Category: Drink

A year or so ago, I splurged on some fancy party-wear — a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, a silk ascot and a fez. I couldn’t tell you why. I just wanted something fancy to wear if I ever got invited to a fancy party, or threw a fancy party.

There would be jazz music and cocktails and elegant women, who smelled like roses, in caftans, and I would be ready for it in a smoking jacket, ascot and fez. A woman in pearls and elbow-length gloves would make excuses to talk to me and ask for tips about how to start a houseplant from an avocado pit.

A British man with a pipe, and patches on the elbows of his jacket, would raise his eyebrows and mutter, “Well, played, old man.”

A bow-tied waitress would bring me an amuse bouche on a silver tray and say, “A little something from the chef, sir.”

There would be antique rugs on the floor, and goldfish in the fountain, and a bookcase full of 100-year-old travel guides with old, yellowing photographs for bookmarks.

I wouldn’t be better dressed than the other Very Fancy People, but I would fit right in.

I haven’t been to this party yet, and my smoking jacket remains securely in the back of my closet, but I live in hope. No matter how casual and down-to-earth any of us are, every once in a while we all feel the call of fanciness.

A Fancy Cocktail – The November Sunset

This is a fancy cocktail that requires a bit of preparation, but it is the time of the year when we start to make our peace with fanciness. In this case we need to caramelize some oranges.

Caramelized Oranges

• 2 large ripe oranges, cut into ¼-inch slices
• 1 Tablespoon olive oil
• 2 Tablespoons hot honey
• ½ teaspoon coarse sea salt
• fresh rosemary

Preheat your oven to 500º, with the top rack 6 inches from the top of the oven.

In a large bowl, toss the orange slices with the olive oil and honey.

Lay the orange slices out on a piece of parchment paper or a silicon baking sheet, and sprinkle with salt.

Caramelize the oranges in the oven, until they turn dark and moody-looking. This might take 20 minutes or so, but keep a sharp eye on them after 15, to make sure they don’t burn.

Sprinkle the orange slices with rosemary, then roast for another 2 to 3 minutes.

Remove from the oven and cool.

The Fancy Cocktail

• 3 caramelized orange slices
• 2 ounces dry gin
• 2 ounces unsweetened cranberry juice
• 5 to 6 ounces tonic water
• sprig of rosemary
• ice

Muddle three slices of the caramelized orange in the bottom of a Collins glass.

Add ice, then gin and cranberry juice. Stir to combine.

Top with tonic water, almost to the top of the glass.

Stir again. Make sure you bring the orange slices up to the side of the glass, where they can be seen, so everyone knows that this is a fancy drink.

Garnish with the rosemary sprig.

Sip while listening to Cole Porter and — as my grandfather often expressed — wonder aloud what the poor people are doing tonight.

This is one of those drinks where if you concentrate hard enough you can taste each individual element. The roasted orange tastes a little smoky and bitter but also very fruity and floral. The gin hides very discreetly in the background but is there if you look hard enough for it. The cranberry juice plays beautifully with the bitterness of the tonic water.

All in all, it tastes a lot like a fancy party.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: The November Sunset. Photo by John Fladd.

In the 1920s there seems to have been a vibrant analog online community of housewives in the Boston Globe’s cooking section. At first glance, it seems as if it was a simple exchange of recipes, but there was clearly a lot more than that going on under the surface. In this column, Winding Trails starts by thanking her virtual friend for a recipe, then offers one of her own. It seems straightforward enough. The last line is somewhat arresting, though; she doesn’t so much close out her small letter politely as plead for some form of human contact.

This was the 1920s. It had not been so many years since politicians and ministers had blasted an evil new invention, the bicycle. Without a (male) chaperone, they ranted, who knew what sorts of deviant mischief women could get up to, traveling all over the countryside? It’s easy to imagine Mrs. Trails almost trapped in an apartment in Southie or a triple-decker in Nashua, surrounded by crying children and dirty dishes, desperate for some form of adult companionship.

