thing us Brits are good at — using whatever is lying around the kitchen to make delicious desserts.

A Slice Of History

Queen of Puddings has gone by this name since the late 19th century after Queen Victoria expressed delight when it was served to her during a trip to Manchester. The dish itself predates this Royal encounter by several hundred years, and had previously been known as Manchester Pudding, and Monmouth Pudding. Delighting Queen Victoria in Manchester is not its only link to the Royal family, it is also connected through James Scott, the first Duke of Monmouth, eldest illegitimate son of Charles II. Following the death of Charles II the ascension of his younger brother James II (also known as James VII of Scotland) to the throne of Great Britain caused a few problems. James was a Catholic and refused to renounce his faith, causing unease amongst the Protestant nobility. Onto this stage stepped James Scott, first Duke of Monmouth, freshly returned from exile following his implication in a plot to assassinate his father, Charles II, in order to prevent the ascension of James II to the throne in the first place. Despite strong support from the South West of England and Wales, and fielding a larger military force than James II, the Duke of Monmouth was defeated at the Battle of Sedgemoor on the 6th July 1685, and our friend the Duke was subsequently parted from his head just nine days later. This is where the link to the recipe that became the Queen of Puddings comes in. Apparently, Monmouth pudding became so known because of the red stripe through the centre formed by the layer of jam; forever linked to James Scott, first Duke of Monmouth, and the reported eight blows of the axe which were required to separate his head from his body.

It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows for James II after that though, as he was deposed in 1688 and replaced by another nephew, William of Orange, a Protestant, who was married to James II’s daughter Mary. The British monarchy really did like to keep it in the family.

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The recipe I’m giving you today is the classic one, I have since had an idea for my own variation (see the end of the recipe for details), it consists of a layer of breadcrumbs soaked in custard and baked until set, topped with a generous layer of jam (I’ve opted for strawberry, but choose whatever flavour floats your boat), and a final layer of meringue. The measurements I’m giving you will comfortably serve 4. For fellow members of the Dead Pancreas Society, that’s 50g of carbohydrate per portion, plus whatever you serve it with, or 200g for the whole pudding.

Your Equipment

Digital kitchen scales

Saucepan

Wooden spoon

Mixing bowl

Pie dish

Deep sided baking tray

Electric hand whisk or stand mixer

Piping bag and star shaped nozzle (optional)

Your Ingredients

For the custard layer:

600 ml (1 pint) whole/full fat milk

25 g butter, plus extra to grease the pie dish

zest of ½ lemon

3 egg yolks

50 g sugar

75 g fresh white breadcrumbs

For the jam layer:

6 tbsp of a jam of your choice (I went with strawberry)

For the meringue layer:

2 medium egg whites

137 g sugar

pinch of salt

The Important Bit

The first step is to make your custard. Gently heat your milk (600 ml/1 pint) in the saucepan until almost boiling. Add your butter (25 g), sugar (50 g)and the lemon zest and stir until the butter has melted and the sugar has dissolved.

In your mixing bowl, whisk the 3 egg yolks until they are pale and fluffy. Now take a ladle of the milk mixture and slowly add it to the egg yolks, whisk the egg yolks vigorously while you do this as you don’t want to cook the eggs. Carefully add the egg yolk mixture back into the remaining milk mixture and mix it well.

Grease the pie dish with a little extra butter, then place the breadcrumbs in the pie dish. Pour in the custard mix, and leave it for 15 minutes to allow the breadcrumbs to soak up the custard. This is the perfect time to preheat your oven to 340F / 170C.

Place the pie dish containing your custard mix into your deep sided baking tray, carefully fill the baking tray halfway up with hot water. Now place the baking tray and its contents into the oven and bake for 30 minutes.

Give your mixing bowl and other equipment a wash — it’s important to try to keep a clean and organised workstation.

After 30 minutes, remove the baking tray from the oven and carefully remove the pie dish from the tray and turn the oven down to 270F / 130C.

Spread 6tbsp of your chosen jam across the top of the custard, which should now be perfectly set. The heat from the custard should be enough to soften the jam enough that it is easily spread using the back of a spoon.

Take your 2 medium egg whites and a pinch of salt and whisk them using your electric hand whisk or stand mixer on the highest speed setting until they form stiff peaks. Remember, you know they’re done when you can hold the bowl upside down over your significant other/friend/child’s head and they do not end up wearing an egg white hat and needing a shower.

Add the sugar (87 g) a little at a time, whilst continuing to whisk the egg whites on the highest speed setting. You should end up with a thick, glossy meringue.

Pipe or spoon the meringue over the top of the jam layer, and place the pie dish back into the oven for another 30 minutes, or until the meringue is a very pale golden colour.

Serve your Queen of Puddings immediately with cream or ice cream. It would also go nicely with some shortbread biscuits for an added element of texture.

After making this recipe, I’ve decided an interesting variation would be to remove the breadcrumbs within the custard and add a biscuit or pastry base instead, topped with the custard , jam and meringue. It’s something I intend to explore at a later date.

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For now, I hope you enjoyed your trip through British baking history. Join me next month, when I plan to get Foolish in the summer heat with another classic British recipe. Until then...

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