Author: John Fladd

A man walks into a bar with a pineapple on his head.

The bartender asks, “Hey, what’s with the pineapple?”

The man says, “It’s Tuesday; I always wear a pineapple on Tuesday.”

The bartender thinks for a second, then points out, “Yeah, but it’s Thursday.”

The Pineapple Man slaps his palm to his face and groans. “Ugh! I can’t believe this; I’m so embarrassed.”

Did you find that joke a little frustrating and confusing? Welcome to the World of Pineapple.

Most of us have been there. You’ll be working your way through the supermarket, trying to decide what to make for dinner tomorrow night.

(You’ll probably go with meet-loaf. You spell it like that because you generally improvise it. Your mother never used a recipe for meatloaf, and pride or stubbornness or something keeps you from looking up an actual recipe for it, so you’ll end up winging it. Again. And like always, your husband or girlfriend will look at the vaguely loaf-shaped dish placed in front of them and ask, “Are you sure this is meatloaf?” And you’ll answer like you always do, “Yes, absolutely. Honey, meet Loaf.” It’s little traditions like this that relationships are founded on.)

Anyway, you’ll be walking through the produce section, eyeing the cilantro suspiciously, when your attention will be grabbed by a giant display of fresh pineapples. Overtaken by the Spirit of the Islands — Oahu, Easter, Coney: one of the islands — you will impulsively decide to buy one.

Until you pick it up and realize that you have no idea how to pick out a good one.

There is a lot of advice out there for picking a ripe pineapple and most of it is iffy at best. You’ll hear that you should try to pull one of the leaves out, or squeeze it, or heft it in your hand to see if it feels heavy for its size. (If you don’t know how to pick out a pineapple, how in the world are you supposed to decide if it’s heavy or not?)

In reality, your best options are to go by color and smell.

Color: Get the pineapple that is the closest to a shade of golden-orange as possible. This can occasionally be deceptive, but the deeper a shade of green a pineapple is, the more likely it is to be underripe.

A better guide is smell. Hold the pineapple in your hand, ignore the people around you and close your eyes. Imagine yourself somewhere warm and tropical. Imagine pushing yourself through the crowd at an outdoor market. Visualize an old man in a straw hat sitting next to a giant pile of pineapples warming in the sun. Imagine the smell that would come off them.

The pineapples, not the old man.

Now sniff your pineapple’s butt. Does it smell like that tropical marketplace? Even a little? If so, you’ve got your pineapple. If all you smell is your own rising sense of awkwardness and embarrassment, move on. (With all that said, you’ll probably have a better chance of scoring a good pineapple at an Asian or Latin market, where they cater to people who Know Their Pineapples, and who will not be trifled with.)

Ultimately, though, from a cocktail perspective, how much does this really matter?

Yes, you could get a great fresh pineapple, take it home, disassemble it and turn it into a Very Nice Drink. Or — and I’m just throwing ideas out, here — you could buy some of the pineapple that the people at the supermarket have already cut up for you, or even — stay with me — use canned pineapple. Once you’ve added lime juice and rum and a Spirit of Adventure, would you be able to tell the difference?

So I tried it out this afternoon. I made three identical drinks, using identical amounts of identical ingredients, except, of course, for the pineapple, and even shook them over identical amounts of ice for identical periods of time.

Using canned, precut, and fresh pineapple, was there a difference?

Yes.

Was it a Very Big Difference?

Not unless you had all three in front of you and could compare them. The fresh pineapple Aku-Aku (see below) was noticeably more subtle and pineapple-y than the other two, but the way I see it, an afternoon spent wrapping yourself around a pineapple drink — regardless of the pineapple you use — is better than an afternoon when you’ve deprived yourself of such a cocktail.

The Aku-Aku

• 5 1-inch cubes of pineapple — 85 grams, or 3 ounces
• 2 grams (.08 ounce) fresh mint leaves — around 2 Tablespoons
• 1 ounce fresh squeezed lime juice
• ½ ounce simple syrup
• ½ ounce peach brandy or schnapps
• 1½ ounce golden rum

Muddle the pineapple and mint together in the bottom of a cocktail shaker. Smash them together thoroughly. Really press the issue. Try not to splash yourself.

