CHAPTER XIX
CUPS AND CORDIALS
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?”
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Five recipes for claret cup—Balaclava cup—Orgeat—Ascot cup—Stout and champagne—Shandy-gaff for millionaires—Ale cup—Cobblers which will stick to the last—Home Ruler—Cherry brandy—Sloe gin—Home-made, if possible—A new industry—Apricot brandy—Highland cordial—Bitters—Jumping-powder—Orange brandy—“Mandragora”—“Sleep rock thy brain!”
I suppose there are almost as many recipes for claret cup as for a cold in the head. And of the many it is probable that the greater proportion will produce a cup which will neither cheer nor inebriate; for the simple reason that nobody, who was not inebriated already, would be physically capable of drinking enough of it. Let us first of all take the late Mr. Donald’s recipe for
Claret Cup:
A. 1 bottle claret.
1 wine-glassful fine pale brandy.
½ do. chartreuse yellow.
½ do. curaçoa.
¼ do. maraschino.
2 bottles soda or seltzer.[10]
1 lemon, cut in thin slices.
A few sprigs of borage; not much.
Ice and sugar to taste.
Here is a less expensive recipe:
B. Put into a bowl the rind of one lemon pared very thin, add some sifted sugar, and pour over it a wine-glassful of sherry; then add a bottle of claret, more sugar to taste, a sprig of verbena, one bottle of aerated water, and a grated nutmeg; strain and ice it well.
Once more let the fact be emphasised that the better the wine, spirit, etc., the better the cup.
Here is a good cup for Ascot, when the sun is shining, and you are entertaining the fair sex.
C. Put in a large bowl three bottles of claret (St. Estephe is the stamp of wine), a wine-glassful (large) of curaçoa, a pint of dry sherry, half a pint of old brandy, a large wine-glassful of raspberry syrup, three oranges and one lemon cut into slices; add a few sprigs of borage and a little cucumber rind, two bottles of seltzer water, and three bottles of Stretton water. Mix well, and sweeten. Let it stand for an hour, and then strain. Put in a large block of ice, and a few whole strawberries. Serve in small tumblers.
Another way and a simpler:
D. Pour into a large jug one bottle of claret, add two wine-glassfuls of sherry, and half a glass of maraschino. Add a few sliced nectarines, or peaches, and sugar to taste (about a tablespoonful and a half). Let it stand till the sugar is dissolved, then put in a sprig of borage. Just before using add one bottle of Stretton water, and a large piece of ice.
My ideal claret cup:
E. 2 bottles Pontet Canet.
2 wine-glassfuls old brandy.
1 wine-glassful curaçoa.
1 pint bottle sparkling moselle.
2 bottles aerated water.
A sprig or two of borage, and a little lemon peel.
Sugar ad lib.: one cup will not require much.
Add the moselle and popwater just before using; then put in a large block of ice.
Those who have never tried can have no idea of the zest which a small proportion of moselle lends to a claret cup.
My earliest recollection of a cup dates from old cricketing days beneath “Henry’s holy shade,” on “a match day”—as poor old “Spanky” used to phrase it; a day on which that prince of philosophers and confectioners sold his wares for cash only. Not that he had anything to do with the compounding of the
Cider Cup.
Toast a slice of bread and put it at the bottom of a large jug. Grate over the toast nearly half a small nutmeg, and a very little ginger. Add a little thin lemon rind, and six lumps of sugar. Then add two wine-glasses of sherry, and (if for adults) one of brandy. (If for boys the brandy in the sherry will suffice.) Add also the juice of a small lemon, two bottles of lively water, and (last of all) three pints of cider. Mix well, pop in a few sprigs of borage, and a block or two of ice.
Remember once more that the purer the cider the better will be the cup. There is an infinity of bad cider in the market. There used to be a prejudice against the fermented juice of the apple for all who have gouty tendencies; but as a “toe-martyr” myself, I can bear testimony to the harmlessness of the “natural” Norfolk cider made at Attleborough, in the which is no touch of Podagra.
For a good
Champagne Cup
vide Claret Cup A. Substituting the “sparkling” for the “ruby,” the ingredients are precisely the same.
A nice, harmless beverage, suitable for a tennis party, or to accompany the “light refreshments” served at a “Cinderella” dance, or at the “breaking-up” party at a ladies’ school, is
Chablis Cup.
