Recipe: Ginger Tonic

Welcome back, B&B readers. We apologize for the gap in service; the B&B recently moved its editorial offices and we're still sorting through the last few boxes. (Fellow citizens of QMFC need not worry; we moved just a few blocks—closer, as it turns out, to both the taco truck and the liquor warehouse).

The Sotomayor confirmation hearings are the big political and legal news of the week, but so far, there have been few surprises (save maybe Lindsey Graham's inadvertent Paul McCartney quotation late this afternoon—we heard it, we swear; more once the transcript is available). Instead, we'll turn our attention to the evening's drink.

We spent much of the weekend avoiding the remaining unpacking and closet organization by passing the hours in the kitchen. Our freezer now is full of homemade breakfast sausage, and the loaf of banana bread has already come and gone. (More on both some other time.) When it was all over, we found ourselves with a surfeit of ginger root and fresh limes. Out of the remainders this drink was born.

Ginger Tonic

3 ounces gin

1 teaspoon ginger syrup

3/4 ounce lime juice (a bit less than one lime's worth)

3 shakes bitters

soda water

We discuss the ginger syrup in a moment. For now, be patient and have faith.

Cut the lime in half through the fat middle (the equator, for the globally inclined). Cut a quarter out of one of the halves (an eighth of the lime, for the fractionally inclined). Set the piece aside and squeeze the other seventh eights of the lime into a mixing tin filled with ice. Add gin, bitters, and ginger syrup. Shake vigorously and strain into an Old Fashioned glass filled with ice. Add a few ounces of soda water. Add remaining lime piece. Give a gentle stir or two to incorporate the soda.

The character of the drink lies somewhere between a gin and tonic and a highball¹. It is a triad of light sweetness, spiciness, and acidity. The ginger and lime also make this a distant cousin of the Moscow Mule, with which we may deal in a few months as weather and moods grow bleaker and we are in need of strong medicine to steel us against short days and cold nights.

Don't bother with particularly good gin, as the subtly will be lost amid everything else. Gordon's—simple but reliable—is our brand of choice for this long drink.

We contemplated simply calling this the Ginger Sling, but that, apparently, is something else. The drink of course contains no actual tonic water—in our experience generally too sweet to be refreshing. Rather, we use the word as the Oxford English Dictionary second entry defines it:

Having the property of increasing or restoring the tone or healthy condition and activity of the system or organs; strengthening, invigorating, bracing.

Indeed.

Ginger Syrup

This is nothing more than simple syrup with some smashed ginger thrown in during the cooking. If that makes sense, head for the stove now. Otherwise, read on for the quick explanation.

Take a few pieces of ginger, peel them, and chop them. Take a meat mallet, hammer, copy of Mason & Dixon, or whatever other heavy object is near, and whack the ginger into a rough paste. Put the ginger and equal parts sugar (regular white refined) and water (tap) into a sauce pan. About a cup of each is suitable here. Heat over medium until the mixture hits a boil. Turn off heat and allow to cool. Once the syrup is cool, strain out ginger and pour the liquid into a squeeze bottle. Refrigerate. Use to sweeten iced tea, the Ginger Tonic, a sour relationship, or whatever else.

---

1. We are of course aware that the designation "highball" can describe any drink comprising a spirit and a carbonated beverage. In our heart, though, a highball will always be whiskey and ginger ale. If you're trying to get on our good side, toss in a maraschino cherry.

Notes on the Manhattan in Spring

Now that spring seems finally to have found its way to New York (following a brief preview of the hellish summer to come), our affections turn from triple stouts and neat scotch to more vernal drinks. Not ready quite yet for the full-blown summer power of margaritas or mojitos, we're left to look for a transitional comfort to bridge the seasons.

Dating at least as far back as the 1870s, the Manhattan is one of America's oldest and best-known cocktails. A sort of dark twin to the martini, the essence of a Manhattan is whiskey and sweet vermouth, shaken with ice and strained into a cocktail glass. Now, as the days get warmer and the evenings longer, drinking the Manhattan over ice to give it at once a colder chill and a longer glow seems only fitting.

Many modern recipes suggest a 4:1 ratio of whiskey to vermouth, but we prefer ours slightly drier at 6:1. (Truth be told, we prefer them drier still, pouring something closer to 3/8 ounce of vermouth—but ratios are in this season.) Aromatic bitters and a maraschino cherry are standard additions, and we generally include them. Omit either or both if herbal tinctures or florescent fruit aren't to your liking.

Manhattan
3 ounces bourbon
1/2 ounce sweet vermouth
3 shakes bitters
1 maraschino cherry

Shake the liquids together in a mixing tin and strain into an Old Fashioned glass filled with ice. Drop in the cherry.

If you're drinking one in the afternoon—and why not?—you might consider changing the method. Put the whiskey, vermouth, bitters, and cherry directly into the Old Fashioned glass and stir. Fill the glass with as much ice as will fit and stir again. Drink. Purists will complain that this method dilutes the drink—so don't tell them. On a warm afternoon, that's the point. By skipping the initial chilling of the ingredients in the mixing tin, you allow the ice to relax into the drink quicker. Whiskey, unlike gin, doesn't beg to be drunk as cold as possible, and slightly more water in the mix can be refreshing when hours of daylight still lie ahead. It's important in this method to mix everything in the glass before adding the ice; if the warm ingredients are added with the ice already in place, the bitters and juice clinging to the cherry have a tendency to freeze directly onto the cubes, creating strange and unpleasant pockets of unblended flavor in your drink.

For the record, our standard brands here are unremarkable but always reliable: Jim Beam, Martini & Rossi, and Angostura, respectively. (No brand loyalty on the cherry, though the store-brand cherries we once tried from C-Town were rather unpleasant.) Rye is a perfectly good substitute for the bourbon, though most ryes will deliver a drier, hotter result than most bourbons; if you're looking to draw out the sweetness, pour the vermouth a bit heavier or drop in a few drops of cherry juice. American or Canadian blended whiskey won't be objectionable, but only because they won't really be anything at all. Substituting Scotch gives you a Rob Roy, about which said, the less, the better.

The structure is simple, so experiment—but don't lose your mind. The venerable Old Waldorf Astoria Bar Book gives a recipe of equal parts sweet vermouth and rye, plus a bit of orange bitters added. Rather heavy on the vermouth, we think, though we've seen worse. Sometime after college, we accompanied a friend to a gathering of her extended family. A middle-aged relative insisted on mixing what might be called inverted Manhattans—two parts vermouth to one part bourbon. Polite guests that we are, we had two in quick succession before excusing ourselves in the direction of the wine bar. This variation, needless to say, is not recommended.