Add lime juice, syrup, brandy, rum and five ice cubes (around 80 grams). No, it really doesn’t matter how much ice you use, but since I had weighed it anyway, in the Name of Science, I thought I’d just put it out there.

Shake thoroughly for 30 seconds.

Strain into a coupe glass or other small, stemmed glass.

Face west-southwest — the direction of Polynesia — as you drink it.

You might be forgiven if you think this will be a fairly sweet drink — pineapple, plus peach brandy, plus simple syrup — but it’s a surprisingly refreshing and grown-up drink. The mint gives everything a faint hint of muskiness and sophistication. The glass’s stem keeps the drink cold. Your delightful personality and sense of inner peace keep the conversation excellent.

Take it from the houseplant I spent 20 minutes talking to after testing and drinking three of these.

Featured photo. The Aku-Aku. Photo by John Fladd.

“Hey, Susan.”

“Evenin’, Alice. The usual?”

“Please. Busy night?”

“Well, you know how it goes; everyone’s busy — kinda part of the job description — but they’re not busy here at the moment. What about you? Looks like you’ve had a rough one.”

“Ugh. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. You know Sylvia? The worker on Level Three? Yeah, anyway, she came in with a story about a case of strawberries that fell off the back of a truck and got smashed all over the highway. It sounded like a sweet gig — all the sugar, half the flying — so I shot out of here and went to find it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Yeah, but I’m such a freakin’ genius that I didn’t wait around and watch her whole dance. It turns out she’s got a bit of an accent on account of she’s missing part of her left foreleg and I got the directions muddled. I ended up downtown at a dumpster behind a burger joint.”

“Oof! Sorry.”

“Well, it wasn’t so bad. It turns out there was a library about a block away with a window box full of geraniums, so I ended up meeting my quota.”

“That’s our girl! You always come through for us in the clutch.”

“Yeah, thanks, but it’s not getting any easier. I’m not two weeks old anymore.”

“Her Imperial Majesty should be pleased.”

“The Queen? Yeah, I hope so. You know, I met her once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she’s really nice. Turns out her name is Betty. She likes showtunes.”

“Really? I’d’ve figured her for classical.”

“Nah! Our Betty’s real down-to-earth.”

“She’d kinda have to be, though; she doesn’t fly anymore — not since her mating flight. Wow! That was somethin’, huh?”

“I’ll have to take your word for it; a bit before my time, I’m afraid. Hey, set me up with another one, would ya, please?”

The Bee’s Knees

This is a classic cocktail from the 1920s. “The bee’s knees” was a catchy slang term of the time, describing something that was truly excellent, like “the cat’s pajamas” or “the elephant’s instep.” Not surprisingly, this is honey-based.

This is a type of drink I call a Basic Utility Cocktail. Margaritas, gimlets and classic daiquiris all follow a very similar recipe: roughly two ounces of a basic alcohol (blanco tequila, rum, gin, vodka, etc.), an ounce or so of syrup or sweet liqueur (this is where the triple sec or Grand Marnier would come into play in a margarita), and an ounce or so of a sour fruit juice (usually lemon or lime juice, but I’ve used cranberry juice, too). If you find yourself with too much fruit, it’s really easy to make it into a syrup to use in a seasonal drink. (Cucumbers work surprisingly well.)

Ingredients:

• 2 ounces very cold gin – depending on what type of honey you use, you might want to use something a little bracing and not too expensive. I’ve been enjoying Wiggly Bridge lately.
• ¾ ounce honey syrup (see below)
• ¾ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice

Combine all ingredients over ice in a shaker.

Shake ever so hard, long enough for your hands to start hurting from the cold.

Strain into a small, stemmed glass — a coupé glass, maybe.

This is a seductive cocktail. The sweetness of the honey syrup contrasts with the acidity of the lemon juice. The gin adds a slight harshness to the background that keeps this drink from becoming frivolous. It is absolutely delicious, and the colder it is the more you find yourself wondering where your drink went, then making another. Appropriately for a bee-themed drink, this is a social cocktail; it facilitates conversation.