Dissolve four or five lumps of sugar in a quarter of a pint of boiling water, and put it into a bowl with a very thin slice of lemon rind; let it stand for half-an-hour, then add a bottle of chablis, a sprig of verbena, a wine-glassful of sherry, and half-a-pint of water. Mix well, and let the mixture stand for a while, then strain, add a bottle of seltzer water, a few strawberries or raspberries, and a block of ice. Serve in small glasses.
Balaclava Cup.
‘Simpkin’ to left of ’em—
Cup worth a hundred!”
Get a large bowl, to represent the Valley—which only the more rabid abstainer would call the “Valley of Death.” You will next require a small detachment of thin lemon rind, about two tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, the juice of two lemons, and half a cucumber, cut into thin slices, with the peel on. Let all these ingredients skirmish about within the bowl; then bring up your heavy cavalry in the shape of two bottles of Château something, and one of the best champagne you have got. Last of all, unmask your soda-water battery; two bottles will be sufficient. Ice, and serve in tumblers.
Crimean Cup.
This is a very serious affair. So was the war. The cup, however, leads to more favourable results, and does not, like the campaign, leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Here are the ingredients:
One quart of syrup of orgeat (to make this vide next recipe), one pint and a half of old brandy, half a pint of maraschino, one pint of old rum, two large and one small bottles of champagne, three bottles of Seltzer-water, half-a-pound of sifted sugar, and the juice of five lemons. Peel the lemons, and put the thin rind in a mortar, with the sugar. Pound them well, and scrape the result with a silver spoon into a large bowl. Squeeze in the juice of the lemons, add the seltzer water, and stir till the sugar is quite dissolved. Then add the orgeat, and whip the mixture well with a whisk, so as to whiten it. Add the maraschino, rum, and brandy, and strain the whole into another bowl. Just before the cup is required, put in the champagne, and stir vigorously with a punch ladle. The champagne should be well iced, as no apparent ice is allowable in this mixture.
Orgeat.
Blanch and pound three-quarters of a pound of sweet almonds, and thirty bitter almonds, in one tablespoonful of water. Stir in by degrees two pints of water and three pints of milk. Strain the mixture through a cloth. Dissolve half-a-pound of loaf sugar in one pint of water. Boil and skim well, and then mix with the almond water. Add two tablespoonfuls of orange-flower water, and half-a-pint of old brandy. Be careful to boil the eaû sucré well, as this concoction must not be too watery.
Ascot Cup.
Odds can be laid freely on this; and the host should stay away from the temptations of the betting-ring, on purpose to make it. And—parenthetically be it observed—the man who has no soul for cup-making should never entertain at a race meeting. The servants will have other things to attend to; and even if they have not it should be remembered that a cup, or punch, like a salad, should always, if possible, be mixed by some one who is going to partake of the same.
Dissolve six ounces of sugar in half-a-pint of boiling water; add the juice of three lemons, one pint of old brandy, a wine-glassful of cherry brandy, a wine-glassful of maraschino, half a wine-glassful of yellow chartreuse, two bottles of champagne. All these should be mixed in a large silver bowl. Add a few sprigs of borage, a few slices of lemon, half-a-dozen strawberries, half-a-dozen brandied cherries, and three bottles of seltzer water. Put the bowl, having first covered it over, into the refrigerator for one hour, and before serving, put a small iceberg into the mixture, which should be served in little tumblers.
How many people, I wonder, are aware that
Champagne and Guinness’ Stout
make one of the best combinations possible? You may search the wide wide world for a cookery book which will give this information; but the mixture is both grateful and strengthening, and is, moreover, far to be preferred to what is known as
Rich Man’s Shandy Gaff,
which is a mixture of champagne and ale. The old Irishman said that the “blackgyard” should never be placed atop of the “gintleman,” intending to convey the advice that ale should not be placed on the top of champagne. But the “black draught” indicated just above is well worth attention. It should be drunk out of a pewter tankard, and is specially recommended as a between-the-acts refresher for the amateur actor.
Ale Cup.
Squeeze the juice of a lemon into a round of hot toast; lay on it a thin piece of the rind, a tablespoonful of pounded sugar, a little grated nutmeg, and a sprig of balm. Pour over these one glass of brandy, two glasses of sherry, and three pints of mild ale. Do not allow the balm to remain in the mixture many minutes.
One of the daintiest of beverages is a
Moselle Cup.
