Plenty of Persimmons? Make Cocktails!

Lately my life has been imitating the old saw about making lemonade when life gives you lemons. What's been interesting is that the lemonade I've been making has had a particularly alcoholic bent to it.

It started with a gift of green walnuts last summer, which are in the process of becoming an Italian liqueur called nocino. Then this fall my neighbors called to inquire whether we might want to come pick a few of the quince that were threatening to break several branches on their overburdened trees, which prompted me to chop up a few and throw them in a jar with vodka.

Drenched but pleased.

A few weeks later, my friend Kathryn called to see if I'd be interested in helping her harvest persimmons from her neighbor's tree across the street, which were just going to end up falling and making a stinky, slippery, insect-attracting mess on the road. These persimmons were the variety called fuyu, the squat, non-astringent variety with a slightly sweet, mild flavor that can be eaten out of hand, sliced into salads or served alongside, oh, say, a seared duck breast.

I arrived at Kathryn's just in time for a drenching downpour, despite which we managed to haul the ladder out and pick a bushel of the still-rock hard fruits. I suggested that might be enough for our needs, but, coming from generations of hardy Kentucky women, rain or no rain Kathryn insisted on filling up both fairly large baskets.

Sliced persimmons in vodka.

A little over two weeks later, the persimmons had just started to ripen to the point where they could be used. This gave me some time to do a few searches online, and I narrowed the options down to three: I'd make and freeze a purée for use in summer margaritas and a batch of sorbet; then thinly slice enough to fill a gallon jug which I'd top with vodka and decant in a month or so to make a liqueur for next fall.

The third intriguing option was to pack layers of the whole fruit into a gallon jar, covering each layer with cane sugar. The idea was for the moisture contained in the fruit to gradually melt the sugar, making a syrup as well as preserving the fruit itself. So with the purée in the freezer and the two gallon jars sitting on a shelf in the basement, all that was left was to wait until something (hopefully delicious) happened.

Persimmons packed in sugar.

Four weeks later, the magic had worked. I decanted the now-pale orange vodka from the sliced persimmons and put it in a jar that went back down in the basement. Then I poured off the syrup from the preserved fruit, sealing it into tubs that went into the freezer. Well, almost all of it went into the freezer. I kept a little out to make homemade fruit syrup soda for my nephew, similar to the rhubarb soda he'd so loved last spring. And of course Dave immediately put his name in to use a few ounces for cocktail experiments (see below), a request I'm always happy to oblige.

Being the magnanimous sort I am, and thinking maybe there was a chance another cocktail recipe might be forthcoming, I shared a bit of the syrup with my neighbor Bill. Within a few hours he'd texted back a recipe for a lovely rye-and-lemon concoction he called the Good Fuyu. We tried it alongside Dave's version of an Old Fashioned he dubbed Old Persimmon's Old Fashioned after the nickname that T.S. Eliot gave Ezra Pound.*

Not to brag, but now I have two excellent new cocktails to add to our growing list (and now so do you)!

Old Persimmon's Old Fashioned

2 oz. bourbon

3 tsp. persimmon syrup

Dash Angostura bitters

Dash orange bitters

Orange peel

Fill a cocktail mixing glass half-full of ice. Add all ingredients except orange peel to mixing glass and stir for 30 seconds. Strain into short rocks glass. Holding the orange peel skin-side down over the drink, twist and then drop into the liquid.

* * *

Good Fuyu

1.5 oz. rye

.75 oz. persimmon syrup

.5 oz. lemon juice

Dash Peychaud's bitters

Amarena cherry

Fill a cocktail mixing glass half-full of ice. Add all ingredients except cherry to mixing glass and stir for 30 seconds. Strain into short rocks glass. Add cherry.

* Apparently the two writers frequently corresponded by—gasp—handwritten letters and, inspired by  the Uncle Remus folk tales, Eliot referred to Pound as "Old Possum" while Pound dubbed Eliot "Brer Rabbit."

Call Me Old-Fashioned

It was said to have originated in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1881, the concoction of a bartender at the gentlemen-only Pendennis Club. When I visited that bourbon-soaked city last year—the area is home to the likes of Maker's Mark, Jim Beam, Bulleit and Woodford Reserve, among others—the old-fashioned was the drink I ordered at the St. Charles Exchange (below left), the Pendennis still being a private club, though it now has "a handful of female members."*

Sitting down at the bar, I knew my answer when the bartender asked what he could get me. When ordering the signature bourbon cocktail in a bourbon-centric town, I should have been ready for the his next question, which was to ask which bourbon I'd prefer. Being somewhat unprepared (not to mention fairly uninformed), I asked what he'd recommend to a non-native interested in something local.