Some more research reveals that Skin Hincks (and wow, do I want to know the story behind her name) was a frequent, almost obsessive correspondent to the Globe’s cooking pages. It’s very easy to see her modern counterpart having a very active social media presence. There might be a very credible master’s or Ph.D. thesis comparing the two communities.

But for now, let’s look at Mrs. Trail’s Carrot Pie:

Carrot Pie

• The purée of two large carrots – about 1½ cups, or 300 grams
• ½ teaspoon ground ginger
• ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
• ½ teaspoon kosher salt
• ½ cup (99 grams) sugar
• 2 whole eggs
• 1½ cups (1 can) evaporated milk
• zest of 1 large orange
• 1 pie crust

Preheat the oven to 450º F.

Whisk all ingredients together in a medium-sized bowl.

Pour into the pie crust. Much as with a pumpkin pie, the crust does not need to be blind-baked.

Bake at 450º for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 325º and bake for a further 50 to 55 minutes, or until the blade of a knife comes out more or less clean.

At first glance, this seems like a bright orange pumpkin pie, and the taste is not completely dissimilar, but the sweetness of the carrot and the brightness of the orange zest lift the flavor to something different. The spices are more subdued than in a pumpkin pie, and the custard is not so much sweeter as fruitier. Carrots and ginger are a classic pairing, and the orange zest adds a zing that makes this more of a “Yes, please, another slice would be delightful” experience.

This is a good pie to eat with a cup of tea, while hand-writing a letter to an old friend.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Carrot Pie. Photo by John Fladd.

We’ve all done it. We’ve all planned our ideal dinner party — what we’d serve, how we’d dress, and most importantly, who we’d invite.

The guest list is the most intriguing part of this mental exercise.

We’d have to limit the guest list to eight people — four men and four women. Fewer than that, and you can’t fit in all your “must-invites”; more than that, and there won’t be one conversation, there will be four or five. All must be alive, as of this week, and no family members are allowed. It’s like a wedding — by the time you invite all the people you should invite, there isn’t room for the people you really want to invite.

So here’s my provisional list.

The Men

Me – I know I said no relatives, but I think I can make an exception for myself.

Robert Krulwich – Science reporter and former host of RadioLab. A charming guy.

Cheech Marin – Comedian and well-respected art collector. Brilliant and allegedly very nice.

Carlos Santana – Genius guitarist. He makes a point of collaborating with radically different artists.

The Women

Naziyah Mahmood – Martial artist model and astrophysicist. I imagine everything she says, down to her morning coffee order, is fascinating.

Lucy Worsley – British historian and famously nice lady.

Esperanza Spalding – Jazz genius, and probably the best bassist alive today.

Salima Ikram – Archaeologist and Egyptologist. Again, staggeringly fascinating.

So far, so good. All but one of these people are brilliant. They are all personable and fascinating.

But is that enough?

A good dinner party guest should have interesting things to say, but the very best ones are also excellent, dynamic listeners. How well do they play with others?

I have the feeling that Robert Krulwich would be fascinated by Naziyah Mahmood, who would charm Esperanza Spalding. She, in turn, would have Cheech Marin hypnotized by her beauty and, well, hipness. I would love to hear the conversation that he would have with Salima Ikram. I would just try very hard not to embarrass myself.

The point being, it’s not about who is brilliant on their own as much as it is what kind of chemistry they have together.

Which brings us to gin punch.

A good punch is supposed to be made of fantastic ingredients — also eight, in this case — that each add something to the whole but don’t dominate it. A fantasy dinner party of a cocktail, if you will.

Gin Punch

• Peel of half a lemon – just the outside yellow part, not the bitter white part underneath.
• Large teaspoonful of your favorite jam. Raspberry is a popular choice, but I like rose.
• 2½ ounces dry gin
• ¼ ounce triple sec
• ¼ ounce ginger brandy
• ½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
• ¼ ounce grenadine or simple syrup, depending on how pink you want this punch to be.
• Dash of celery bitters

Muddle the lemon peel thoroughly in the bottom of a cocktail shaker.