Ingredients: One bottle of moselle. One glass of brandy. Four or five thin slices of pine-apple. The peel of half a lemon, cut very thin. Ice; and sugar ad lib. Just before using add one bottle of sparkling water.
Sherry Cobbler
although a popular drink in America, is but little known on this side of the Atlantic. Place in a soda-water tumbler two wine-glassfuls of sherry, one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, and two or three slices of orange. Fill the tumbler with crushed ice, and shake well. Drink through straws.
Champagne Cobbler.
Put into a large tumbler one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, with a thin paring of lemon and orange peel; fill the tumbler one-third full of crushed ice, and the remainder with champagne. Shake, and ornament with a slice of lemon, and a strawberry or two. Drink through straws.
Home Ruler.
This was a favourite drink at the bars of the House of Commons, during the reign of the Uncrowned King. It was concocted of the yolks of two raw eggs, well beaten, a little sugar added, then a tumbler of hot milk taken gradually into the mixture, and last of all a large wine-glassful of “J.J.” whisky.
Cordials.
In treating of cordials, it is most advisable that they be home made. The bulk of the cherry brandy, ginger brandy, etc., which is sold over the counter is made with inferior brandy; and frequently the operation of blending the virtue of the fruit with the spirit has been hurried.
We will commence with the discussion of the favourite cordial of all,
Cherry Brandy.
This can either be made from Black Gean cherries, or Morellas, but the latter are better for the purpose. Every pound of cherries will require one quarter of a pound of white sugar, and one pint of the best brandy. The cherries, with the sugar well mixed with them, should be placed in wide-mouthed bottles, filled up with brandy; and if the fruit be previously pricked, the mixture will be ready in a month. But a better blend is procured if the cherries are untouched, and this principle holds good with all fruit treated in this way, and left corked for at least three months.
Sloe Gin.
For years the sloe, which is the fruit of the black-thorn, was used in England for no other purpose than the manufacture of British Port. But at this end of the nineteenth century, the public have been, and are, taking kindly to the cordial, which for a long time had been despised as an “auld wife’s drink.” As a matter of fact, it is just as tasty, and almost as luscious as cherry brandy. But since sloe gin became fashionable, it has become almost impossible for dwellers within twenty or thirty miles of London to make the cordial at home. For sloes fetch something like sixpence or sevenpence a pound in the market; and in consequence the hedgerows are “raided” by the (otherwise) unemployed, the fruit being usually picked before the proper time, i.e. when the frost has been on it. The manufacture of sloe gin is as simple as that of cherry brandy.
All that is necessary to be done is to allow 1 lb. of sugar (white) to 1 lb. of sloes. Half fill a bottle—which need not necessarily be a wide-mouthed one—with sugared fruit, and “top up” with gin. If the sloes have been pricked, the liquor will be ready for use in two or three months; but do not hurry it.
In a year’s time the gin will have eaten all the goodness out of the unpricked fruit, and it is in this gradual blending that the secret (as before observed) of making these cordials lies. As a rule, if you call for sloe gin at a licensed house of entertainment, you will get a ruby-coloured liquid, tasting principally of gin—and not good gin “at that.” This is because the making has been hurried. Properly matured sloe gin should be the colour of full-bodied port wine.
Apricot Brandy.
This is a cordial which is but seldom met with in this country. To every pound of fruit (which should not be quite ripe) allow one pound of loaf sugar. Put the apricots into a preserving-pan, with sufficient water to cover them. Let them boil up, and then simmer gently until tender. Remove the skins. Clarify and boil the sugar, then pour it over the fruit. Let it remain twenty-four hours. Then put the apricots into wide-mouthed bottles, and fill them up with syrup and brandy, half and half. Cork them tightly, with the tops of corks sealed. This apricot brandy should be prepared in the month of July, and kept twelve months before using.
Highland Cordial.
Here is another rare old recipe. Ingredients, one pint of white currants, stripped of their stalks, the thin rind of a lemon, one teaspoonful of essence of ginger, and one bottle of old Scotch whisky. Let the mixture stand for forty-eight hours, and then strain through a hair sieve. Add one pound of loaf sugar, which will take at least a day to thoroughly dissolve. Then bottle off, and cork well. It will be ready for use in three months, but will keep longer.
Bitters.
One ounce of Seville orange-peel, half an ounce of gentian root, a quarter of an ounce of cardamoms. Husk the cardamoms, and crush them with the gentian root. Put them in a wide-mouthed bottle, and cover with brandy or whisky. Let the mixture remain for twelve days, then strain, and bottle off for use, after adding one ounce of lavender drops.
