Winter Cocktails to Make Your Toes Curl

An overdose of red wine might leave you wishing upon-a-star for summer to come a lot sooner but hold on to your hats as I have a few winter cocktails to keep you toasted for the rest of the season, thanks to Esquire…

 

Nothing to warm you up like a little whiskey, brandy, and hot buttered rum. Here's how to make classic and custom drink recipes from Esquire's mixologist all season long.

 

Manhattan:

For a real Manhattan, you need rye whiskey. The harmony between the bitters, the sweet vermouth, and the sharp, musky whiskey rivals even that existing between gin and tonic water.

 

Ingredients

 

  • 2 ounces whiskey -- rye whisky
  • 1 ounce vermouth -- Italian vermouth
  • 2 dashes Bitters -- Angostura bitters

 

Cocktail glass

 

How To Make the Manhattan:

 

Stir the rye,* vermouth and bitters well with cracked ice. (Some prefer to shake their Manhattans. There's nothing wrong with that, really, at least no more than putting ketchup on a hot-dog is wrong or mayonnaise on a corned beef sandwich. If you like your Manhattan cloudy and topped with an algae-like foam, shake away. It won't taste any worse, anyway, although it'll feel thinner on the tongue.) Strain into in a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with twist or, of course, maraschino cherry (which is subject to the same challenge re: purity as adding an olive to a martini).

 

Of course, human beings, being human beings, can never leave well enough alone. Here, then, are the obligatory variants.

 

First, a few you can make by monkeying around with the bitters: Lose the Angostura and pitch in a splash of Amer Picon and it's a Monahan; a splash of anisette and it's a Narragansett; 2 dashes of cherry brandy and a dash of absinthe and you've got a McKinley's Delight. Leave a dash of the Angostura in, add a dash of orange bitters and 3 dashes of absinthe: a Sherman.

 

Or you can tinker with the vermouth. Replace half the Italian vermouth with French for a so-called Perfect Manhattan. Equal parts of rye, French vermouth, and Italian vermouth: a Jumbo. Make that with bourbon: a Honolulu (no bitters at all in those last two). Cut the Italian vermouth entirely and make it half bourbon and half French vermouth: a Rosemary. To turn that into a Brown University, just add a couple dashes of orange bitters. Coming almost full circle, if you make your classic 2-to-1 Manhattan with French vermouth instead of Italian and a dash of Amer Picon and one of Maraschino, you're in Brooklyn. And there are more -- the Rob Roy, for one, but we gotta stop somewhere.

 

* In case of emergency -- you need a Manhattan and you're passing a bar of the "Rye? Nah." variety -- Canadian Club will do; it's got lots of rye in it.

 

The Wondrich Take:

 

When properly built, the Manhattan is the only cocktail that can slug it out toe-to-toe with the martini. It's bold and fortifying, yet as relaxing as a deep massage. J.P. Morgan used to have one at the close of each trading day. It's that kind of drink.

 

"When properly built" -- there's the problem. For a real Manhattan, you need rye whiskey. No amount of fiddling with the vermouth and bitters can save this drink if you've got bourbon in the foundations; it's just too sticky-sweet. But with rye, this venerable creation -- its roots stretch back to the old Manhattan Club, in 1874 -- is as close to divine perfection as a cocktail can be. The harmony between the bitters, the sweet vermouth, and the sharp, musky whiskey rivals even that existing between gin and tonic water.

 

All things change, and immortality is not in the grasp of man or his creations. For many a year, it seemed that the virtual disappearance of rye meant that the real Manhattan had gone the way of the Aztecs. Luckily, that's not the end of the story. The wave of high living that washed us out of the last century has brought with it a renewed interest in fine, funky old things like cigars, big-band jazz, and rye whiskey. Sure, sometimes this gets carried to extremes, but if that means that nobody will ever again pour a bourbon Manhattan, we'll gladly put up with all the dipshits in "Make Mine with Rye" T-shirts.

 

Chancellor Cocktail:

Whoever formulated it, the Chancellor remains a dry and slightly mysterious little fiddle — not unlike a Perfect Manhattan, with port for the sweet vermouth and Scotch for the rye — that screams out "club chair," "billiards," and "smoking jacket." Point of advice: Don't order it in an Irish bar.

 

Ingredients

 

  • 2 ounces whiskey -- blended Scotch whisky
  • 1 ounce ruby port
  • 1/2 ounce vermouth -- French vermouth
  • 2 dashes orange bitters

 

cocktail glass

 

Instructions:

 

Stir well with cracked ice, then strain into a chilled cocktail glass; it should pour a luminous garnet red.

 

The Wondrich Take:

 

Scotch whisky, as we have observed elsewhere, does not readily lend itself to cocktails: there's a prickly, stiff-necked pride to the stuff that makes it unwilling to blend. There are exceptions (well, the Rob Roy, anyway, and the Scotch Highball), but in general, they suck. Most of 'em, it's safe to say, are Prohibition flimflams, ways to tart up the only stuff that was flowing freely. (Before the Great Experiment, Scotch wasn't particularly popular on these shores. To order it in a bar more or less marked one as a weak-wristed, Limey-loving cake-eater, but once good rye and bourbon got scarce, the gents were more willing to compromise their standards of masculinity).

