In my relative youth, I worked in a pizza joint for several older Greek men who taught me two important life lessons:
(1) How to swear in Greek.
I got into a conversation with a Greek couple recently and was able to exchange pleasantries in reasonably passable Greek. The shockingly beautiful lady of the couple complimented me on speaking her language so well. I told her that I knew “Hello,” “Thank you,” “You’re welcome” and how to swear.
“Everyone thinks they know how to swear in Greek,” she told me with a knowing smile, “but most of the time they really don’t.”
I let loose with a torrent of Athens-accented profanity that would get me a black eye from any cabbie in Southern Europe. She blushed and smiled, then her eyes got moist and she blotted away a tear.
“You remind me of my Uncle Costas,” she told me.
(2) How to read a racing form.
One of the owners was an enthusiastic loser of money at the dog track. I remember picking up one of his racing forms one day and asking him to explain it to me. He did, and it made a shocking amount of logical sense. I remember thinking at the time that it would be pretty easy to figure out a system to…
That’s when my brain — in one of its very rare moments of good judgment — reminded me that every guy in a rumpled suit with bloodshot eyes and a cheesed-off wife at home has a system for picking a winner from a racing form. In consequence, I have never set foot onto a racetrack.
But I would so very much love to.
Anyway, in honor of next Saturday, Kentucky Derby, Run For the Roses, yadda, yadda:
Solid, Not Quite Authentic Mint Julep
There are more people with strong opinions about mint juleps that there are self-absorbed white guys with podcasts, so I decided to look for a recipe in one of my older cocktail books, the 1935 Old Mr. Boston De Luxe Official Bartender’s Guide. Even in this early manual, there are two julep recipes: one simply labeled Mint Julep, and the other labeled Southern Style, implying a choice between good or authentic.
I’ve got no particular stake in either approach, but the standardized, less authentic version sounded better to me. Unfortunately, as is often the case in early cocktail recipes, ingredients and amounts are maddeningly vague. I’ve updated them here.
Ingredients
- “Four sprigs of fresh mint” — I used 1 gram of fresh mint leaves
- 2½ ounces bourbon — I went with Wiggly Bridge, which I’ve been enjoying lately.
- ½ ounce simple syrup
- club soda
- shaved ice — or ice that you’ve wrapped in a tea towel and taught a lesson to with a mallet
Fill a silver cup with shaved ice. I used one that I think used to be silver-plated.
Muddle the mint in the bottom of a shaker. Add several ice cubes, the bourbon and syrup. Shake enthusiastically.
Strain into your metal cup full of shaved ice. Top with club soda and stir with a silver spoon (or just a spoon) until frost forms on the cup.
Garnish with several more sprigs of mint. Drink while watching coverage of the Kentucky Derby and critiquing Southern women’s hats.
If you’ve never had a mint julep before, it tastes about like you would assume it would, like bourbon and mint. That’s the first sip.
On the second sip you start to appreciate the pulverized ice. There’s something profoundly satisfying about stirring a drink with that much ice with that particular texture. The Very Serious Coldness that it brings to your lips is just as gratifying.
The third sip brings an appreciation of this whole mint julep thing. You start to see the appeal.
Every subsequent sip brings less and less responsible thoughts to mind. Do not read a racing form while drinking this.
Featured photo. A fresh, totally solid mint julep. Photo by John Fladd.