Ginger Brandy.
Bruise slightly two pounds of black currants, and mix them with one ounce and a half of ground ginger. Pour over them one bottle and a half of best brandy, and let the mixture stand for two days. Strain off the liquid, and add one pound of loaf sugar which has been boiled to a syrup in a little water. Bottle and cork closely.
“Jumping Powder”
comes in very handy, on a raw morning, after you have ridden a dozen miles or so to a lawn meet. “No breakfast, thanks, just a wee nip, that’s all.” And the ever ready butler hands round the tray. If you are wise, you will declare on
Orange Brandy
which, as a rule, is well worth sampling, in a house important enough to entertain hunting men. And orange brandy “goes” much better than any other liqueur, or cordial, before noon.
It should be made in the month of March. Take the thin rinds of six Seville oranges, and put them into a stone jar, with half-a-pint of the strained juice, and two quarts of good old brandy. Let it remain three days, then add one pound and a quarter of loaf sugar—broken, not pounded—and stir till the sugar is dissolved. Let the liquor stand a day, strain it through paper till quite clear, pour into bottles, and cork tightly. The longer it is kept the better.
Mandragora.
“Can’t sleep.” Eh? What! not after a dry chapter on liquids? Drink this, and you will not require any rocking.
Simmer half-a-pint of old ale, and just as it is about to boil pour it into a tumbler, grate a little nutmeg over it, and add a teaspoonful of moist sugar, and two tablespoonfuls of brandy. Good night, Hamlet!
CHAPTER XX
THE DAYLIGHT DRINK
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Evil effects of dram-drinking—The “Gin-crawl”—Abstinence in H.M. service—City manners and customs—Useless to argue with the soaker—Cocktails—Pet names for drams—The free lunch system—Fancy mixtures—Why no Cassis?—Good advice like water on a duck’s back.
Whilst holding the same opinion as the epicure who declared that good eating required good drinking, there is no question but that there should be a limit to both. There is, as Shakespeare told us, a tide in the affairs of man, so why should there not be in this particular affair? Why should it be only ebb tide during the few hours that the man is wrapped in the arms of a Bacchanalian Morpheus, either in bed or in custody? The abuse of good liquor is surely as criminal a folly as the abstention therefrom; and the man who mixes his liquors injudiciously lacks that refinement of taste and understanding which is necessary for the appreciation of a good deal of this book, or indeed of any other useful volume. Our grandfathers swore terribly, and drank deep; but their fun did not commence until after dinner. And they drank, for the most part, the best of ale, and such port wine as is not to be had in these days of free trade (which is only an euphemism for adulteration) and motor cars. Although mine own teeth are, periodically, set on edge by the juice of the grape consumed by an ancestor or two; although the gout within me is an heritage from the three-, aye! and four-, bottle era, I respect mine ancestors, in that they knew not “gin and bitters.” The baleful habit of alcoholising the inner sinner between meal times, the pernicious habit of dram-drinking, or “nipping,” from early morn till dewy eve, was not introduced into our cities until the latter half of the nineteenth century had set in. “Brandy-and-soda,” at first only used as a “livener”—and a deadly livener it is—was unknown during the early Victorian era; and the “gin-crawl,” that interminable slouch around the hostelries, is a rank growth of modernity.
The “nipping habit” came to us, with other pernicious “notions,” from across the Atlantic Ocean. It was Brother Jonathan who established the bar system; and although for the most part, throughout Great Britain, the alcohol is dispensed by young ladies with fine eyes and a great deal of adventitious hair, and the “bar-keep,” with his big watch chain, and his “guns,” placed within easy reach, for quick-shooting saloon practice, is unknown on this side, the hurt of the system (to employ an Americanism) “gets there just the same.” There is not the same amount of carousing in the British army as in the days when I was a “gilded popinjay” (in the language of Mr. John Burns; “a five-and-twopenny assassin,” in the words of somebody else). In those days the use of alcohol, if not absolutely encouraged for the use of the subaltern, was winked at by his superiors, as long as the subalterns were not on duty, or on the line of march—and I don’t know so much about the line of march, either. But with any orderly or responsible duty to be done, the beverage of heroes was not admired. “Now mind,” once observed our revered colonel, in the ante-room, after dinner, “none of you young officers get seeing snakes and things, or otherwise rendering yourselves unfit for service; or I’ll try the lot of you by court martial, I will, by ——.” Here the adjutant let the regimental bible drop with a bang. Tea is the favourite ante-room refreshment nowadays, when the officer, young or old, is always either on duty, or at school. And the education of the modern warrior is never completed.
