Welcome To Wonkette Happy Hour, With This Week's Cocktail, Fight Your Trinidad!
What happens at a Malört cocktail competition? Strange, unwholesome things.
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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