Honey Syrup

Bring equal parts honey and water to a boil over medium heat.

Let the mixture boil for a few seconds, to make sure that the honey is completely dissolved.

Cool and bottle. Store indefinitely in your refrigerator.

Featured photo. Courtesy photo.

I’ve never been very good at meditating.

I had an instructor tell me once that it’s important to listen to your heartbeat or think very hard about your breathing. The way he put it, your brain is like a monkey that is always looking for something to do, so you need to distract it with counting and stuff.

“That makes sense,” I thought to myself. “Because, when you think about it, monkeys are pretty mystical creatures. It’s weird how wizards and witches have familiars and patronuses like cats or elk, because it would be really something to meditate and manifest a pack of angry mandrills. And actually, Angry Mandrill would be a really good name for a high-proof, banana-flavored rum. Maybe with chilies in it….”

And I missed another opportunity for self-enlightenment.

The only time I actually ever succeeded at meditating, it happened — as so many important things in life do — when I wasn’t trying to.

At one point in my youth, I found myself broke on the streets of Mombasa, on the East Coast of Africa. Well, not broke-broke — not George Orwell broke — but not in a position to be picky about my hotel accommodations. Somehow, I found myself surprised at how hot and humid it was. This should not have been much of a shock, as I was on the Equator, about a mile from the Indian Ocean, but The Obvious has always been a bit of a blind spot for me.

I needed someplace to stay, and I followed a couple of German backpackers to a not-quite-scary, kind-of-OK-if-you-squinted-at-it-hard-enough hotel. I managed to score a room for a couple of dollars a night.

(As it turned out, the reason the cheapest room was so cheap was that its window was right next to the loudspeaker of the mosque next door that called worshipers to prayer at five each morning. But that’s another story.)

Obviously, my room didn’t have anything like air conditioning — though there was a large ceiling fan over my bed — and I didn’t have any money to go out at night, but that was OK, because the sheer, overwhelming heat and humidity sucked away any enthusiasm I might have had to do anything anyway.

For two nights, I lay on my bed all night, under the fan sweating.

I kept two or three liters of water by the bed and I would alternate sweating and drinking, drinking and sweating. Taking in water, and feeling it seep back out of me. Over and over again.

It was the single most meditative experience of my life.

So, as I look at the weather forecast for the next week, with temperatures and humidity predicted to be in the 90s, I find myself somewhat uncharacteristically nostalgic for Mombasa.

Mombasa Michelada

A michelada is a Mexican beer cocktail. Many people make theirs very much like a bloody mary, with tomato or even clam juice, spices and sometimes an extra shot of tequila. I like mine a little on the lighter side to facilitate the whole meditative sweating thing.

1 lime wedge and some chili-lime spice to rim the edge of your glass or mug. I like Tajin.

2 oz. passion fruit cocktail – you can find this on the top shelf in the juice aisle at your supermarket

• ½ teaspoon hot sauce – I like Cholula
• ½ teaspoon miso paste
• A pinch of celery salt
• A pinch of black pepper
• A handful of torn and mangled cilantro leaves
• A bottle of Pilsner or lager beer – you can’t go wrong with something Mexican like Modelo

Rub the rim of your glass with your lime wedge, then set it aside for your garnish. Sprinkle some of your chili-lime powder on a plate and touch the rim of your glass down in it to rim the edge of the glass.

Chop or tear your cilantro and put it in the bottom of your glass. This is optional, if you are one of those people who think it tastes like soap, but it is highly recommended.

Fill the glass halfway with ice. This is somewhat heretical; you have been warned.

In a separate dish or cup, mix the hot sauce, miso, celery salt and pepper into a paste. Slowly mix in the passion fruit juice, until it is all smoothly mixed. Pour the mixture into your glass.

Fill the glass with beer and garnish with your lime wedge. Stir gently.

Beer, spice and acidity are excellent playmates. This is a surprisingly meditative drink.

Hmm. Delicious, but maybe a bit strong — add more beer.

