This cocktail recipe was inspired by the one they serve at 69 Colebrook Row, a superb little cocktail bar in London.
The trick is to get a good balance of flavours. It should taste distinctly rhubarby, with a good grown-up gin kick, and just a hint of lime.
This recipe is slightly adapted from ‘the Fall Classic’, a cocktail served at the Gramercy Tavern in NYC. It is delicious.
Such a classic English drink – it has to stay in imperial measures! Make this in May or June when elderflowers are at their peak. Pick on a sunny day in the morning and be fussy – you only want pleasant-smelling and perfect sprays, without a whiff of decay.
Recipes vary when it comes to the temperature of the water – some infuse in cold water and others in boiled; some then take the strained cordial to a boil and others don’t. Clearly, the more you heat the cordial the better it will be preserved, but in my experience boiling the cordial also affects the flavour. So below is my compromise version. It should keep perfectly well for a few weeks if not months. To keep it longer, transfer to plastic bottles or tubs and freeze.
We named this cocktail after the fantastic bar in Copenhagen where we discovered it. Having made our way through their menu of forgotten cocktails – flips, punches and a real Martinez – we asked the barman to make us something with dill aquavit. Dill aquavit was on our shopping list as we knew it was traditional to serve at Christmas, and we were planning a Danish Christmas feast for one of our Secret Kitchen dinners in London.
The barman’s creation was a revelation – distinctly dilly, pink with grapefruit but most certainly a proper grown-up cocktail. (He called it an ‘866’, but we never found out why…) This is our own version, and the addition of grapefruit bitters is ours; you could leave it out. We recommend serving this with pickled herring on thin slices of rye bread.
Glögg is Swedish mulled wine with a vodka kick! (Or call it gløgg if you’re Danish and go for brandy or rum instead.) This recipe is adapted from one by Elsa Petersen-Schepelern. It looks fantastic served in little Turkish or Moroccan tea glasses, and works a treat in our household every Christmas. Just remember that it’s a lot stronger than regular mulled wine…
After sampling the most delicious, dark and bitter liqueur at the end of our (fantastic) lunch at Trattoria Le Zie in Lecce, Puglia, we had to try making it ourselves. After some research and then the good fortune of finding a tree-load of fresh bay leaves on Freecycle, this was the result. It worked beautifully.
This delicious liqueur is traditionally made on 24th June, the day of St John the Baptist, when (at least in warm parts of Italy) walnuts are at the perfect point of (im)maturity. This is my version of the recipe, based on that I learnt from the lovely Giulia Savini at her organic agriturismo, Valle Nuova.
We actually first made it in France, using Italian ‘pure’ alcohol and French walnuts picked in July. In England I’m guessing the nuts definitely won’t be ready as early as 24th June.
The walnuts should still be just soft enough to cut through the whole thing (unpeeled) with a big heavy chef’s knife – cut notch then lift knife with walnut attached and whack down on board. The nut revealed inside should be jelly or semi-jelly, with nuttiness just beginning to form. They stain your hands and board like anti-theft capsules stain clothes. Be warned.
If you can’t get pure alcohol (I don’t think it’s sold in the UK), use the strongest vodka you can find and reduce the amount of water in the sugar syrup by 500ml.
Note that your liqueur will taste horrible at first, good after a year, and delicious after two. I’m yet to discover just how wonderful it gets after three years in the bottle…
One of the many good things about travelling in Senegal was the widespread availability of fresh fruit, root and flower juices, typically sold in small plastic bags by smiley, buxom ladies on street corners. At first perplexed as to how one drinks from a plastic bag, we soon learnt you nip off a corner with your teeth and then suck out the delicious juice as you continue round the market. Nothing could be better on a hot, dusty day.
Ginger was our favourite; its intense zinginess can’t fail to jolt you awake and fill you with an overwhelming sense of vitality. Also excellent were bouye (made from the fruit of the giant baobab tree), ditakh (some kind of cucumbery tasting fruit we never identified), and bissap (infused with dried, crimson hibiscus flowers, often with mint).
One of the many good things about travelling in Senegal was the widespread availability of fresh fruit, root and flower juices, typically sold in small plastic bags by smiley, buxom ladies on street corners. At first perplexed as to how one drinks from a plastic bag, we soon learnt you nip off a corner with your teeth and then suck out the delicious juice as you continue round the market. Nothing could be better on a hot, dusty day.
Ginger was our favourite; its intense zinginess can’t fail to jolt you awake and fill you with an overwhelming sense of vitality. Also excellent were bouye (made from the fruit of the giant baobab tree), ditakh (some kind of cucumbery tasting fruit we never identified), and bissap (infused with dried, crimson hibiscus flowers, often with mint).
Today Barnaby spent the morning browsing the market in Samoëns. The fruit and vegetables were lovely, as was the enormous array of cured sausages, but he spent most of his time admiring the cheese: Beaufort, Abondance, Tomme, and in particular the Reblochon which reminded him of the wonderful time he had all those months ago in Munster.
Anyway, all that cheese can give a bear a thirst, so he stopped for a refreshing drink. Trying to look like a local, he casually asked for a citron pressé – he’d never tried one before but has picked up enough French to know this means “lemon in a hurry” – or something like that.
Imagine his dismay when they brought him a glass of pure, sour lemon juice. Yuk!
But once we’d explained that you’re supposed to add your own sugar and water, he gave it a try – and its zingy fresh taste cheered him up immediately.
Until he asked for the bill and they charged him €3.60, that is. Cheeky.