But the civilian—sing ho! the wicked civilian—is a reveller, and a winebibber, for the most part. Very little business is transacted except over what is called “a friendly glass.” “I want seven hundred an’ forty-five from you, old chappie,” says Reggie de Beers of the “House,” on settling day. “Right,” replies his friend young “Berthas”: “toss you double or quits. Down with it!” And it would be a cold day were not a magnum or two of “the Boy” to be opened over the transaction. The cheap eating-house keeper who has spent his morning at the “market,” cheapening a couple of pigs, or a dozen scraggy fowls, will have spent double the money he has saved in the bargain, in rum and six-penny ale, ere he gets home again; and even a wholesale deal in evening journals, between two youths in the street, requires to be “wetted.” Very sad is it not? But, as anything which I—who am popularly supposed to be something resembling a roysterer, but who am in reality one of the most discreet of those who enjoy life—can write is not likely to work a change in the system which obtains amongst English-speaking nations, perhaps the sooner I get on with the programme the better. Later on I may revert to the subject.
Amongst daylight (and midnight, for the matter of that) drinks, the Cocktail, that fascinating importation from Dollarland, holds a prominent place. This is a concoction for which, with American bars all over the Metropolis, the cockney does not really require any recipe. But as I trust to have some country readers, a few directions may be appended.
Brandy Cocktail.
One wine-glassful of old brandy, six drops of Angostura bitters, and twenty drops of curaçoa, in a small tumbler—all cocktails should be made in a small silver tumbler—shake, and pour into glass tumbler, then fill up with crushed ice. Put a shred of lemon peel atop.
Champagne Cocktail.
One teaspoonful of sifted sugar, ten drops of Angostura bitters, a small slice of pine-apple, and a shred of lemon peel. Strain into glass tumbler, add crushed ice, and as much champagne as the tumbler will hold. Mix with a spoon.
Bengal Cocktail.
Fill tumbler half full of crushed ice. Add thirty drops of maraschino, one tablespoonful of pine-apple syrup, thirty drops of curaçoa, six drops of Angostura bitters, one wine-glassful of old brandy. Stir, and put a shred of lemon peel atop.
Milford Cocktail.
(Dedicated to Mr. Jersey.)
Put into a half-pint tumbler a couple of lumps of best ice, one teaspoonful of sifted sugar, one teaspoonful of orange bitters, half a wine-glassful of brandy. Top up with bottled cider, and mix with a spoon. Serve with a strawberry, and a sprig of verbena atop.
Manhattan Cocktail.
Half a wine-glassful of vermouth (Italian), half a wine-glassful of rye whisky (according to the American recipe, though, personally, I prefer Scotch), ten drops of Angostura bitters, and six drops of curaçoa. Add ice, shake well, and strain. Put a shred of lemon peel atop.
Yum Yum Cocktail.
Gin Cocktail.
Ten drops of Angostura bitters, one wine-glassful of gin, ten drops of curaçoa, one shred of lemon peel. Fill up with ice, shake, and strain.
Newport Cocktail.
Put two lumps of ice and a small slice of lemon into the tumbler, add six drops of Angostura bitters, half a wine-glassful of noyau, and a wine-glassful of brandy. Stir well, and serve with peel atop.
Saratoga Cocktail.
This is a more important affair, and requires a large tumbler for the initial stage. One teaspoonful of pine-apple syrup, ten drops of Angostura bitters, one teaspoonful of maraschino, and a wine-glassful of old brandy. Nearly fill the tumbler with crushed ice, and shake well. Then place a couple of strawberries in a small tumbler, strain the liquid on them, put in a strip of lemon peel, and top up with champagne.
Whisky Cocktail.
Put into a small tumbler ten drops of Angostura bitters, and one wine-glassful of Scotch whisky. Fill the tumbler with crushed ice, shake well, strain into a large wine-glass, and place a strip of peel atop.
