Sippin' like it's 1899

Back when I was in grad school, I had a professor who once had to chide me for the fact I didn't have a single source in my research from beyond the last few decades. He informed me that I had to dig a bit farther back to find some better established gems of literary insight. Don't worry, he told me: "people were smart before 1970 too."

At the time, I didn't take that as well as I could have. My theory classes had taught me all too well that what constituted intelligence got recycled every fifteen years so. All that changed was that a new Frenchman with an unpronouncable name got heaved to the top of the heap of accepted wisdom each time.

Luckily, though, I have since had the pleasure of discovering that my professor was oh-so-entirely-right in many more practical matters than semiology. Take drinking, for example.

I've just been reminded this evening that people who had the pleasure of drinking in the nineteenth century were very, very smart. Ingenious, even. For proof, I'll take the liberty of referring you to a handy little book called The Flowing Bowl, copyright 1892. I'm presently enjoying the recipe for The Manhattan it contains, one that savors of the sublime.

The Manhattan (for the insufficiently initiated who need a refresher) is a venerable booze hound classic. Make it at home, and it will give you a good example of the best in aromatic cocktails. Order it in an average bar, and it usually involves slamming together an unspecified whiskey and an unpredictable combination of vermouths and throwing in some bitters and rattling some ice cubes through it and pouring it up and charging you 12 dollars. The result is often one of those drinking experiences that will remind a hardened cocktail drinker why he/she always resort to drinking bottled beer in public.

(Side note: Props to a prominent and delightful exception to this statement. Deep Ellum in Allston, Cambridge St. and Brighton Ave., offers 10 different variations of the Manhattan, all of them delicious. Not that I'd know anything about all of them, of course.)

Back to my revelation. The Flowing Bowl, c. the White City, includes a recipe for "The Manhattan Cocktail" with a few unexpected twists that add some truly fantastic new dimensions to a handy old standard. The author's recipe (p. 128):

"Half a tumblerful of cracked ice.
2 dashes of gum
2 dashes of bitters
1 dash of absinthe
2/3 drink of whiskey
1/3 drink of vino vermouth
(A little maraschino may be added)
Stir this well, strain, and serve."

Obviously, a little intuition helps out: gum = gomme syrup, bitters = presumably Angosturra, "drink" = ounce ( I guess? I usually measure "drinks" in glasses, not exact fluid measurements. God help me if I took that analogue literally in this case). Not being an anise devotee, I used Herbsaint instead of absinthe, since I find the flavor of Herbsaint a bit less forward. By way of "Vino Vermouth", I used Carpano Antica, which has recently become a liquor snob-ish necessity in my bar. I suppose a clunky average sweet vermouth would be functional - but who wants to date the bland plasticine blond prom queen when you can have the multifaceted brunette artiste in the illustration class?

Result: divinity. I even got to try out my new julep strainer, courtesy of The Boston Shaker. Those nebbishy, uptight Victorians, as it turns out, knew a thing or two about a drinking as well as wanton colonialism. Now if only they could work a few stiff ones in between linguistic theory professors and their Jacques Derrida. Then I'd have even more to thank them for.