 

Which brings us to the little-known Chancellor. All the standard sources are silent on where it comes from, but we wouldn't be a bit surprised to find it had been spawned in the refectory of one of the less hidebound Scottish colleges, "Chancellor" being what they call the presidents of their universities over there. It may even turn up in the Mess Book of the Queens Own Cameron Highlanders or some such prop of the old Empire; those chaps always had plenty of port around, and once they hit the shrapnel-churned fields of France, they would've been practically brushing their teeth in vermouth. But then again, who knows? It could've been cooked up by a Lithuanian pencil-painter in a coal-cellar-turned-speakeasy in Union City, New Jersey.

 

Irish Coffee:

Whiskey. Sugar. Hot coffee. Cream. For thus is born Irish Coffee, a mighty tonic for all who travel the ways of the earth and even those who sit on their asses all day in the dark corners of taverns.

 

Ingredients

 

  • 2 ounces whiskey -- Irish whiskey
  • 5 to 6 ounces coffee
  • 2 teaspoons sugar
  • heavy cream

 

mug

 

Instructions:

 

Pour the whiskey, coffee, and sugar* into a stemmed, heated glass mug. Stir, then top off with a thick layer of lightly whipped heavy cream. If too lazy or inebriated or depressed to bother whipping the stuff, just pour an ounce or two in over the back of a spoon. In either case, don't stir it in, and really don't drizzle crème de menthe over the top.

 

* Sheridan's original formula seems to have called for brown sugar.

 

The Wondrich Take:

 

Foynes, Ireland, winter of 1942-1943.

 

A small band of unfortunate travelers huddles together on a seaplane dock by the River Shannon. They've been flying for ten hours in bad weather, in an abortive attempt to reach Canada. Joe Sheridan, the terminal's barman, observes their condition and takes action. Whiskey. Sugar. Hot coffee. Cream. The winds calm the fury of their blowing, the clouds relinquish the gloom of their darkness, and the sun grants a beam of its brightness to anoint the steaming chalice. And behold! The assembled bards of Erin strike a golden chord on their cunningly worked harps. For thus is born Irish Coffee, a mighty tonic for all who travel the ways of the earth and even those who sit on their asses all day in the dark corners of taverns.

 

You'd think it would be impossible to be unhappy while sipping an Irish Coffee. Yet, seated at the bar, we've noticed far too many times that the face behind the traditional stemmed glass mug is tinged with sadness. Drink can be a comfort, at times, but even a warm, generous drink such as this can prove to be a cold consolation. We sip the promising cup in hope, but things are not better. In our mouths, yes. In our innards, aglow, yes. Even in our veins. In our hearts? No. Go home.

 

Okay, things aren't that bad. It's just that it's dark in here, and kinda quiet, and you know how you get long about the middle of a winter afternoon. It'll pass.

 

Hot Buttered Rum:

This particular compound is indicated for digitipedum glaciate, or, in the vulgate, "frozen tootsies," an affliction for which it is often administered prophylactically or preventively throughout the colder parts of the year — which, in New England, occupy roughly the months of August to June, give or take a month in either direction. Oh yeah, the purpose of the butter? Haven't a clue.

 

Tom and Jerry:

Invented in the early 1850s by "Professor" Jerry Thomas — the Bolívar of American drinking — at the Planters' House hotel, St. Louis, the Tom and Jerry was a holiday favorite for a century

 

Ingredients

 

  • 12 egg(s)
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 1 bottle brandy -- brandy
  • Pinch of ground allspice
  • Pinch of ground cinnamon
  • Pinch of ground cloves
  • 1 bottle rum -- dark rum
  • milk
  • nutmeg

 

mug

 

Instructions:

 

Separate the eggs. Beat the whites until they form a stiff froth, and the yolks -- to which you have added the sugar -- "until they are as thin as water," as the professor advises, gradually adding 4 ounces brandy (spiceaholics will also add a pinch each of ground allspice, cinnamon, and cloves). Fold the whites into the yolks. When ready to serve, give it another stir and then put 1 tablespoon of this batter in a small mug or tumbler. Now add 1 ounce brandy (although some die-hard Dixiecrats prefer bourbon) and 1 ounce Jamaican rum, stirring constantly to avoid curdling. Fill to the top with hot milk and stir until you get foam. Sprinkle a little grated nutmeg on top. This one may require practice and a certain amount of fiddling, but it's well worth the effort. Note: Some people find the milk too rich and filling, so they use half hot milk, half boiling water.

 

The Wondrich Take:

 

Invented in the early 1850s by "Professor" Jerry Thomas -- the Bolívar of American drinking -- at the Planters' House hotel, St. Louis, the Tom and Jerry was a holiday favorite for a century. The '60s, with their thirst for novelty and mania for convenience, killed it off, but you can still find the mugs -- little white ceramic things with "Tom & Jerry" printed in gold -- in back-country thrift shops (or on eBay, of course).

 

And my last pic from the abundance of uber cool récipes from Esquire is the….

 

Royal Plush

Red burgundy and Brut champagne. Well, why not?

 

Ingredients

  • burgundy -- red burgundy
  • Brut champagne

 

Collins glass

 

Instructions:

 

Put 2 or 3 ice cubes into a Collins glass, half-fill with burgundy, and top up with iced brut champagne. Stir gently.

 

The Wondrich Take:

 

Well, why not?

 

Images and recipes from www.esquire.com

 

 

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