5 Boston Sour 6 White Lady 7 Brandy Flip 8 De Rigueur, alias Brown Derby No. 2 9 Florodora 10 exercise Irish Coffee 11 Silver Fizz 12 Air Mail 13 Brainstorm 14 Champs-Élysées
15 Hemingway Daiquiri 16 Honeymoon 17 Vieux Carré 18 Fighting Quaker 19 Acacia 20 Americano 21 exercise Coffee Cocktail 22 Rose 23 Last Word 24 Widow’s Kiss 25 Pink Lady 26 Diamondback 27 Twelve-Mile Limit 28 Clover Club 29 Seelbach 30 examination Ramos Gin Fizz a third course in cocktails
Renaissance Revivals
1 Sazerac 2 Palmetto 3 Dry Martini 4 De La Louisiane
5 Alaska 6 Pegu Club 7 Army & Navy 8 Scofflaw 9 Vermouth Cocktail 10 exercise New York Sour 11 Yale Cocktail 12 Bijou 13 Corpse Reviver No. 2 14 Sherry Cobbler
15 Remember the Maine 16 Japanese 17 Vesper 18 Southside (Fizz) 19 Death in the Afternoon
20 exercise El Presidente 21 Bamboo/Adonis 22 Aviation
23 Earthquake 24 Blood and Sand 25 Martinez
26 Cameron’s Kick 27 Twentieth Century 28 Chrysanthemum
29 Morning Glory Fizz 30 final ProJect Brooklyn/Creole
a fourth course in cocktails
Tropical and Tiki
1 Caipirinha/Ti’ Punch 2 Pendennis Club 3 Lion’s Tail
4 Royal Bermuda Yacht Club Special 5 Corn ’n’ Oil 6 Mary Pickford
7 Queens Park Swizzle 8 Beachcomber 9 Hurricane
10 exercise Batida 11 Periodista 12 Doctor Funk
13 Mai Tai 14 Three Dots and a Dash 15 151 Swizzle
26 That’s My Word 27 Art of Choke 28 Bywater 29 Trinidad Sour 30 final ProJect Fat-Washed Old Fashioned
indePendent studies 352
reciPes For Homemade ingredients 354 suBstitutions 356 gLossarY 358
toPics For continuing education 367
seLected BiBLiograPHY 368
acKnoWLedgments 371
indeX oF cocKtaiLs BY name 373
indeX oF cocKtaiLs BY Base 374
conVersions 376
a first course in cocktails
The Survivors
Allow me to paint a picture for you. The cocktail, a nascent culinary art form being cultivated principally in the United States, has undergone a century or so of growth, experimentation, and evolution. A mixological golden age has arrived, abetted by the development or importation of new ingredients, the popularity of the medium, and the increasing enthusiasm of talented practitioners for writing down their secrets. Cocktails are modern. Cocktails are exciting. Cocktails are progress. Cocktails are America. This is the view from the world inhabited by the bibulous in the cocktail’s mother country around the time of World War I.
Simultaneously, though, there was another trend, at least as pervasive and no less American: the temperance movement. For those in the “Dry” community, it was sobriety—voluntary if possible, legislated if necessary—that equaled progress, along with women’s rights, the abolition of slavery, and occasionally eugenics, depending on the year. While the cocktailians of the day, to borrow a term from Gary Regan, were busy whipping up elaborate potations and sharing fanciful stories with the press, a social revolution was creeping across the country. State by state, county by county, town by town, laws against alcohol would find their way onto the books of enough jurisdictions to cover most of the land. The “Wets” had lost so slowly and quietly that they hadn’t even noticed it until nationwide Prohibition took hold, and they didn’t fully believe it even after that—until the arrests began.
In the long arc of American drinking, Prohibition may have ultimately been beneficial by driving out of business the many unscrupulous household chemists who made a living tending bar in the nineteenth century and replacing the proliferate unwholesome saloons of the day with establishments modeled on their upstanding competitors, opening bars to women en masse, and accelerating the global spread of
SWEETEN SOUR BITTER
LENGTHEN AERATE
The origins of the Mint Julep are lost to time. As is often the case with venerable drinks, its preparation is so simple and harmonious that it has probably existed under one name or another since the first time a single person had access to all its components and has almost certainly been derived independently many times. We do know that it’s a creature of the American South, that its name derives in a roundabout way from the Persian word for rose water, and that brandies were favored in the earliest recipes we have before bourbon supplanted them. I lead off with the Mint Julep not only because it is a sort of ur- or protococktail in the historical sense—attested earlier than anything called a cocktail—but also because it is fundamental in its construction, being simply a spirit that has been iced, sweetened, and aromatized. These characteristics are common to the vast majority of mixed alcoholic drinks.
