Early on in the Covid lockdown, I decided to take ice cream to the workers at my dump. I wanted to do something for someone in essential services and I have a lot of respect for people who do hard, thankless work.
Every week during hot weather I would swing by the general store in our town on the way to the dump and grab them some ice cream bars or cold sodas. A small gesture of thanks.0
So I was at the dump transfer station, dropping off our trash and talking with one of the guys there, telling him some sort of stupid joke, something like:
Q: Why did the dolphin flunk out of ballet school?
A: Poor poise.
My friend laughed loudly enough to get the attention of one of the other guys working behind a giant stack of cardboard.
“IS THAT THE JOKE GUY?”
“YEAH!”
“DID HE BRING ICE CREAM?”
I’d kind of like that on my grave: THE JOKE GUY. HE BROUGHT ICE CREAM.
Anyway, one of my friends at the transfer station gave me a gift one week, a 1963 copy of The Barmen’s Bible — a well-worn cocktail manual from the time when bartenders could reasonably be expected to wear bowties.
This week, I was looking through The Barmen’s Bible and ran across a drink recipe that stopped me cold. Under a section devoted to “coolers” was something called a Honolulu Cooler — a solid name. A promising name. Until you get to the Southern Comfort.
Crushed ice — check
Lime juice — check
Pineapple juice — check
Southern Comfort … ?
Really, Oscar Haimo, President of the International Bar Managers Association, circa 1963? Southern Comfort?
As my wife pointed out, though, this drink is obviously called Honolulu because of the pineapple juice. It doesn’t necessarily have anything more to do with Hawaii than that. It could have been invented in an Elks Club in Akron.
So, this is what I figured. I’d make this clearly awful drink, figure out what was wrong with it (the Southern Comfort), then reformulate it to taste better.
As it turns out, there was a flaw in that plan.
The Honolulu Cooler is a solid, tasty drink. It’s shockingly good. You would think that Southern Comfort and pineapple juice would be cough-syrupy sweet, but the fresh lime juice keeps them on a leash. “Shhhh, boys,” it says, “these are our friends; be nice.”
It is refreshing and delicious. You could easily drink an injudicious number of these.
Honolulu Cooler
Juice of half a lime, about 1 oz.
1 jigger (1½ oz.) Southern comfort
Approximately 5 oz. pineapple juice
Fill a tall glass with cracked ice.
Add lime juice and Southern Comfort
Fill to the top with pineapple juice
Stir with a bar spoon.
A little research on this drink hints that it was actually invented and served in a large hotel in Honolulu. The more I thought about it, the more this made sense. It would be incredibly fast and easy to make for wide-eyed tourists and the use of a name-brand alcohol would allow the hotel bar to bump the price by a good 30 percent.
Of course, the fact that this is a perfectly good drink already did not stop me from reconfiguring it anyway.
My version uses lime syrup instead of lime juice, which would make the drink too sweet, but I countered that with the bitterness from Campari and a bracing note from gin.
Existential Luau
1 oz. lime syrup (see below)
1 oz. Campari
2 oz. gin (I like Death’s Door)
4 oz. pineapple juice
cracked ice or tiny ice cubes
Fill a tall glass – a pint glass or a Collins glass – with ice.
Add lime syrup, Campari, and gin.
Top off with pineapple juice.
Stir with a bar spoon.
This drink is pink, but not bubble-gum pink. It’s the color of a sunset. An apricot that someone has whispered a dirty suggestion to. The color of contentment at the end of a hot, trying day. The ingredients have a tendency to separate very slightly, so the Luau starts out a little bitter-sweet, then becomes more limey as you drink it.
As do your thoughts.
Lime Syrup
Juice of 3-4 limes
An equal amount (by weight) of white sugar
Zest of 2 limes.
In a small saucepan, bring the lime juice and sugar to a boil. Stir until the sugar is completely dissolved, about 10-15 seconds, once it’s boiling.
Remove from heat and add lime zest. Let it steep for 30 minutes.
Strain the zest from the syrup, so it doesn’t get bitter.
Label your jar so you won’t have an awkward moment a week from now, when your wife wants to know what’s in that jar in the door of the fridge. Or maybe that’s just me.
Featured photo: Photo by John Fladd.