Category: Drink

I don’t have to tell you that this Saturday, June 22, is National Kissing Day. You’ve been stocking up on breath mints and lip balm for weeks.

There are quite a few kissing-themed cocktails. One popular one is called the Kiss Me. It’s one of those drinks that’s fairly simple in execution but calls for ingredients most of us are unlikely to have on hand. It will almost certainly require a trip to the liquor store. Because of this, you might want to save this recipe for a special occasion, like National Kissing Day.

Surprisingly, the most difficult ingredient to track down for this drink is strawberry schnapps. In the end, it required a work-around to replicate, which, in turn, required changing up the recipe’s traditional ratios. It’s easy enough to make strawberry syrup and mix it with vodka and end up with something very like schnapps.

In spite of using (almost) the same ingredients, this cocktail is different enough from a classic Kiss Me that it deserves a name of its own.

Stolen Kiss

• 1 part rye whiskey
• 1 part “strawberry schnapps” – see below
• 1 part passionfruit cocktail — I like Goya’s; it’s delicious and easily available in the apple juice aisle at your favorite supermarket
• 3 parts prosecco

Making Strawberry “Schnapps”

Combine equal amounts of frozen strawberries and granulated sugar, by weight, in a small saucepan.

Cook over medium heat, until the strawberries give up all their juice — encourage this with a potato masher — and the mixture comes to a boil.

Remove from heat, add the juice of half a lemon, and allow to cool.

Strain using a fine-mesh strainer. Eat the solids that are left behind on an English muffin or a crumpet; you won’t be sorry.

Bottle and save in the refrigerator for several weeks, although you’ll be lucky if it lasts through the weekend.

To make a decent substitute for strawberry schnapps, combine one part strawberry syrup with two parts medium-shelf vodka. I like Tito’s for this.

The Actual Cocktail

Combine the rye, “schnapps” and passionfruit with ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake enthusiastically.

Measure out and gently pour the prosecco into the cocktail shaker and stir gently. If you have an actual cocktail spoon, one with a long twisty handle, it will do a good job at mixing the drink thoroughly without de-fizzing the prosecco. If you don’t have one, a wooden spoon or even a fork will work well enough; just remember that you are mixing this gently, as if it might explode.

Strain the cocktail — again, gently — into a Champagne flute.

Drink — hopefully with company — to a kissing-themed song. There are any number of kissing songs, but my personal recommendation would be for Louis Armstrong’s version of “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.” Given agreeable company, it might make your heart feel as fizzy as the cocktail.

There’s a lot going on with this cocktail. The fact that it’s in a Champagne flute means that the fruity notes won’t hit your nose right away. Something like 70 percent of what we “taste” is actually dependent on what we smell. Because of the shape of the flute, you’ll catch this drink’s fruitiness on the back end, but with your first sip the rye will take a guitar solo. It’s on the second, third, or 17th sip that everything will fall into place. Appropriately enough, it tastes like a flirtation.

Featured Photo: Stolen Kiss. Photo by John Fladd.

There are words floating around in the air that we’ve heard, that we’d love to use in conversation, but whose meaning we don’t know. We feel like we should know. We’ve read them in books or heard fancy people use them. We’re pretty sure that everyone else in the world knows them, but we don’t want to admit our ignorance.

My favorite one of these words is “insouciant.”

Another of them is “frangipane.” Don’t let this intimidate you. It’s just the term for an almond cream that is used in pastry sometimes.

Frangipane-Raspberry Pie

• 1 pre-baked pie shell – you can buy one of these premade and frozen at the supermarket or you can make your own or you can buy premade pie dough and bake it according to the instructions on the box; blind baking (making a pie crust without any filling in it) is a whole angsty topic that requires a much longer discussion than we have time for today; seriously, the premade dough makes a very credible pie crust, don’t feel guilty about using it
• 1 1/3 stick (150 g) butter
• ¾ cup (150 g) granulated sugar
• 1 large egg
• 1½ cup (150 g) almond flour – I like Bob’s Red Mill
• 1 teaspoon almond extract
• ½ cup (170 g) seedless raspberry jam – I don’t like raspberry seeds, but if you’re some sort of thrill-seeker, feel free to use the full-octane stuff

Preheat your oven to 325°F.

If you’ve baked a pie shell yourself, let it cool completely.

Using a stand mixer, beat the butter and sugar until they are fluffy, 3 to 5 minutes. Most Kitchen Smart People will tell you to use softened butter, but a stand mixer will beat cold butter into submission and be happy about it. If you don’t have a stand mixer, you should probably listen to the experts.

