Liquor store archaeology
Jack Linthicum
those states with state liquor stores and strict inventory rules. Find
a bottle of some rare alcoholic beverage, and research its origins and
qualities. Wasabi-flavored liqueur gets a certain mark for
strangeness.
A Flowery Find That Left Us in the Dust
By Jason Wilson
Wednesday, April 2, 2008; F05
My brother Tyler and I sometimes play a game we call Liquor Store
Archaeology. The aim is to make a pith-helmeted visit to older,
neglected liquor stores, the sort of family-owned shops that perhaps
were once prosperous and now do business mainly in pint-size flasks or
liters of cheap wine or beer by the can. Inside, we scour the dark
bottom shelves and dank back corners of the place, looking for
forgotten bottles of spirits that have been languishing, perhaps for
decades.
More often than not, we indeed turn up something rare or just plain
strange. Our finds span the world: caraway-flavored kummel from
Germany, an Armenian brandy called Ararat, eaux de vie with all manner
of fruit floating in them, a wasabi-flavored liqueur, even a honey
liqueur bottled with a real honeycomb.
It has become rather competitive. I thought I had taken the lead with
something called Panache, a sweet aperitif wine with a 1970s-looking
label that was made by Domaine Chandon but now is impossible to find.
Then Tyler countered with a wonderful liqueur from Sicily made from
mandarin peels, called Mandarino del Castello, about which we can find
no information.
I figured I'd won when I'd unearthed a bottle of Cordial Campari.
Though made by the same company, Cordial Campari is not to be confused
with the more famous Italian red aperitivo; Cordial Campari is a
clear, sambuca-like after-dinner digestivo. I'd heard tales of Cordial
Campari and seen it in a few old-man bars in Italy. But it has not
been widely available in the United States, and my bottle is probably
decades old. It may once have been valuable, but probably not anymore
-- mainly because my friends and I broke into the bottle during the
holidays, and it's now sitting half-empty in my cabinet.
So Tyler became the clear victor not too long ago when he turned up
something called, somewhat disturbingly, Peanut Lolita, a thick,
peanut-flavored liqueur that once was produced by Continental
Distilling in Linfield, Pa. The logo and fonts on the label suggest
the early 1960s, but according to what little research exists, Peanut
Lolita was still around in the mid-1970s, when infamous presidential
brother Billy Carter "often made drunken appearances" with the
liqueur's spokesmodel, according to an essay by Christopher S. Kelley
in "Life in the White House: A Social History of the First Family and
the President's House" (SUNY Press, 2004).
We may now own the only two bottles of Peanut Lolita left in
existence. Due to the liqueur's overwhelming whiskey-and-peanut taste
and grainy texture -- not to mention its unfortunate name -- it is
unlikely to make a comeback anytime soon. But Tyler has created a
respectable drink with the stuff: He layers ice-cold Peanut Lolita and
raspberry-flavored Chambord in a cordial glass and calls it a PB&J.
For a while, the holy grail of our archaeology has been Creme Yvette,
a purple-colored, violet-and-vanilla-flavored liqueur originally made
by Sheffield in Connecticut and then by Charles Jacquin et Cie in
Philadelphia. Nearly all mid-century bartending guides suggest that
Creme Yvette was part of any well-stocked bar, and it was essential in
classic cocktails such as the Blue Moon. But in the 1960s, it
disappeared.
Creme Yvette is a variation on the traditional creme de violette
liqueurs found in Europe, and the closest Tyler and I had come to
tasting it was when friends brought home versions from France (Benoit
Violette Liqueur) and the Netherlands (Bols' Parfait Amour).
That is, until last summer, when I finally had a taste of real Creme
Yvette in New Orleans at the Tales of the Cocktail conference during a
session on rare and obscure spirits. Rob Cooper of Charles Jacquin
generously served tastes to everyone who attended, poured from one of
two bottles left in existence. To judge from the reaction of many of
the cocktail geeks in the room, you'd think it was a life-altering
experience. Cooper suggested that if he had anything to do with it,
Creme Yvette would soon be back on the U.S. market.
One importer has beaten him to the punch. Eric Seed, who owns the
Minnesota-based Haus Alpenz, has brought in a delicious creme de
violette liqueur made by Austrian distillers Rothman & Winter. This
creme de violette is more floral, with less vanilla, than the others
I've tried.
It's not the first time Seed has unearthed some long-lost spirit. In
Indonesia, he rediscovered Batavia Arrack, a spicy rum cousin that was
a standard in pre-Prohibition punches. In the Austrian Alps, he found
Zirbenz, a liqueur made from the fruit of the native stone pine. And
from Barbados, he began importing falernum, a spirit that until now
I've had to manufacture myself if I wanted any (see recipe here).
Though recently called "the Indiana Jones of lost spirits" by Food +
Wine, Seed is actually more cerebral and mild-mannered than he is
swashbuckling. His hunts often begin at the request of high-end
bartending clients, including those at Central and Cork in D.C. When
asked what motivates his quests, Seeds says simply, "The customers I
sell to, they take a very dim view of vodka."
Needless to say, Seed wins Liquor Store Archaeology in a landslide.