His choice, interestingly, was Old Forester, which was also recommended by the driver assigned to show me the area, who said he prefers it to many higher-priced bourbons. I was happy to find it at our local liquor store for well under $20, and it's since become one of our favorites for Old-Fashioneds and Manhattans.

Old-Fashioned

Adapted from Kenneth McCoy's version in the New York Times.

Dash of Regans’ orange bitters
Dash of Angostura bitters
Dash of simple syrup (see below)
1 tsp. of brandied cherry juice (we use syrup from Amarena cherries)
2 oz. of your favorite whiskey (see above)
Orange peel

Stir ingredients with ice in a mixing glass. Strain into an old-fashioned glass over three or four ice cubes. Garnish with a thick twist of orange peel.

Dave's Simple Syrup

Half Demerara or brown sugar with half water—stirred until mixed thoroughly—no heat.

* From Wikipedia.

Bloggin' the Nog

I meant to bring it, I really did. I'd read my friend Giovanna's post last December about the eggnog at Pearl Bakery and how next year she'd remember to bring a flask of bourbon. Inspired, I planned to dig out Dave's flask and fill it with some of Clear Creek Distillery's Oregon Brandy and head over for a glass of my own.

But about halfway there I realized the flask was sitting on the counter where I'd left it, locked and loaded, but since I'd arranged with Giovanna to meet there and guide me through the process, I charged on. And, sure enough, there she was, sitting at a nicely out-of-the-way table in a corner of the café, the better to tipple unnoticed.

When she admitted she'd neglected to bring her flask, too, I felt a little better, and we made our way to the counter and ordered our glasses. As noted in her post, traditional eggnog is made with softly beaten egg whites folded into an egg yolk-rich cream and milk mixture. She writes:

"Pearl's eggnog has none of these.  In order to avoid the raw egg situation, they make a cooked eggnog. And you know what a cooked eggnog is? It's nothing more than crème anglaise. One of my very favorite things. This one just happens to be nutmeg-flavored."

If you decide, like I did, that you absolutely have to try this lovely concoction, you'll have to hold the line when the young person behind the counter asks if you want it mixed with anything, and when you decline, asks if you're sure you want it plain, cold, in a glass. At that point, just nod and smile and let them think you must be a bit batty to drink something so lusciously rich all by itself.

Unless, of course, you remember to bring that flask.


Details: Pearl Bakery, 102 NW 9th Ave. 503-827-0910

Lovely Libation, but Perfect?

The lights were low, the seats cozy. A black-and-white clad waiter came to the table and her question always threw me into an existential panic.

"Would you like a cocktail?"

My mind would go blank. I'd feel dizzy. Cocktail? Um…

Wine and beer, no problem. I could order with the best of them. But a cocktail? It was terra incognita. All the bottles in my parents' liquor cabinet would swirl around in my brain, out of focus. If I was lucky I'd remember gin and tonic. If the waiter was kind and saw my panic, she'd suggest a few choices. Or whomever I was with make a suggestion or, better yet, would order for me.

Even when I got a little more familiar with the territory, there were moments. Again, the waiter with the questions. "Martini, yes ma'am. Up? Dry? Shaken? Stirred? Olives?" Another panic, a smile frozen on my face. "Uhhh…"

But now, well, now it's another story. I quiz the waiter on the gins available, look disappointed if they don't have Plymouth or aren't familiar with the proper recipe for a Negroni. Oh, and could you ask the bartender not to pulverize the mint in the mojito, just bruise it gently? Thanks.

Though there are areas I'm not familiar with. Recently I've been expanding the repertoire to include Manhattans, which always remind me of the drinks my father made, the ones requiring not much beyond ice and maybe a spoon to stir them with.

Last night, Dave, who's always scouting for drinks to add to the list, suggested a sidecar. He'd read a piece by Eric Asimov in the Times extolling it as the perfect cocktail. Made with bourbon or brandy and lemon juice, it has the appearance of unfiltered apple cider when served in a martini glass but has that classic cocktail taste, at once bright and warming.

Asimov describes it as refreshing and "good any time of the year, but especially in the warmer weather." Until those temps get here, I'm thinking we may need to do a test of several recipes to determine our favorite. Here's Asimov's version to tide us all over.

More Perfect Bourbon Sidecar for Two

4 shots bourbon (he advises a sweeter style like Maker’s Mark)
2 shots Cointreau
Juice of 1 lemon (or Meyer lemon) to equal two shots

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice. Add ingredients and shake. (Asimov says he tries to count to 100 but will stop short if the shaker gets too cold.) Strain into two glasses and serve.