Add the egg. Because the yolk contains a lot of fat, it will mix in with the butter-fluff without complaining, and bring protein with it to give structure to frangipane while it bakes. Follow this with the almond flour and extract.

Beat the mixture until it is fluffy again.

Meanwhile, glop spoon the raspberry jam into your pie shell and spread it around so that it covers the entire bottom.

Transfer the almond mixture to the pie shell, on top of the jam. Spread it evenly with an offset spatula if you have one. If you don’t, try the back of a large spoon. You’ll say to yourself, “What’s the big deal? I beat this until it was fluffy. Twice! I can spread it around with a butter knife!” No, you can’t. While fluffy and delicious, frangipane is stubborn; it needs to be persuaded to spread out on top of the jam instead of mixing into it. Use the spatula to spread the filling toward you until it reaches the edge of the pie pan, then rotate the pan and repeat, until you’ve covered the whole pie.

Wish your pie well, then bake it for 45 to 50 minutes. Check on it during the last 10 minutes or so of baking. If it’s starting to look a little dark, cover it with a sheet of aluminum foil.

Remove from the oven and let it cool completely before serving. You might want to garnish it with whipped cream and fresh raspberries.

This is a delicious pie. It tastes primarily of almonds at first — rich, dense, and a little pecan-pie-like, but the crispy part where the frangipane has bonded with the side crust is something special. The sharpness of the raspberries cuts through the richness of the pie but adds to its sweetness.

There are two advantages to this pie. One, of course, is the pie itself. It’s a really good pie. The other is social. When you share this — and you really will want to show it off — and a friend asks what it is, you can flip your hair insouciantly, and say, “Oh, this? It’s just some frangipane. How do you feel about frangipane?” HA! Take that, Gertrude!

Featured Photo: Frangipane. Photo by John Fladd.

The stem of a glass — a wine glass, a Champagne flute or a martini glass — is there to help you keep your drink at the proper temperature. Glass is an excellent thermal insulator, and if you hold your glass by the stem very little of the heat from your hands will travel up to the drink, so it will stay cool longer.

Which is very useful for drinks that you want to drink very, very cold, like a sidecar.

Rhubarb Sidecar

Rhubarb Syrup

Rhubarb, chopped and frozen

An equal amount of granulated sugar, by weight

The juice of half a lemon

Sidecar

2 ounces cognac

1 ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice

¾ ounce rhubarb syrup

Cook frozen chopped rhubarb and sugar over medium heat, stirring occasionally. By freezing the rhubarb, you have caused jagged crystals of ice to form and puncture most of the cell walls in the rhubarb. The sugar is emotionally needy and draws the juice from the rhubarb and bonds with it. It is unclear how the rhubarb feels about this, but it doesn’t really have any choice in the matter, because under heat the sugar is drawn into solution in its juice with a happy sigh. If you want to encourage this chemical matchmaking, you can use a potato masher to hurry the process along.

Bring the mixture to a boil, and wait a few seconds longer to make sure all the sugar has completely dissolved. Remove from heat, add the lemon juice to the mixture, then strain it with a fine-mesh strainer. Leave it to cool. (Don’t throw away the rhubarb solids; they are delicious.)

Wrap a double-handful of ice in a tea towel and beat it vigorously with something heavy (I use the pestle from my largest mortar and pestle, but a meat tenderizer or the bottom of a small pot will work well, too). When you have crushed your ice, fill a martini glass with it and set it aside for five minutes or so to chill. This will give you time to squeeze the lemon juice for the cocktail — unless you’ve got a particularly selfless one that gives generously of itself, this will probably take a whole lemon’s worth.

Combine the cognac, lemon juice and your now-cool rhubarb syrup (cool in a temperature sense; the mere fact that you are making this cocktail makes you cool in a social sense) over ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake extra-thoroughly; you want this cocktail to be colder than a penguin pawnbroker’s heart.

Dump the ice out of the martini glass; you’ve left it in until the last possible instant, to make sure the glass is as cold as possible. Strain the cocktail into it, with a hum of satisfaction at its color, a pinkish shade of apricot, like a bolt of silk in a hidden corner of a Turkish bazar. Find someplace quiet and comfortable — a screened-in porch, perhaps — and sip the drink while thinking about that time at that party when you were actually witty and attractive.

