Saturday, 27 February 2016

A STORY ABOUT LUXARDO

by Jared Brown & Anistatia Miller

Sasha Petraske introduced us to Luxardo cherries. It was around 2001. We had just returned to Manhattan after a seven-year road trip and found ourselves up to our ears in a burgeoning new cocktail scene. 

People occasionally accuse Dale DeGroff of giving himself too much credit for reviving cocktails in the 1980s and early 1990s. We would say he gives himself far too little credit for shaping the globally-influential New York scene in the late 1990s and 2000s. I (Jared) never really got to know Dale when he was tending bar and I was waiting tables in 1990 at the Rainbow Room, though our first encounter was unforgettable. 

One afternoon I was walking past the service bar near the kitchen. The service bartender was there. So was the head bartender. As he passed Dale said to me, “Hey you! You wanna see how to flame a twist?”  

That was how Dale lured unsuspecting young men and women into sharing his passion for cocktails. Fire. No one can resist fire. Soon there was an orange stripped to pith between us, with a pile of spent wooden matches and blackened twists. Plus, one more person was now fascinated with the bartender’s craft. 

But this is a story about Luxardo cherries. 

While we were living in Vancouver, BC, our literary agent of the time said about the only intelligent words to us that he ever spoke. He said, “This internet thing, it’s going to be big.” That was 1995. That was where his brilliance ended. He didn’t suggest we invest in Apple or Microsoft. He suggested we get on this new tech by building a website. 

I happened to be holding two martinis at that moment on Halloween night, 1995, when Anistatia looked up from the computer and said, “So, what should we do website about?” 

Within six months, Shaken Not Stirred: A Celebration of the Martini® had snowballed into a giant site with recipes, history, lore, bar recommendations, a chat forum, and a surprising roster of fans. One of them was a HarperCollins Publishers editor who invited us to turn the content into a book. That book, which rose to become the world’s bestseller on the subject, launched us into drink full time. 

Suddenly we found ourselves judging cocktail competitions, writing about spirits and cocktails for Cigar Aficionado, Wine Spectator and countless other publications. We were signed on as tasters helping distiller Kevin Settles hash out his Bardenay Gin formula in Boise, Idaho. We even appeared in the local police academy where they got us drunk so the cadets could learn to administer sobriety tests.

But this is about Luxardo cherries. 

By the time we returned to Manhattan, Dale—whose personal library had been an invaluable resource when we were writing Shaken Not Stirredhad gone from acquaintance to friend and we started meeting up for drinks. He was beating a path between new and old bars across Manhattan at this point, leading cocktail tours and becoming friend and mentor to a new generation of bartenders. 

One afternoon Dale said we had to meet some talented kid (Dale called anyone in their twenties a kid), a kid who was opening an amazing new bar downtown. That day, the three of us stood outside 134 Eldridge Street. The window had a dusty tailor’s dummy and a sign that read “ALTERATIONS”. 

Sasha was tall, rail thin with a mop of long dark hair falling over his face. He was so young, but his seriousness was obvious from the start. He greeted us warmly, then turned immediately to Dale to hash out the measures of his East India Cocktail. To Sasha, it wasn’t quite perfect yet. We all talked through the drinks on his list, but he wasn’t ready for service, so we wandered off to another new bar in the neighbourhood, another spot where Dale 
intently listened and generously advised. At one point or another a classic cocktail book emerged from his battered leather bag. Another invaluable source for another passionate young bartender. 

But back to the cherries. 

On our second visit to Milk & Honey, Jared ordered a Manhattan. Normally, he was very specific about this drink but this was a bartender who took cocktails to a higher level. He was too curious to say a word. That curiosity paid off. He eschewed the hideous red cherries in favour of an orange twist. 

Here was a small, dark cherry. It was clear there was nothing artificial about this one. It burst with cherry, sweetness and a touch of marzipan. A world apart from the artificial ones, it was the best we had ever tasted.We wanted it to linger on the palate, but it didn’t. However, it had bled a small pool of thick syrup that settled to the divot in the bottom of Jared’s glass. On his last sip, he held the upraised glass to his lips and waited. That thick cherry syrup meandered to the rim. Then patience was rewarded: One more taste of a perfect cherry.

We had a few more rounds, a few more cherries, and asked Sasha about them. He didn’t tell us much at the time. 