Oh, that’s good! But now the cilantro is taking over a little — add a little more juice.

Repeat.

I’m not saying that this experience will be the same as lying under a fan on the equator, counting the cracks in the ceiling, but I recommend it anyway.

Featured photo. Mombasa Michelada. Photo by John Fladd.

Because I am a humble man, I don’t often bring this up, but it has bearing on today’s topic, so I’ll say it now and get it out of the way, so we can move on.

I make the World’s Best Breakfast Sandwich.

I know; it seems unlikely. You’d expect the inventor of such an important — dare I say, landmark? — development to be a tall, handsome, strapping man of great intelligence and taste. You’d be disappointed.

And, of course, you’ve got the lunch-counter lawyers who will want to get into the whole, “How can you quantify matters of personal preference?” Some people might even argue, “How do you even define the word ‘sandwich’, anyway?” — you know, the same people who like to start the argument about whether a hot dog is a sandwich or whether breakfast cereal is soup. Those jerks. [Editor’s note: Hippo totally and with troublemaker intent stirred this pot in our Best of 2022. Hippo readers pretty definitively said 76 to 24 percent that a hot dog is not a sandwich.]

But the fact remains that there is one clear best breakfast sandwich, and I’m the guy who invented it. I am so confident of this that I have it on my resumé, which has provoked several extended discussions during job interviews. I haven’t always gotten those jobs, but by the time I left, the various hiring committees knew what to make for breakfast the next morning.

Here is how you make it:

Toast one slice of plain, ordinary, white sandwich bread. If you try to use a snobbier, artisanal bread, this whole dish will collapse philosophically.

Spread the bread with a confident layer of peanut butter — natural, processed, it doesn’t matter. It has to be actual peanut butter, though. Almond butter, sunflower butter, tahini, these are all fine, admirable ingredients but this is not the job for them.

On top of the peanut butter, arrange a layer of pickled jalapeños — not fresh ones, not a splash of hot sauce. Pickled. Jalapeños.

Top the jalapeños with a fluffy scrambled egg. Not egg whites. Not whipped tofu.

Scrambled. Egg.

“Yeah, but I like a fried egg, and I don’t really see why—”

Shhhh.

One. Scrambled. Egg.

Season with a pinch of coarse salt and fresh ground pepper.

You and I both know how this is going to go down:

You’re going to try to prove how open-minded you are and you’ll make this — well, a version of it, anyway. You’ll substitute a self-respecting slice of sourdough for the sandwich bread, or you’ll use some fresh chiles you’ve got growing in your garden. You’ll make it, and eat it, and shrug your shoulders and say, “It’s OK, but I’m not sure what he’s making such a big deal about.” And you’ll move on with your life, burdened with just a little less respect for me than you had before.

And then, one day, when you need it most — when it is freezing rain outside, and the character you love the most on that show you like has gotten herself killed by a radioactive wombat, and work is terrible, and you just had a big fight, and you hate the world — on that day, you will make this sandwich the way it was meant to be eaten and you will feel the fragments of your broken heart start to slip back into place.

“OK,” I hear you say. “This is all certainly very … colorful and all, but what — if anything — does this have to do with cocktails?”

Oh, right.

I’m sure you already know this, but this Friday is the 94th anniversary of the first commercially sliced bread, which is, of course, one of the key developments that make this sandwich possible. And as long as we’re talking, in a roundabout sort of way, about bread that doesn’t get enough respect, let’s make a cocktail that honors another forgotten hero of the bread world: pumpernickel.

Pumpernickel Manhattan

Ingredients

• 1 Tablespoon caraway seeds
• 1 Tablespoon cocoa nibs
• 1½ ounces rye whiskey – I like Maker’s Mark
• 1½ ounces red vermouth
• 10 drops cardamom bitters
• 10 drops orange bitters

Thoroughly muddle the caraway seeds and cocoa nibs in the bottom of a cocktail shaker. (You could also use a mortar and pestle for this.) Add the rye, and swirl to combine.

Leave the whiskey, caraway and cocoa nibs for at least an hour, to get to know each other better.