But the ordinary British “bar-cuddler”—as he is called in the slang of the day—recks not of cocktails, nor, indeed, of Columbian combinations of any sort. He has his own particular “vanity,” and frequently a pet name for it. “Gin-and-angry-story” (Angostura), “slow-and-old” (sloe-gin and Old Tom), “pony o’ Burton, please miss,” are a few of the demands the attentive listener may hear given. Orange-gin, gin-and-orange-gin, gin-and-sherry (O bile where is thy sting?), are favourite midday “refreshers”; and I have heard a well-known barrister call for “a split Worcester” (a small wine-glassful of Worcester sauce with a split soda), without a smile on his expressive countenance. “Small lem. and a dash” is a favourite summer beverage, and, withal, a harmless one, consisting of a small bottle of lemonade with about an eighth of a pint of bitter ale added thereto. In one old-fashioned hostelry I wot of—the same in which the chair of the late Doctor Samuel Johnson is on view—customers who require to be stimulated with gin call for “rack,” and Irish whisky is known by none other name than “Cork.” The habitual “bar-cuddler” usually rubs his hands violently together, as he requests a little attention from the presiding Hebe; and affects a sort of shocked surprise at the presence on the scene of any one of his friends or acquaintances. He is well-up, too, in the slang phraseology of the day, which he will ride to death on every available opportunity. Full well do I remember him in the “How’s your poor feet?” era; and it seems but yesterday that he was informing the company in assertive tones, “Now we shan’t be long!” The “free lunch” idea of the Yankees is only thoroughly carried out in the “North Countree,” where, at the best hotels, there is often a great bowl of soup, or a dish of jugged hare, or of Irish stew, pro bono publico; and by publico is implied the hotel directorate as well as the customers. In London, however, the free lunch seldom soars above salted almonds, coffee beans, cloves, with biscuits and American cheese. But at most refreshment-houses is to be obtained for cash some sort of a restorative sandwich, or bonne bouche, in the which anchovies and hard-boiled eggs play leading parts; and amongst other restorative food, I have noticed that parallelograms of cold Welsh rarebit are exceedingly popular amongst wine-travellers and advertisement-agents. The genius who propounded the statement that “there is nothing like leather” could surely never have sampled a cold Welsh rarebit!
Bosom Caresser.
Put into a small tumbler one wine-glassful of sherry, half a wine-glassful of old brandy, the yolk of an egg, two teaspoonfuls of sugar, and two grains of cayenne pepper; add crushed ice, shake well, strain, and dust over with nutmeg and cinnamon.
A Nicobine,
(or “Knickerbein” as I have seen it spelt), used to be a favourite “short” drink in Malta, and consisted of the yolk of an egg (intact) in a wine-glass with layers of curaçoa, maraschino, and green chartreuse; the liquors not allowed to mix with one another. The “knickerbein” recipe differs materially from this, as brandy is substituted for chartreuse, and the ingredients are shaken up and strained, the white of the egg being whisked and placed atop. But, either way, you will get a good, bile-provoking mixture. In the
West Indies,
if you thirst for a rum and milk, cocoa-nut milk is the “only wear”; and a very delicious potion it is. A favourite mixture in Jamaica was the juice of a “star” apple, the juice of an orange, a wine-glassful of sherry, and a dust of nutmeg. I never heard a name given to this.
Bull’s Milk.
This is a comforting drink for summer or winter. During the latter season, instead of adding ice, the mixture may be heated.
One teaspoonful of sugar in a large tumbler, half-a-pint of milk, half a wine-glassful of rum, a wine-glassful of brandy; add ice, shake well, strain, and powder with cinnamon and nutmeg.
Fairy Kiss.
Put into a small tumbler the juice of a quarter of lemon, a quarter of a wine-glassful each of the following:—Vanilla syrup, curaçoa, yellow chartreuse, brandy. Add ice, shake, and strain.
Flash of Lightning.
One-third of a wine-glassful each of the following, in a small tumbler:—Raspberry syrup, curaçoa, brandy, and three drops of Angostura bitters. Add ice, shake and strain.
Flip Flap.
One wine-glassful of milk in a small tumbler, one well-beaten egg, a little sugar, and a wine-glassful of port. Ice, shake, strain, and sprinkle with cinnamon and nutmeg.
Maiden’s Blush.
Half a wine-glassful of sherry in a small tumbler, a quarter of a wine-glassful of strawberry syrup, and a little lemon juice. Add ice, and a little raspberry syrup. Shake, and drink through straws.