Cocktails are after all an art form dedicated to the proposition that nothing is finished just because it comes in a bottle. The maker of cocktails treats the spirit as a starting point, a base upon which to construct some grander edifice of flavor. It is nearly always the case that sweetening is a component of this process. Our palates are primed to respond to sugar, likely for the simple evolutionary reason that it means the food is dense in energy-providing calories; its presence suppresses our perception of sour and bitter tastes, while enhancing
BOURBON
Mint Julep
2 oz. bourbon
2 tsp. sugar
2 tsp. water
3–4 sprigs of mint
Combine sugar and water in a rocks glass, and stir or crush until they form a syrup (alternatively, replace both with ½ oz. 1:1 simple syrup). Add bourbon and stir to combine. Fill to the brim with ice. Insert a straw and surround it with the sprigs of mint, so that they must be smelled while drinking. If available, use crushed rather than cubed ice and a silver cup rather than a rocks glass; however, neither is required.
our awareness of the aromas of whatever we’re consuming. This is an important factor, because “flavor” incorporates both taste and smell, the former enabling us to discriminate among sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and savory, while the latter tells us whether a thing is minty or floral or reminds us of spring rains or Thanksgiving at our grandparents’ house. The Mint Julep incorporates the aromas of its eponymous herb, to which the sugar makes us more attentive, into the whiskey. It is a form of ornamentation, or play, an expression of the deep human desire to rearrange the world around us. Because mint is a smell and not a taste, it can become part of the drink’s flavor even when it is only used as a garnish, as is the case here. Smack the mint leaves a few times against the back of your hand to release their aromatic oils and arrange them so that they must be smelled with each sip.
The Mint Julep could be found in bars decades before ice could, but the two have formed a special bond. The archetypical Julep today is served with crushed ice in a silver cup. The crushed ice has a high surface area per unit of volume, facilitating quite a lot of chilling and dilution. Because of silver’s thermal conductivity, the cup will get very cold very quickly, and will help keep the ice cold so it doesn’t melt too fast and overdilute the drink. Neither step is necessary, but both are worth it to perfect the experience.
SWEETEN SOUR BITTER AROMATIZE
LENGTHEN AERATE
One of four cocktails named after the boroughs of New York City, the Bronx was the Manhattan’s rival for recognition for many years. It was ubiquitous on postwar cocktail menus, and it found international success as a representative of the American beverage canon. I was surprised to find it on the menu of a perfectly ordinary Italian bar in 2015, and flabbergasted to subsequently find that the Bronx had an Italian Wikipedia page—but not an English one.*
An undeniably weird drink—which may account for its waning popularity stateside—the Bronx for our purposes is an innovator, a gateway to more advanced techniques. First, it combines sweet and dry vermouth—two aromatic modifiers more often used in isolation. Mixing fortified wines together can be tricky: each is already an intricate web of flavors, and trying to make one mesh with another can give you something that’s less than the sum of its parts. This is a case where the combination works well—in part because the drink produces a palate that is orthogonal to its individual ingredients, drawing flavor elements from each that are not obviously complementary.
The Bronx is also our first recipe to combine a fortified wine with citrus juice. Systems that classify all cocktails as variations on a few template
* The Bronx has since received its due on English-language Wikipedia as well.
Bronx
1½ oz. London dry gin
½ oz. sweet vermouth
½ oz. dry vermouth
¾ oz. orange juice
Shake with ice. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
recipes often begin to break down here. Sour-wine drinks don’t quite belong in the wine camp with the Gibson and the Manhattan—for one thing, they’re usually shaken—but they also don’t really behave the same way as more straightforward sours do. The wine and citrus jockey for position as the defining element. One would have to establish a continuum from the wine drinks to the Daiquiri and assess each intermediate creature on the basis of its proximity to the ends.