Using a fine-meshed strainer, strain the rye over ice, in a mixing glass. Add the vermouth and bitters, then stir gently.

Pour into a rocks glass, and sip slowly.

Pumpernickel — the bread — is a close cousin of rye bread; that’s why we’re using rye for this Manhattan, rather than the more traditional bourbon. Its dark color comes from cocoa powder, and like all self-respecting ryes, it has caraway seeds to give it some [vague, punching motion]. As with any self-respecting Manhattan, the predominant flavor here comes from the whiskey — this is why we’ve used a fairly upscale rye — but the caraway and cocoa linger and remind you who you are dealing with. They are subtle about it — it doesn’t shout, “CARAWAY! WE’VE GOT CARAWAY, HERE!” but they leave you thinking about the finer points of pumpernickel bread.

As you should.

Featured photo. Pumpernickel Manhattan. Photo by John Fladd.

It’s been a long, cold, and lonely winter.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that you are a teacher. You’ve finally broken down your classroom, covered all your bookcases with paper and answered the last of the emails from angry parents. Or, hypothetically, you’ve just pulled your last shift for the week at the convenience store, waiting on increasingly angry customers, who have never learned to say “Please” or “Good morning” and want to know why you, personally, have raised the price of gas.

Or, hypothetically, you’ve wrapped up another week at the DMV where—

You know what? Let’s just stipulate that you are feeling worn out and a little bit battered, emotionally, and now you’ve got a few precious hours to yourself to sit on the deck, or wallow around in an inflatable pool, and get your Cool back.

Because you are cool. You have distinct memories of being cool, sometime in the distant past. “You’re so cool!” somebody told you once. Or you think they did. Or was that a movie? It might be Samuel L. Jackson or Helen Mirren you are thinking of.

Anyway, you know that there is some cool floating around somewhere and you’re pretty sure you can absorb it, if you can just unclench your shoulders and let it soak into you.

Here’s an unsolicited suggestion of how to do that.

Step 1 – Music

Put on “Take 5” by Dave Brubeck or “A Taste of Honey” by Herb Alpert.

I know — this isn’t your usual music; it’s something you imagine some old, not-cool person would listen to. Trust me on this. You can listen to your regular country or heavy metal or Mongolian opera later. For now you need this very specific type of jazz. Remember that shoulder-unclenching we talked about before? This will help you do it.

Step 2 – Take Your Shoes Off

Do it. Even if you’ve been wearing sandals all day, sitting in bare feet will send a message to your clenching parts.

Step 3 – Drink This (It’s a Process)

Take Five

Ingredients

• 2 ounces mango-infused rum (see below)
• 1 ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
• ¾ ounce rhubarb syrup (see below)
• 1 bottle or can of your favorite seltzer — I like Topo Chico

Combine the rum, lemon juice and syrup in a cocktail shaker, and shake over ice.

Pour into a tall Collins glass. Top with seltzer.

This will be sweet and tart and definitely like something somebody cool would drink, except—

Maybe? Maybe, it’s a little too sweet and boozy?

Take another sip to be sure.

Yup, just a little too concentrated. But, hey! Look at that! There’s an inch or so of room at the top of the glass now, for more seltzer. Top it off again.

Now, it’s perfect. **Sip, sip**

Oh — and look! There’s a little more room in the glass; better top it off again.

Still perfect. Slightly different, but absolutely delightful. **Sip, sip**

And again.

Eventually, you’ll run out of seltzer, which would be a really good excuse to make a second drink.

This time, try listening to Louis Armstrong sing, “Just One of Those Things.” Trust me.

Mango-Infused Rum

Combine 4 cups of white rum with 5 ounces or so of dried mango in your blender. Blend it to a rough-smoothie consistency.

Let the mixture steep for an hour or so, then strain it through a fine-meshed strainer and bottle. The mango will hold onto a fair amount of the rum, but you will be left with a beautiful, apricot-colored alcohol that will look really good in your liquor cabinet and taste like reggae music.

