I raised the topic of Ted Breaux and the absinthe revival when chatting with @Splificator, yesterday, and he pointed out that, despite some sensationalism around its return, absinthe never really wound up playing a major role in the Cocktail Renaissance. Many bars offered “absinthe service”, and a few still do, but absinthe wasn’t really re-embraced as a cocktail ingredient.
Surveying the Modern Classics, three use absinthe: Jacob Briar’s Corpse Reviver Number Blue (a renovation of a classic), Phil Ward’s Joy Division (a modified Third Degree), and David Scape’s brilliant Paddington. @AudreySaunders’ French Pearl uses pastis. By comparison, literally hundreds of recipes from the 19th and 20th Centuries call for absinthe (and dozens more for pastis), and way back in the late formative years, bartenders were practically dashing the stuff into anything and everything.
In my opinion, absinthe should see more use today, particularly as an accent. I see it as one of the essential, inextricable flavorings of mixology, with a similar stature to bitters. Absinthe adds sophistication and adulthood to cocktails. For many, anise may be an acquired taste, but so are many liquors and liqueurs, and the hordes are now drinking Negronis, so clearly they can handle it.
Anise, in general, is not a flavor that Americans of today go for. Other cultures seem to love it, or at least I assume they do from bottles of Turkish Raki, Greek Ouzo, and Italian Sambuca. My grandmother used to make anisette cookies, and I remember when real black licorice (saltier the better) was available at every candy store. You don’t see that anymore.
I don’t fully understand the sentiment of dislike, but I certainly noticed it when I was working behind a bar. If a drink listed absinthe or pastis as an ingredient (no matter how minor), people would ask for it to be left out. On the other hand, there was always that late-night group that wanted chilled shots of Sambuca …
I personally love a properly diluted glass of absinthe and drink it often, but I guess when it comes to cocktails, I use it sparingly. The Absinthe Frappe, of course, is a lovely drink when one is in the mood, and I have always enjoyed the “improved” variety of cocktails that call for small amounts of Absinthe. I keep a mix of Ango, Maraschino, and Absinthe bottled in a dasher bottle in a 3-2-1 ratio to improve any cocktail.
I am sure there is some deeper scientific reason to why the American palate doesn’t care for anise these days. Absinthe is rich with history but has always been an oddball it seems in modern cocktails.
My experience in Europe is that people are still scared of the stuff. For three years in a row, I did an absinthe classics menu for a little absinthe prohibition day ‘celebration’ in a Madrid bar. It was a very, very hard sell with many patrons looking at me as if I were about to poison them. Bartenders may not have embraced absinthe as much as they should, but I’d mostly lay the blame with clients.
I tried to do a patio pastis thing a few summers ago when I was running the drinks at the Whistler in Chicago, and it was a total flop. Flop flop flop. Nobody would touch the stuff. I had to pull the whole thing and go back to the usual patio mix of cheap beers and shots of whiskey.
I find the flavor of anise to be one of the great dividing lines between the European and American palates. It’s fascinating. I, myself, admit to not particularly like the flavor in hardly any of its historical presentations. I appreciate it, certainly, but don’t really like it. I do, however, think absinthe plays an important role as an accent flavor in many good drinks, and should do so in more. I just don’t want to see it as the dominant flavor.
When anise is the dominant flavor, there’s certainly not a lot of room for anything else!
Interesting argument about palates. What else is there? I am aware of some of the sociopolitical/historical analysis about past food trends, but this is Alice Waters’ world now, and we just live in it. Americans are taking to all kinds of “weird” stuff and, as usual, immigrants are the engine. Even the salt licorice mentioned by @coctkaildoodle is creeping back into the US if you look for it (we consume it our household so I am attuned to its availability). I don’t see the problem with anise, other than it needs to be applied creatively (and subtly), and I think contemporary mixology is the perfect place to do that and absinthe is the perfect tool.
It’s hot and muggy, and that is when I often turn to absinthe, which, when handled thoughtfully, is cooling and refreshing.
This week I have tinkered with this 1930s drink listed in de Fleury’s 1700 Cocktails For The Man Behind The Bar (page 9):
Absinthe Cocktail No. 2
Shake with ice:
1/2 oz absinthe
1/2 oz lime juice
1 1/2 oz water
1 dash Angostura Bitters
1 bar spoon superfine sugar, scant
Strain into a cocktail glass.
I recommend doubling this for today’s cocktail glasses and using maybe 2 oz of water, but there’s a lot of play here.
Today for the first time I saw absinthe sold in a ~100 mL bottle. (Surdyk’s, Minneapolis, maybe Absente?) It had always baffled me that there were such a wide variety of absinthe styles in the cocktail revival, and someone looking to deploy a classic style in small dashes had to swallow hard and pay a lot for one bottle that might not suit.
