1 cup ice
3/4 cup fresh pineapple
4 oz. Chaokoh coconut milk
1 1/2 oz. dark rum
1 1/2 oz. light rum
1 egg white
2 tsp. bar sugar
8 dashes Angostura bitters
2 pinches cinnamon
2 pinches ground clove
Blend to within an inch of its life. Serves two.
Done. This is about as close as I’m going to come to the Piña Colada I’ve been seeking, and frankly, I’m growing tired of them now. This one is good, though — it strikes the right balance, has the right texture and a much-needed complexity compared to yer standard recipe. The egg… well, it might’ve been too much, depending on how one likes things, but it’s fine by me. I want to add some lime, but there’s no way in hell that’s going to pass as a piña colada. I’ll be throwing in guava next, taking this purportedly Puerto Rican drink through the Panama Canal and deep into the Polynesian Pacific. No, this recipe remains true to its name, with a flavor profile solidly-rooted in the Caribbean. Sailing into temetum incognitum is for another day.
Gleanings? I’ve come to the conclusion that my problems with the Colada have had less to do with proportions than with a consistency of ingredients — the Chaokoh coconut milk is far creamier than the Thai Kitchen, and is probably less creamy than the canonical (yet much processed) Coco López. Short of testing the specific gravity of every can of coconut milk, or making one’s own to an exacting recipe, there’s just going to be inconsistency. There’s probably a fair degree of variation in flavor between one fresh pineapple and the next, too, and at about $12 each I’m not going to be stocking them like I do citrus. I can certainly see why food scientists would feel that there was more than passing utility in a Piña Colada premix, even if it is an abominable transgression against food.
It’s been an instructive experience, I’m glad to say, getting outside of my usual mixing grounds. More of the volume and flavor of a Piña Colada rely on mutable, non-alcoholic ingredients than any other drink I’ve ever made. It’s made me mindful that in addition to their many other merits, traditional cocktails have a certain pure reproducibility about them — a few types of liquor, a bit of fruit and a dash or two of bitters affords one a fairly controlled working environment. Add 1/4 oz. here, subtract a few drops there, substitute or supplant with another liquor that seems right… that’s more my field. I’ll make Piña Coladas again someday — maybe even tomorrow, since there’s an awful lot of pineapple still in the fridge — but I don’t imagine they’ll ever become a standard. With the exception of my Ramos Gin Fizz variant (which I ought to document someday), I’m a largely a 3 – 4 oz. cocktailian myself. The longer concoctions are (rightly) the provenance of Trader Vic, Don the Beachcomber, and their Tiki-worshipping spiritual brethren.
Last week, it struck me that while I rail against the Piña Colada, I had never made one myself. I’d been casting about for something good to do with pineapple juice and had allowed my preconceptions of the Piña Colada to rule it out — to rule out what must be the most widely-enjoyed pineapple-based drink on earth. A gross oversight. After all, shouldn’t one of the guiding principles of domestic mixology be that a thoughtfully-crafted potable, mixed purely for pleasure, will reveal complexities and dimensions which none but the most fastidious professional can match? I say yea, it should be so.
In consequence of this, it must be assumed that the Piña Colada is not necessarily a foully chemical concoction, but is merely a drink suffering from long, cruel abuse at the hands of the service industry. There must be an Ur Piña Colada which contains within its frothy matrix the flavor sensation that captured a generation’s palates and went on to inspire so many imitators.
So, I mixed-up the CocktailDB’s Piña Colada recipe. It’s the simplest there is, and may be the original, though unfortunately they don’t cite sources. Verdict: Blah. Flat, uninteresting and bland. If this was the drink that started it all, I’m surprised at its survival. However, it was a far cry from the others I’ve had, whose origins were likely in a bottle of pre-mix. Pineapple and Coconut did seem to be a worthwhile pairing, and so I tinkered. Continue reading I have found a truly wonderful proof…
1 1/2 oz gin
3/4 oz pineapple juice
1/4 oz maraschino
Tried this one several days back without documenting — from the category it should be evident: I give it a Bronx cheer. Cited by an eGullet poster as having appeared in the 1935 edition of Mr Boston, my later edition of same provides a wholly different recipe. Regardless, the search for delicious drinks with pineapple continues to bear little fruit. This one proved unpleasant in an unremarkable way — neither good enough nor strong enough to merit sipping, the Harlem invited me to toss it back (or out) and move on. Another waste of good booze.
1 oz. Plymouth gin
1/2 oz. sweet vermouth
1 tsp. grenadine
1 tsp. pineapple juice
1 egg white
Shake with cracked ice and strain into double cocktail glass.
Not a winner. Rosy red and buoyed a bit by the egg white, it fails overall. It’s bland, sweet and uninspiring. Don’t waste your Plymouth on this one.
Recipe from Trader Vic’s Bartender’s Guide, © 1947. p. 155
1 oz. London dry gin
1 oz. Campari
1 oz. sweet vermouth
stir with ice and strain into a cocktail glass.
garnish with orange twist (burnt or otherwise)
The Negroni is a beautiful translucent ruby, walking a fine line between extravagance and elegance. Campari and vermouth counterbalance one another perfectly, with the gin largely serving to add volume and proof while reducing the viscosity a bit. The Campari sounds the dominant note, and I like it just fine. According to cocktailtimes.com (and others — it’s a popular legend), we have Count Camillo Negroni of Florence to thank for this happy update to the Americano. One should apparently garnish the Negroni with a bit of “burnt orange” — this involves holding a lit match over the glass while expressing the oil from a twist of peel. Might be worth attempting, though the folks at Campari don’t mention it in their recipe for the Negroni. Then again, they would have one serve it in an old fashioned glass on the rocks, which seems an injustice considering how splendidly the Negroni displays up on a stem.
Do use London Dry — Plymouth or Hendrick’s would be a waste — since Campari and sweet vermouth overwhelm a delicate gin’s subtleties. You could probably even substitute vodka without noticing too much, but I can’t possibly advocate it. Leave the Negroni alone unless there’s no gin in the house, and then please don’t mention the transgression to others, lest it become practice.
If you haven’t a bottle of Campari to hand, acquire one and stir up a Negroni. It’s simplicity itself to produce, deliciously bitter-sweet, deceptively drinkable, and, at 56°, will see you into a happy place more rapidly than you might have thought. Suitable for any respectable hour and as an anodyne to any weather but the most inclement.