Rhubarb Syrup

Combine an equal amount, by weight, of frozen diced rhubarb and white sugar in a small saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb gives up its juice and the syrup mixture comes to a boil.

Remove from the heat, cover, and allow it to steep for one hour.

Strain through a fine-meshed strainer, pressing on the rhubarb to encourage any additional liquid to drain out.

Bottle the syrup, and keep it in your refrigerator. Add the juice of one lemon to the rhubarb, and eat it on ice cream.

Featured photo. Photo by John Fladd.

In her Little House books Laura Ingalls Wilder made a big deal out of the changing of the seasons. Fall was an obvious one with all the emphasis on the harvest, etc., but springtime was also a really big deal for her.

In one of the books — I don’t specifically remember which one — she goes into a four- or five-page reverie about her mother making the first salad of the year. She describes the lettuce that she grew, and how her ma would make a dressing out of bacon drippings and vinegar.

“Oh, Ma!” the barefoot kids would cry, “Salad!”

“Hooray! Salad!”

“By gum, Caroline,” her Pa would say, “You beat everyone else all hollow for making salad!”

And Ma would blush, and admit that while it wasn’t perfect, it was, in fact, a pretty good salad.”

And I, as a child of the ’70s, would stop reading briefly, and shout at the book.

“Seriously, people! It’s a salad! Get over it!”

What I didn’t or couldn’t realize at the time was that this frontier family had just come off a winter of living on potatoes, salt pork and hardtack, and now even the potatoes were gone. They all had early-stage rickets and scurvy. Fresh, leafy greens must have hit their systems like a vitamin A speedball.

Now, while we haven’t spent the winter locked up in a one-room shanty on the prairie, we are coming off a long takeout and frozen dinner jag. Many of us have spent the past week or two standing in our gardens, hands on hips, staring down at the seedlings and going, “WELL?!”

The big stuff — the cucumbers, tomatoes, and corn — is still a long way off, but we are starting to get a few tiny things, vegetable flirtations, if you will, from our gardens.

Springtime Cocktail #1

Peas and mint are a classic combination. My question was a matter of ratios — how much mint to how many peas?

I looked through many, many recipes and found very little agreement. But Martha Stewart advised 10 ounces of peas to 1/3 cup of mint leaves, and if there is anyone I would put blind trust in on this matter, it would be Martha.

The great thing about this recipe is that aside from washing the peas and mint, you don’t have to pluck, chop or process them in any fussy way.

Preparing the gin:

• 1/3 cup (8 grams) fresh mint — Don’t worry about plucking the leaves. The stems will work well here, too.
• 10 ounces fresh sugar snap peas or snow peas in their pods
• 10 ounces (285 grams) medium-quality gin — I used Gordon’s

Measure all three ingredients into a blender — a kitchen scale is excellent for this.

Blend thoroughly for a minute or so.

Leave the mixture to steep for an hour.

Strain with a fine-meshed kitchen strainer.

Your yield will be about a cup (8 ounces) of Bright Green Gin — enough for four cocktails.

The cocktail itself:

• 2 ounces Bright Green Gin
• 1 ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
• ¾ ounce amaretto

Combine all ingredients with ice in a cocktail shaker.

Shake.

Strain into a chilled coupe glass.

This is what I call a classic Utility Cocktail recipe — two parts alcohol, one part citrus juice, ¾ part syrup or liqueur.

Amaretto has a reputation of being a bully and taking over any drink it’s a part of. When used judiciously, it is an excellent team player. Peas go extremely well with mint – that’s a given. They also go with lemon and with almonds. All these ingredients play extremely well together.

The first thing you notice, of course, is the color, a bright vibrant green that even the amaretto won’t dull. The pea flavor is distinct but not overly assertive. The acid of the lemon juice brightens everything up.

It is startlingly delicious.

And holds off scurvy. There’s no sense in taking chances.

(One observation: The Bright Green Gin has a short shelf life. It will start losing its vibrant color and flavor within a couple of hours, so it is best to drink it right away. This is a perfect before-dinner cocktail to share with friends, or for two of you to have two apiece.)

Featured photo. Springtime Cocktail. Photo by John Fladd.