I think it’s because of several factors. The taste is an acquired one (many people do not like black licorice flavor). The cost is pretty high. It’s generally used like bitters (very little, unless served as a drip). It implies dying (Corpse Reviver, Death in the Afternoon, Obituary). That last one is meant to be a joke.
Very similar to one of my favourite recipes of the modern classics era: Charles Vexenat’s Green Beast, (I believe for the relaunch of Pernod Absinthe). No bitters, more sugar and (essential) cucumber.
3/4 oz absinthe
3/4 oz simple syrup
3/4 oz lime juice
2 1/2 oz water
Build in glass, stir, garnish with cucumber. Can also be made in jar format.
I ran a flavor preference survey at my cocktail bar in Detroit over the course of 3 years, and had about 1,000 respondents total. I varied the questions every few months, and at one point, asked people to rate their feelings about black licorice flavor from 5 options: “Strongly Like,” “Like,” “Neutral,” “Like,” “Strongly Like.” A histogram of the responses is below.
Black licorice was by far the most disliked thing in the entire run of my survey. More disliked than the worst drink out of 48 seasonal menu drink, more disliked than “bitterness.” More disliked than any spirit or texture. Nearly every histogram (from more than 100) was more or less a bell curve with a peak somewhere in the middle, but exactly 1/3 of people said they “strongly dislike” black licorice, and only 10% “strongly like” it (107 people answered this question). Those are not good odds if you’re putting it on a menu.
The written comments about drinks reflected this same fact. a huge number of comments mentioned apprehension at its presence, dislike of a drink because of it, or relief and thinking it might be there but then wasn’t.
Some portion of the dislike of anise and/or licorice may have a genetic/biological component, but there doesn’t seem to be a clear scientific basis, yet.
Some distaste—probably quite a bit—can be simply pinned on arrested development. There are loads of arbitrary taste and texture aversions running around our populations that seem coupled to persistent infantile preferences. Anise and licorice are hardly alone. I didn’t get around to understanding and ultimately loving anise until my 20s, at least, but I got there without special effort. I am sure the taste is largely acquired through exposure, and in the United States, it’s a flavor that isn’t pushed that much. (We’re also only just starting to get familiar with “sichuan peppercorn” and there are lots of Americans who still find it distasteful. Hell, half of Wisconsin still finds black pepper intolerably spicy.)
In the USA, at least, there’s an additional cultural component that begins with children where licorice-flavored candy is specifically called out as “bad”. The black licorice gum drops and jelly beans are like little turds in the mix—that is approximately how they are commonly culturally characterized. I experienced that directly growing up, and the stigma persists and spreads to anise and probably tarragon. (Ironically, a lot of Americans like foods like sausage that can be significantly, stealthily flavored with anise—they just don’t recognize it.) If this stigma exists in Europe, it must be much weaker. Exposure to anise is just more common and, obviously, various forms of licorice are beloved confections in Northern Europe even amongst children (also, their licorice candy is typically higher quality than ours). So choice is also a factor.
A lot of Americans have decided they don’t like anise/licorice and have made that part of their identity. I believe many could simply choose otherwise.
I’ve looked into the genetic component a bit. With certain scents there is a genetic difference in which olfactory receptors are present for an individual, or which version, and sensitivity can vary greatly.
Cilantro is the one everyone knows, but the are a few others, such as elderflower (4-MMP can smell like tropical fruits or cat pee, depending on intensity, so those with greater sensitivity are more likely to get pee). Alpha androstenone is both a boar mating hormone and a component of truffle aroma, that can be perceived as nothing, kinda woodsy, or strongly body odor.
There’s nothing similar for the main black licorice scent molecules, anethole and estragole (found in fennel, anise, tarragon, some basil varieties).
I have to say a significant percentage of the European population loathe anise, including in countries with strong anise traditions, so I would imagine the issue runs a bit deeper than a lack of cultural curiosity.
Was talking with my wife about this. She likes absinthe, hates licorice, tolerates fennel and anise. Says she’s a supertaster, but I don’t know. We also both dislike truffle. I particularly hate petrichor.
Not to pick on her, but your wife’s position seems inconsistent and extreme, which supports my sense that much of the polarization around these flavors is artificial. I suspect that if anise played a more regular role in her diet, she’d be just fine with it. And if she eats ice cream, I’d encourage her to try some high quality licorice ice cream. Mild, divine, and nothing like licorice candy.
I loathe “truffle oil”, as any sane person would. It’s nasty in fact and olfaction. Of course, actual truffle-infused oil is ok, but I’ve seldom experienced it. I don’t dislike actual truffles, but I also don’t really care about them, because to me, they are mild and un-engaging. My unresponsiveness to truffles is an enduring puzzle, given how orgasmic other people get over them. I’m otherwise a mushroom fanatic.
Well, to be fair, her parents raised her on a very meat & potatoes kind of diet. And although I have exposed her to new foods and flavors, she still gravitates towards her upbringing.
She also does not like mushrooms, peas, tomatoes, avocado, oysters, mussels, or clams. All things I love.
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