Add the jam and muddle it again.

Add the rest of the ingredients, then use the muddler to stir everything, thereby rinsing the last of the jam off the muddler.

Add ice, and shake until very cold.

Strain over fresh ice in a coupe glass. Sip while listening to Esperanza Spalding; you won’t be sorry.

As with our imaginary dinner party, this punch is greater than its parts. The gin and lemon juice give it authority and keep it from becoming too sweet. The ginger is just barely detectable, as are the celery bitters. The jam doesn’t dominate the conversation but has something nice to say about your shoes.

This might actually be a good drink to serve at your next dinner party.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Parmentier. Photo by John Fladd.

With Halloween around the corner and a host of sports moms and PTA dads waiting to humble-brag about the amazing handcrafted costumes and treats they’ve whipped up in their copious spare time, here is a bonus food-craft-y idea. It has the candy hat-trick of (1) looking very impressive, (2) being actually extremely easy to make, and (3) really showing up those snooty car-pool parents.

Ingredients
Whoppers
chocolate chips
pretzel sticks
chocolate sprinkles (optional)

Equipment
wax paper
small paintbrush (You don’t actually need-need this, but it might make it easier to work on small details)
tweezers (ditto)

Fill a small microwave-safe bowl halfway with chocolate chips.
Heat for 20 seconds, then stir with a spoon or a craft stick.
Heat again for 10 seconds at a time, until the stirred chocolate is melted.

Dip the mini-pretzel sticks in chocolate, and lay them out on wax paper.

Use the melted chocolate to glue the Whoppers together to make a body, then glue the legs together and then to the body with more chocolate. If it still looks too much like pretzels glued to Whoppers, drizzle some more chocolate onto your choco-spider. If you’re feeling particularly ambitious, you could sprinkle some chocolate sprinkles onto the body to look like hair.

The good news about this project is that the rougher your spider looks, the creepier it looks. If you completely mess up and it looks really bad, pretend one of your children made it and brag like heck about it, which makes you look like a better parent than that dad who always wins the Pinewood Derby. This’ll show him. And Sharon from ballet class will eat. her. heart. out.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Chocolate spider. Photo courtesy of John Fladd.

Some people are remembered by History and become household names, sometimes for silly reasons. Other, more worthy men and women are washed away in the River of Time and are undeservedly forgotten.

Nobody has been cheated out of a legacy more cruelly than Antoine-Augustin Parmentier (1737-1813), one of the advisors to doomed king Louis XVI of France.Very few historians would make the case that Louis was a wise and competent king, but by the 1780s even he could see that things were going badly. France was overpopulated and underfed. The People, seeing the example set by the American colonists, were talking about overthrowing their ruler. (The irony that the American Revolution had been largely financed by Louis himself was not lost on him.)

The upshot was that the French people were as angry as they were hungry, which is to say, very.

There was actually a partial solution available, however: potatoes. The Spanish had brought potatoes back to Europe from South America a century or more previously, but most European peasants could not be enticed to eat them. Even though they would have provided a welcome boost of calories and carbohydrates, most peasants were convinced that they were deadly poisonous. (To be fair, the actual fruit of the potato is; only the tuber is edible.)

Louis asked his smartest advisor, Parmentier, to try to convince the French peasants to plant potatoes.

Parmentier had his own formal gardens dug up and planted with potatoes, then announced to the locals that nobody was to touch his potatoes under pain of terrible, unspecified punishment. Potatoes were too good for the likes of them; only aristocrats could properly appreciate them. Then, to ensure the security of his potatoes, he placed armed guards around his potato patch for 12 or more hours per day.

Within weeks all the potatoes had been stolen and planted across the French countryside.