A sidecar is a classic cocktail in the same family as margaritas, whiskey sours and gimlets: a healthy belt of liquor, some sort of citrus juice and something sweet. In this case the brandy works really well with the fruitiness of the homemade rhubarb syrup. Rhubarb’s tartness plays well off the lemon juice. When a sidecar is skull-shrinkingly cold, the cognac takes a leading role in the taste, as it slowly warms up — because you’ve remembered to hold your glass by the stem — and the more delicate fruity flavors become a little more pronounced.

A sidecar is much like many of us, who start out cold and sharp but mellow out a little with age.

Featured Photo: Rhubarb Sidecar. Photo by John Fladd.

There are two issues that need to be addressed right off the bat:

(1) Watermelon really, really seems like it should be spelled with two Ls. It’s just weird. Similarly, sherbet only has one R. (If you listen to a British person pronounce it, they do say “shuh-bet,” though it turns out that they aren’t talking about the same thing; their “sherbet” is flavored sugar powder, the type you find in Pixie Stix.) Every one of us grew up saying “Sher-Bert” and I’m willing to fight anyone who tries to correct me.

(2) How do you pick a decent watermelon? Ideally, you buy it at a farm stand and ask the person on the other side of the table to pick one for you. But if you are on your own in the produce department of a supermarket, look for one that has a dramatic pale spot on one side, where it lay on the dirt as it was growing. The sun never got to that spot, so it never greened up. Also, look for wide stripes, hopefully with two fingers-width between them. After that, just buy a lot of melons until you figure out which ones taste good to you.

Watermelon Sherbet
(See? Now that you’ve noticed it, doesn’t that just seem wrong?)

• 1 quart (32 ounces, 950 ml) watermelon juice – from about half a medium-sized watermelon (see below)
• a pinch of kosher or coarse sea salt
• 1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
• 1/3 cup fresh squeezed lime juice (about three limes’ worth)

Cut your melon in half and scoop out just over a quart of flesh with an ice cream scoop. This is another case where a kitchen scale will be useful. Put your blender jar on the scale, tare (zero) it out, then transfer 35 ounces, or 1,000 grams, into the jar.

Blend the watermelon, slowly at first, then more vigorously, until it is completely liquified. Strain it through a fine mesh strainer, and you will be left with about a quart of juice.

Return the juice to the blender, and add the other ingredients. Blend it thoroughly a second time, then put it in the refrigerator to chill for a few hours. If you don’t have an ice cream machine, pour the sherbet base into a sealed plastic bag, and freeze it solid, and send it on another trip through your blender or food processor.

Churn the sherbet base in your ice cream machine, according to manufacturer’s instructions, then when it has reached soft-serve consistency transfer it to freezing containers — 1-pint, plastic takeout containers are great for this. Freeze for a couple of hours to firm up.

The sherbet is a bit of a revelation. It has a mellow, not-too-sweet watermelon flavor. The limes — which, let’s face it, will enhance any other fruit — brighten it up and make it taste exceptionally refreshing.

t he should have.

Featured Photo: Photo by John Fladd.

The first time I had my bicycle stolen was in the Army, when a platoonmate of mine with a drug problem “borrowed” most of my stuff while I was in the field — including my bike — and thoughtfully stored it for me at a pawn shop just off-base. Later, after my effects had been retrieved, he made a big deal of telling everyone what a gentleman I was. I think he was happy I didn’t punch him in my face, but you’d think I was David Niven.

A year or so later, now out of the Army, I rode the same bike to the dining hall of the school I was enrolled in and popped in to grab some breakfast, only to find that I’d forgotten about the switch to Daylight Savings Time and had missed breakfast. I came out to discover that I’d also forgotten to lock my bike up, and it had taken the opportunity to start a new life with somebody else. I indulged in some non-Nivenish language.

The third time I had a bike stolen, I did not forget to lock it up, and only the front wheel was taken. I wasn’t sure why, until I considered the possibility that perhaps someone had stolen the thief’s front wheel, to replace the one that a third person in this train of wheel abduction had taken from them, etc., stretching back to sometime in the ’70s when somebody broke their front wheel by absentmindedly driving into an open manhole or something. I tried unsuccessfully to display some David Niven-like aplomb, but did decide to end the chain of front-wheel abscondtion.

All of which has nothing much to do with anything, except that this week’s cocktail is a classic take on a Negroni called a Bicycle Thief.