Next stop with Dale was Bemelman’s Bar at the Carlyle. The blonde who used to work at Tonic had moved uptown and upscale. Dale loved her drinks and her passion for cocktails. That blonde was Audrey Saunders. Her Manhattans also featured a Luxardo cherry. She was more forthcoming with her source. 

The only shop that carried them was Dean & Delucca, an appropriate place to find obscure Italian imports. These were about as obscure as it got. D&D (whom Jared once worked for baking scones and other pastries in its Paramount Hotel branch off Times Square) got an occasional case of these cherries. When they arrived, the race was on to buy a jar before they were gone. That seemed to be the entire East Coast supply—an occasional box. Then Sasha and Audrey upped the ante by purchasing as much as D&D imported the moment they arrived leaving the others to beg or borrow until the next round. 

Looking at the pallets of cherries in the Luxardo warehouse marked for shipment to the USA today, it’s hard to imagine two great bartenders and a handful of consumers racing each other to buy those few jars. 

There is little we could add to the history of the Luxardo company that isn’t already on Wikipedia. But for those of you who prefer to curl up to a primary or secondary historical source, here’s what we learnt from Matteo Luxardo and his family on a recent visit to the distillery situated in Torreglia near Padua in northern Italy.

Divided into numerous states and duchies since medieval times, Italy has been restructured over and over again. Its borders rarely settled for long along the French side to the west and the Croatian side to the east. One of its great power seats beginning in the 1600s was the Duchy of Savoy which spanned both the French and Italian Piemont region. That holding by 1720 also included the island of Sardinia.

At the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s power, this duchy was renamed the Kingdom of Italy in 1805 with Napoleon himself crowned as monarch. For this brief moment in history, the Dalmatian city of Zara (now Zadar) on Italy’s eastern borders was also under Italy’s domain. And although the Kingdom of Dalmatia was designated as a province of the Austro-Hungarian Empire beginning in 1815, it still maintained friendly relations with the now-renamed Kingdom of Sardinia.

Girolamo Luxardo moved to Zara with his family in 1817 to take his new post as consular representative of the Kingdom of Sardinia. It was here that his wife Maria Canevari first started preserving the bounty of Zara: its Marasca cherry orchards. As any good housewife of the time would do, she developed a rosolio maraschino for her household pantry from this particular variety of sour Morello cherry. Guests and friends relished in this spirit and four years later, Girolamo began commercial production of Liquore Maraschino. His was not the first distillery located in Zara to produce this strong, sweet spirit. But it became the second and most popular of the three Dalmatian distilleries to produce this sought-after digestif which condoned by the Austro-Hungarian emperor as well as Italian and British royalty.

Success continued even after Girolamo’s death at the age of 81 in 1865 when he son Nicolò took the reins of the business, followed  in 1913 by Michaelangelo, the third generation to operate the Luxardo distillery. Besides producing its liqueur, the family expanded its interests into preservation of its now vast cherry orchards for baking—and eventually cocktail garnish—as well as preserves and brandy making. The distillery was one of the empire’s largest and most productive. Then came the First World War.

With the Austro-Hungarian Empire at an end by the cessation of the fighting, Zara was again in the hands of the Kingdom of Sardinia. Production continued as Europe recovered from the numerous conflicts that lend to world war and the ensuing battles. Then came the Second World War. 

Italy—now united under Mussolini—was an Axis country. As a consequence, the country including Dalmatia was a target for Allied forces. The Luxardo distillery and operations were almost completely destroyed by the Allies. 

You would think that the story ended there with the finish of the Second World War. truth is, it only just begun.

It was 1944. The Germans were gone. The new socialists took power and Josip Bros Tito took power in the creation of Yugoslavkia. Zara was in that territory. Italian citizens who had resided in the area including Zara fled the invasion, especially in Dalmatia. A new regime wanted nothing to do with its former Italian compatriots. Amongst the refugees, Nicolò Luxardo and his wife Bianca Ronzoni as well as his brother Pietro were murdered as they attempted to flee. Giorgio managed to escape and set up a temporary operation in Venice before he moved to Torreglia, outside of Padua.

Marasca cherry plantings were exported and survived transplantation in northern Italy. The battles had only begun as Yugoslavian interests attempted to capitalise on the marasca cherry market and maraschino liqueur industry that had been founded and developed by three Italian families.