Athole Brose
is compounded, according to a favourite author, in the following manner:—
“Upon virgin honeycombs you pour, according to their amount, the oldest French brandy and the most indisputable Scotch whisky in equal proportions. You allow this goodly mixture to stand for days in a large pipkin in a cool place, and it is then strained and ready for drinking. Epicures drop into the jug, by way of imparting artistic finish, a small fragment of the honeycomb itself. This I deprecate.”
Tiger’s Milk.
Small tumbler. Half a wine-glassful each of cider and Irish whisky, a wine-glassful of peach brandy. Beat up separately the white of an egg with a little sugar, and add this. Fill up the tumbler with ice; shake, and strain. Add half a tumbler of milk, and grate a little nutmeg atop.
Wyndham.
Large tumbler. Equal quantities (a liqueur glass of each) of maraschino, curaçoa, brandy, with a little orange peel, and sugar. Add a glass of champagne, and a small bottle of seltzer water. Ice, and mix well together. Stir with a spoon.
Happy Eliza.
Put into a skillet twelve fresh dried figs cut open, four apples cut into slices without peeling, and half a pound of loaf sugar, broken small. Add two quarts of water, boil for twenty minutes, strain through a—where’s the brandy? Stop! I’ve turned over two leaves, and got amongst the Temperance Drinks. Rein back!
Mint Julep.
This, properly made, is the most delicious of all American beverages. It is mixed in a large tumbler, in the which are placed, first of all, two and a half tablespoonfuls of water, one tablespoonful of sugar (crushed), and two or three sprigs of mint, which should be pressed, with a spoon or crusher, into the sugar and water to extract the flavour. Add two wine-glassfuls of old brandy—now we shan’t be long—fill up with powdered ice, shake well, get the mint to the top of the tumbler, stalks down, and put a few strawberries and slices of orange atop. Shake in a little rum, last of all, and drink through straws.
Possets.
We are tolerably loyal in this our time; still it is problematical if there exist man or woman in Merry England, in our day who would whisk a mixture for sixty minutes by the clock, even with the prospect of drinking to the reigning monarch.
Brandy Sour.
This is simplicity itself. A teaspoonful of sifted sugar in a small tumbler, a little lemon rind and juice, one wine-glassful of brandy. Fill nearly up with crushed ice, shake and strain. Whisky Sour is merely Scotch whisky treated in the same kind, open-handed manner, with the addition of a few drops of raspberry syrup.
Blue Blazer.
Don’t be frightened; there is absolutely no danger. Put into a silver mug, or jug, previously heated, two wine-glassfuls of overproof (or proof) Scotch whisky, and one wine-glassful of boiling water. Set the liquor on fire, and pass the blazing liquor into another mug, also well heated. Pass to and fro, and serve in a tumbler, with a lump of sugar and a little thin lemon peel. Be very particular not to drop any of the blazer on the cat, or the hearth-rug, or the youngest child. This drink would, I should think, have satisfied the aspirations of Mr. Daniel Quilp.
One of the most wholesome of all “refreshers,” is a simple liquor, distilled from black-currants, and known to our lively neighbours as
Cassis.
This syrup can be obtained in the humblest cabaret in France; but we have to thank the eccentric and illogical ways of our Customs Department for its absence from most of our own wine lists. The duty is so prohibitive—being half as much again as that levied on French brandy—that it would pay nobody but said Customs Department to import it into England; and yet the amount of alcohol contained in cassis is infinitesimal. Strange to say nobody has ever started a cassis still on this side. One would imagine that the process would be simplicity itself; as the liquor is nothing but cold black-currant tea, with a suspicion of alcohol in it.
Sligo Slop.
This is an Irish delight. The juice of ten lemons, strained, ten tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, one quart of John Jameson’s oldest and best whisky, and two port wine-glassfuls of curaçoa, all mixed together. Let the mixture stand for a day or two, and then bottle. This should be drunk neat, in liqueur-glasses, and is said to be most effectual “jumping-powder.” It certainly reads conducive to timber-topping.
Take it altogether the daylight drink is a mistake. It is simply ruin to appetite; it is more expensive than those who indulge therein are aware of at the time. It ruins the nerves, sooner or later; it is not conducive to business, unless for those whose heads are especially hard; and it spoils the palate for the good wine which is poured forth later on. The precept cannot be too widely laid down, too fully known:
Do not drink between Meals!
Better, far better the three-bottle-trick of our ancestors, than the “gin-crawl” of to-day.