Or one could do as we’re doing here, and take them individually. So what makes the Bronx tick? Orange is less acidic than other citrus juices, skewing this toward the wine drink end of the spectrum. While it contributes a measure of acidity—and sweetness, as do the vermouths—the fresh juice also offers fragrance. It is more important aromatically than acidically. Gin is often made with citrus botanicals, including orange peels. Fresh orange juice has a floral bouquet, which picks up some of the other gin notes and certain of the sweeter spices in the vermouth. Meanwhile, the baking spice elements common to both are complementary to the juice—think about how orange pairs with cinnamon and cloves—while the hint of citrus acidity helps integrate the more savory components of the wine and the gin. The Bronx is to some extent like grapefruit and beer or oysters and chocolate: you can understand why it works but it’s still surprising that it does.
SWEETEN SOUR BITTER AROMATIZE
OTHER THICKEN LENGTHEN AERATE
Drinks that have been significantly lengthened to the point that the lengthening agent makes up the majority of the volume are collectively termed long drinks. This is a loose categorization, meant merely to distinguish them from short drinks in which the base spirit is at least the plurality ingredient by volume or from cocktails, which according to some classification systems are definitionally short drinks and long drinks something else entirely.
We have already encountered the Hot Toddy, a rare drink insofar as it is lengthened with plain water. Most of the time, more than that is asked of a lengthening agent: that it add flavor, texture, sweetness, or something to the mix beyond volume. Effervescence is a particularly common request, and carbonated lengtheners appear in many cocktails.
Of these, the simplest is seltzer, which is to say water that has been carbonated in some way. And the simplest preparation combines it with a spirit and ice, and nothing else.
There is nowhere to hide in such a drink. The spirit must be of good quality, the balance precisely to taste, and the preparation without fault. Avoid light-bodied spirits: as the minority ingredient in the glass, they can disappear entirely, leaving a glass of what tastes like
Scotch and Soda
2 oz. blended Scotch 4 oz. seltzer
Combine ingredients in a highball glass with ice and stir.
slightly alcoholic fizzy water. Pick a robustly flavored distillate with a strong middle that can stand up without sugar and punch through a few layers of seltzer to reach the taste buds. A single-malt Scotch is probably not necessary given the number of blends available that meet that standard, but if you choose to experiment with other whiskies, blended American and Canadian ones are best avoided.
I have described the contribution of effervescence as aeration in this course of study—the same term I use for other methods that introduce or trap gas bubbles in a cocktail, shaking among them. Carbonated mixers do this on a larger scale and are diagramed appropriately. In a preparation this simple, those bubbles are much of the point, so be careful not to overstir. It is critical that no more carbonation than necessary be lost during preparation. The addition of the seltzer should do much of the mixing work for you if the spirit is already in the glass.
Don’t be dilatory about drinking your Scotch and Soda: the longer it sits, the more the dissolved carbon dioxide will reach the surface and evaporate, and the more the melting ice will reduce the relative proportion of the remaining gas in the liquid. In short, do everything you can to maintain the effervescence, and err on the side of having a second drink rather than savoring this one.
The Hidden Patrimony a second course in cocktails
The recipes in our first lesson are not merely respectable drinks, but represent some of the most respectable drinks in the canon. Why, then, have I used them to represent an era I call the Cocktail Dark Ages? There are two ways to answer this question: one of quality and one of quantity.
In short, the quality of the canon in this period doesn’t reflect the overall quality of midcentury drinking. Lighter-bodied spirits were in vogue, while flavorsome ones were suspect. The picture does not improve when one moves beyond the spirit bases to the other components of a cocktail. In the era of Campbell’s Cooking with Soup, prepackaged ingredients were preferred: grenadine and sour mix were in, fresh juice and produce were not. The James Bond films began their long assault on the Martini, which gradually persuaded the public that shaken vodka with a few drops of vermouth was the height of sophistication. The changing tastes of the country led to declining sales for once-essential ingredients and eventually to their disappearance; even orange bitters—a ubiquitous item for most of a century—would vanish from store shelves.
Perhaps the greatest issue is that cocktails themselves were not popular in this era. They were stodgy, stuffy—the sort of thing one’s father might have drunk. Youth would not reclaim cocktails as their own until the neon-colored drinks of the disco era arrived to handicap their insulin production, and even then the drinks would not be called cocktails but instead generically Martinis—as entirely wrong as that may have been.