Throughout most of the late twentieth century, the Luxardo family fought against plagiarism of its brand and its provenance, citing forgery of its unique trademark and its formula instigated by the Yugoslavian government. It never gave up. It fought until its dignity was won and maintained.

Wikipedia does not shed the slightest light on the ethos, the spirit, the values that have made Luxardo such an enduring success story. The approach handed down within the family is to build the company for the next generation rather than seeking to spend the profits on a flashy lifestyle.

After spending a day at Luxardo with the family we can completely understand why they want to keep the business within the family whilst it probably attracts quite a few buy-out offers.

At the end of the day, Luxardo cherries and its extensions—especially its remarkable liqueur—are the unique extension of a family that loves what it does and what it has done for multiple generations: they craft the love of a husband for his wife’s talent that has translated into love for a cherry varietal and what it offers in taste and origination. 

What more could you ask from a truly artisanal brand?

And what could the Luxardo family buy with money and find to do in this world that would be more enjoyable than living in Padua, Italy, producing the burgeoning Luxardo range? The secret to happiness in this life is knowing we all have to work, and finding work you can truly enjoy. 

So is finding a Luxardo cherry in your Manhattan.

LOVING VERMOUTH

by Jared Brown & Anistatia Miller

Vermouth. For decades it has been the least respected and most under-valued wine on store, bar and restaurant shelves. Variously known as vermouth, vermut wein or wormwood wine, it has been around for far longer than people realise. There is a plaque in Piazza di Castello in Torino, Italy, commemorating the spot where shop keeper Antonio Benedetto Carpano supposedly invented vermouth in 1786. This marble sign has given rise to the myth vermouth did not exist until 1786. While he did not invent it (the Cinzano family nearby had been in business since 1757) he did create a new and much better formula, so good it convinced the Savoy royal court to switch from rosolio to vermouth as their afternoon libation. However, its history traces back much further.

There is some evidence the Chinese were using bitter herbs in wine thousands of years ago. Hypocrates made bitter wine-based medicines. There was no evidence of vermouth or wermut consumption in England until much later, not because they didn't drink it but because they called it by an English name: wormwood wine. This aromatised beverage was a daily drink for England’s Queen Elizabeth I. The Duke of Savoy cherished vermouth di Torino such much he issued a proclamation that only vermouth producers situated in this Piedmonte region of northern Italy were allowed to manufacture the product. 

Albrecht von Wallenstein—Duke of Friedland and supreme commander of the armies of the Holy Roman Empire—instructed his estate manager Captain-General Gerhard von Taxis to order 83 barrels of wormwood wine in 1632 as it was deemed an especially good vintage.

Yet, in the past century, vermouth has been the butt of jokes the likes of which have never been inflicted on other beverages. Martini mixing instructions historically included waving the vermouth over the shaker, bowing toward France or Italy, using an eye dropper to add it to a drink, or spritzing it from an atomiser into the bowl of the glass. 

The only reason vermouth has held its shelf presence in some parts of the globe is because it is an essential ingredient in two of the world's most popular cocktails: the Martini and Manhattan. Yet even here it was abused. We knew a man in Sweden who would call a friend in Australia and ask him to tap a vermouth bottle against the phone while he mixed martinis as that was as close as he allowed it to get to his drinks. 

How could such a reviled wine hold a pivotal place in such vaunted drinks? 

Vermouth has only recently been misunderstood. Most importantly, in the last century, people have forgotten that vermouth is not a shelf-stable spirit. Vermouth is a wine, an aromatised wine. It breathes. It rots, It dies just like wine. 

Yet when you walk into a bar, you are likely to see the vermouth standing on the back bar with the liquor bottles, a pour spout stuck in the top allowing it to breathe freely while the white and often the red wines to be sold by the glass are in a refrigerator under that very same back bar. 

The misunderstandings about vermouth aren't from ignorance alone. For a while those misconceptions were bantered around by the producers themselves. We tracked down one who claimed his major brand product would last for up to five years unrefrigerated after opening. After a few rounds of drinks with him, we pulled out a half empty five-year-old bottle and offered to drink it with him. He recoiled, "It's not really drinkable. But you could still cook with it!" He no longer tells people it is good for five years. 