The irony of this is that if the French peasantry had not been well-fed on potatoes, they might not have had strength enough to revolt a couple of years later.

Parmentier never got famous, but he did get to keep his head, so he was probably not too bitter about the slight.

In his honor, I have renamed a classic cocktail — The Forbidden Fruit — the Parmentier.

Parmentier
1½ ounces apple brandy – I like Laird’s Applejack
1 ounce Pimm’s No. 1
½ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice
¼ ounce simple syrup
2 dashes each of two different bitters – this recipe traditionally calls for Angostura and Peychaud’s, which is what I’ve used here
3-4 ounces ginger beer to top
Combine all ingredients except the ginger beer with ice in a cocktail shaker. Shake until bitterly cold.
Strain into a tall glass, over fresh ice, and top with ginger beer.
Stir, and drink wistfully, while listening to Maurice Chevalier sing “C’est Magnifique.”

This is a complex and slightly melancholy drink. Pimm’s is a slightly baroque-tasting base to build any drink on with its own collection of herbs and alcohol. Apple brandy brings its own sophistication with it. Throw in two competing flavors of bitters, and you have dropped yourself into a labyrinth of flavors before you even get to the ginger beer, which has a talent for throwing drinkers for a loop.

Which is not to say that this isn’t delicious, because it is. It’s just that normally, with more straightforward cocktails, you can spend the first half-minute or so making a flavor inventory. With Forbidden Fruit — as with History — you might be better off just surrendering yourself to the experience.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Parmentier. Photo by John Fladd.

In the 1920s there seems to have been a vibrant analog online community of housewives in the Boston Globe’s cooking section. At first glance, it seems as if it was a simple exchange of recipes, but there was clearly a lot more than that going on under the surface. In this column, Winding Trails starts by thanking her virtual friend for a recipe, then offers one of her own. It seems straightforward enough. The last line is somewhat arresting, though; she doesn’t so much close out her small letter politely as plead for some form of human contact.

This was the 1920s. It had not been so many years since politicians and ministers had blasted an evil new invention, the bicycle. Without a (male) chaperone, they ranted, who knew what sorts of deviant mischief women could get up to, traveling all over the countryside? It’s easy to imagine Mrs. Trails almost trapped in an apartment in Southie or a triple-decker in Nashua, surrounded by crying children and dirty dishes, desperate for some form of adult companionship.

Some more research reveals that Skin Hincks (and wow, do I want to know the story behind her name) was a frequent, almost obsessive correspondent to the Globe’s cooking pages. It’s very easy to see her modern counterpart having a very active social media presence. There might be a very credible master’s or Ph.D. thesis comparing the two communities.

But for now, let’s look at Mrs. Trail’s Carrot Pie:

Carrot Pie
The purée of two large carrots – about 1½ cups, or 300 grams
½ teaspoon ground ginger
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon kosher salt
½ cup (99 grams) sugar 2 whole eggs
½ cups (1 can) evaporated milk
zest of 1 large orange
1 pie crust

Preheat the oven to 450º F. Whisk all ingredients together in a medium-sized bowl. Pour into the pie crust. Much as with a pumpkin pie, the crust does not need to be blind-baked. Bake at 450º for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 325º and bake for a further 50 to 55 minutes, or until the blade of a knife comes out more or less clean.

At first glance, this seems like a bright orange pumpkin pie, and the taste is not completely dissimilar, but the sweetness of the carrot and the brightness of the orange zest lift the flavor to something different. The spices are more subdued than in a pumpkin pie, and the custard is not so much sweeter as fruitier. Carrots and ginger are a classic pairing, and the orange zest adds a zing that makes this more of a “Yes, please, another slice would be delightful” experience.

This is a good pie to eat with a cup of tea, while hand-writing a letter to an old friend.

John Fladd is a veteran Hippo writer, a father, writer and cocktail enthusiast, living in New Hampshire.

Featured photo: Carrot Pie. Photo by John Fladd.