Bicycle Thief

• 1 ounce gin – Wiggly Bridge is a good choice
• 1 ounce Campari
• 1½ ounce unsweetened grapefruit juice
• ½ ounce fresh-squeezed lemon juice
• ¾ ounce simple syrup
• club soda to top
• an orange slice for garnish

Combine the gin, Campari, juices and simple syrup over ice in a cocktail shaker.

Ask your digital assistant to play “Tale of Brave Ulysses” by Cream. Granted, this song is neither Italian nor bicycle-themed. It is, however, slightly psychedelic and dreamy. It tells a story of being in a situation beyond your control, where everything is delightful and nobody would think of stealing your bike. The rhythm of this song isn’t particularly conducive to shaking a cocktail, but it evokes the right mood for imagining yourself as the protagonist of a really good story.

Regardless of what Cream tells you, shake your cocktail thoroughly, until the ice just starts to break up.

Pour the drink, ice and all, into a tall glass. A Collins glass would work well for this, but personal experience has shown me that the Foghorn Leghorn promotional glass I rescued from a flea market last summer works equally well.

Top with club soda. How much is a personal judgment call. You might have had a day that calls for extra bubbles and a lighter hand on the “Full Speed Ahead” lever. You might just want something a little less frivolous. It’s up to you.

Stir it gently, and garnish with an orange slice. It might be tempting to slice the wheel of orange halfway through and slip it over the edge of your glass — and that’s fine! a classic! — but you might want to roll it and shove it into the interior of your glass instead. It will make even a Foghorn Leghorn glass look slightly fancy.

The reason you can get away with a whimsical glass is because a Bicycle Thief is a fully mature, confident drink. It’s not intense and “I will have my revenge for my stolen bicycle”-y, but coolly sophisticated, in a “Should we have Carlos bring the boat around?” vein. Campari and grapefruit share a bitterness that gets a backbone from the gin. The lemon and syrup are fruity enough to blunt the bitterness, but still leave it at an adult level.

I don’t know if David Niven ever drank this, but he should have.

Featured Photo: Photo by John Fladd.

Sometimes something is perfectly fine on a small scale, but all in all just Too Much — saunas, triplets, you get it.

This classic cocktail is Just Enough.

Magnolia Maiden

• 1½ ounce bourbon
• 1½ ounce orange liqueur – Grand Marnier or Orange Curacao
• 1/3 ounce simple syrup (see below)
• splash (about 1 ounce) plain seltzer or club soda

Combine bourbon, orange liqueur and simple syrup over ice in a cocktail shaker. There are several types of shakers, but I like something called a Boston shaker. It consists of two cups, one large and one smaller. When you’ve added everything you want to shake to the large cup, turn the little one upside-down and wedge it into the big one. This will create an airtight seal and allow you to shake a drink without it making a break for freedom and drenching your kitchen with bourbon.

Shake the cocktail thoroughly. When the mystic voice of the cocktail lets you know that it is ready (or when you feel the ice start to break up inside the shaker) break the seal on the shaker. As you’ve chilled the cocktail, you’ve also chilled the air inside the shaker, which has contracted, tightening the already air-tight seal.

Strain the cocktail over fresh ice in a rocks glass. If you’re using a Boston shaker, pull the two halves apart slightly, making a shallow V shape. Your drink will pour out, leaving the ice behind. “There, there,” you can say to the shaker, “doesn’t that feel better?”

Top it off with a generous splash of club soda, and stir gently.

The only thing about this drink that is too much is its name. The bourbon isn’t too bourbony. The orange liqueur isn’t too sweet. It is neither too flat nor too bubbly. It tastes like something a relaxed person would drink.

Simple syrup

Drink recipes throw around the term “simple syrup” like everyone knows what that means. It’s one of those phrases like “slip differential” or “antioxidant” that everyone pretends to understand, but I think a surprising percentage of people don’t.

Have you ever added a packet of natural sugar to an iced coffee, and some of it ends up in a little pile at the bottom of the cup? Simple syrup is sugar that has been put into a solution with water, so that won’t happen to your cocktails.

The reason it is called “simple syrup” is that it consists of equal amounts of water and sugar; there is no recipe to memorize. Add equal amounts of white, granulated sugar and water — this can be by weight, or by volume — to a saucepan. Bring it to a boil on your stove, at whatever temperature you want, stirring occasionally. Let it boil for a few seconds to make sure all the sugar has gone into solution; then remove it from heat, let it cool, and store it in your refrigerator indefinitely. Don’t worry about it getting lonely; it’s very approachable and will make friends with your condiments quickly.

Featured Photo: Photo by John Fladd.