We met two newly-hired marketing representatives of another major brand a few years ago. They took us to three or four bars that served Manhattans and Martinis with just a few drops of vermouth in them and they raved about the drinks. In the next bar I waited until they were distracted and asked the bartender for a glass of their product on ice. I sipped it and loudly complimented the bartender on this great drink. They turned and asked what I had. I offered them a taste. Both loved it and asked again what it was. "It's your vermouth, straight." One of them replied, "I've never tried it this way! It is good." At that moment, the lesson began in earnest. 

Straight vermouth is delicious. It was about this same time a young bartender in one of the world's best bars looked me in the eye when I ordered a vermouth on the rocks and said, "I could never respect anyone who drinks straight vermouth." I will never name him or the bar, but by the same token I will never forget that moment. 

A recent study has shown that the shelf life of any wine can be extended by 10 to 15 times if the bottle is refrigerated after opening. This also applies to vermouth. Once opened, if a bottle is refrigerated it will keep for a few months. 

By now you might consider pouring your old vermouth down the drain. Do not do it. Those bottles still have one purpose. Open a fresh bottle of the same vermouth. Pour some of the old vermouth into a white wine glass. Pour an equal taste of fresh vermouth into an identical glass. Nose and taste them side-by-side. The difference will be readily apparent. The old vermouth is weak and flabby and a touch soured. The new vermouth has a remarkable botanical balance and a beautiful flavour. Now, pour the old vermouth down the drain, and put the new bottle into the fridge. Or better yet, drink it. 

One trick to ensuring you always drink fresh vermouth is to buy smaller bottles. Many vermouths come in half bottles. Some are even fortunate enough to be produced in 5cl miniatures. Ask your retailer or distributor for them.  

For artisan bartenders, vermouth is not difficult to make. At its essential foundation, it is simply an acidic white wine that is infused with artemisia absinthium—the species of wormwood plant which also gives its name to the drink. (The term ‘vermouth’ is derived from the German word ‘wermut'). There are vintage distillation guides from the 1800s and early 1900s that have recipes, including botanical blends as well as infusion and fortification instructions for the classic Italian, German, and French styles.

For less ambitious mixologists, there are many new vermouths available and more arriving soon. These generally follow a distinct style. They are brash, heavily bittered, sharp and are a challenge to use. If you use one of these in a Manhattan, there is no need to add dashes of bitters. If a drink does not normally call for bitters, you may find a classic vermouth profile is a better fit.

It is also very easy to modify a vermouth's flavour. Don't hesitate to combine two vermouths in a drink. Carpano Antica vermouth is rich and balsamic. But if you are going to have three Manhattans you may want to add a portion of Martini Rosso to soften it. One bartender we know in Tokyo offers a touch of sweetness by rinse his ice with a splash of bianco vermouth. After all, the best drink is not the one that bowls you over on the first sip. It is the one that leaves you wanting another on the last sip. 

So, why did Churchill bow toward France while mixing a straight Gin Martini during the Second World War? Why did Nöel Coward similarly nod toward Italy? It was not because these great drinkers disliked vermouth. Both countries were in the grips of wartime Prohibition and the vermouth manufacturers were compelled to produce spirit for the military. These gentlemen were bowing out of respect. They missed vermouth and went straight back to mixing with it when it was available once again.

According to our research, the Martini cocktail takes its name from Martini vermouth. The earliest appearances of the drink in print feature a capitalised M in Martini indicating it was a proper name. not long after the drink was born, Martini vermouth launched an ad campaign in The New York Times reminding drinkers that a real Martini can only be made with original and genuine Martini vermouth. 


The original measures for the Martini, Manhattan and other vermouth-driven drinks was equal parts spirit and vermouth. The first Martini recipe called for one part gin to one part sweet vermouth. This recipe appeared in the 1888 edition of Harry Johnson's New Improved, Illustrated Bartenders Manual. (The Dry Martini was first mentioned in print in 1895 in a joke printed in New York newspapers). 


When vermouth is fresh, drinks balance with considerably more, just as a drink will taste good with a freshly cut slice of orange, but will taste like rot if the slice was cut days before and is starting to decompose. At that point it doesn't matter how little you use. The same applies to vermouth. If you have no fresh vermouth, do not make drinks with vermouth.


This wonderful wine is finally being returned to its rightful position on shelves and in the minds of drinkers. It deserves love and respect for the complex beauty it brings to drinks, and for the part it has played throughout history. Pour some on ice and raise a glass of straight vermouth.