It was after years of such extremes of bad drinking that the Cocktail Renaissance began. Cocktails were no longer what your father drank, but what your grandparents drank, and everyone prefers their
THICKEN LENGTHEN
SOLUTION
The Irish Coffee is most similar to the Hot Toddy: a long drink, served hot and built in the glass. What distinguishes it is the use of a flavorful lengthener, as in a juice drink—but unlike juice, coffee is bitter and not especially sweet, so we offset it with sugar and cream.
Cream is filled with globules of fat, which the whisk breaks apart. The molecules try to regroup, forming a connective network that traps the air bubbles whipping introduces—and also traps liquid, meaning that whipped cream is more solid and less prone to flow than unwhipped cream is. The higher the cream’s fat content, the better all this works.
The dollop of freshly whipped cream fattens, thickens, and sweetens all at once. It’s kept separate so each sip of piping hot cocktail comes topped with cool, rich cream. The drinker chooses how much of each experience to have in a given sip, as with a sugared rim.
Float cream on top.
Whisk cream gently in a bowl until bubbles dissipate. Stir coffee, whiskey, and demerara syrup together in a heat-safe glass or mug.
1 oz. heavy cream
½ oz. rich demerara syrup
3½ oz. hot coffee
1¼ oz. Irish whiskey
IRISH WHISKEY
exercise Irish Coffee
Irish whiskey
hot coffee
rich demerara syrup
heavy cream
Using the given ingredients, determine the proportions of the Irish Coffee and its method of preparation.
I’ve based our Irish Coffee recipe on one developed by Jillian Vose at the Dead Rabbit, an acclaimed modern cocktail bar that’s also an Irish pub. Vose took their widely praised version back to the drawing board in 2016—she describes the bar’s mentality as “if it isn’t broken, fix it anyway”—and brought in Dale Degroff for a day of workshopping.
Following Vose, we’ll use the rich demerara syrup touched on with the Brandy Flip. She calls for a lighter-bodied blended Irish whiskey, but the single pot still we’ve been using will do just fine. The cream is the trickiest piece technique-wise: you’ll want to whip it in a separate bowl and float it on top of the cocktail, preserving the temperature gradient of hot coffee and cold cream for the drinker. Use a cream of at least 30 percent fat—look for heavy cream or whipping cream—and stop whisking when there are no visible bubbles left.
Vose advises that most Irish Coffee makers go wrong by using too large a glass. Six ounces is plenty. Now, consider what makes the drink work, what each of its pieces does, and what we’ve seen before that it resembles—our course is cumulative, so keep your wits about you! When you have your answers, proceed and see how well you did.
a third course in cocktails
Renaissance Revivals
Our journey has come to a turning point. For two chapters, we have considered only those cocktails that could easily have been made when the Renaissance began. Now we begin to consider the ingredients, recipes, and techniques that reflect the triumph of that movement, the recovery of what had been lost from the days of our foremixers and its restoration to the cultural mainstream today. Cocktails foreshadowed in previous chapters will appear at last— unlike the cocktailians of the last millennium, you will not need to wait years or decades to try them.
By now, you should understand the rudiments of how cocktails fit together. This seminar will therefore proceed at a quicker pace. Rather than describing each cocktail’s structure and balance from the ground up, I will refer to previously covered recipes and identify iterations that get us from those to these, noting the consequences of each choice and any additional compensations they may require.
For so much of the period we are considering, everything old was new—and moreover it was exciting, whether it was a forgotten recipe, a defunct liqueur, or simply an old-fashioned set of standards to which the drinking experience could be held. Mixologists revived some of the greatest hits of the pre-war backbar, with absinthe, Old Tom gin, crème de violette, Kina Lillet (or something close to it), and orange bitters among them. Bars elevated their standards of service and some even posted rules for their patrons’ behavior. These efforts not only made cocktails cool again but also revived the respectability of hospitality as a profession.
Consider: Bartenders were being quoted in newspapers of record. Serious journalists were bothering to write about their experiences
with the mixological revival. Watershed books—Gary Regan’s The Joy of Mixology, Dale Degroff’s The Craft of the Cocktail—appeared in stores alongside glossy coffee-table recipe guides produced by actual bars. Authors who had long been out of print, from Harry Craddock to David Embury to Jerry Thomas, found new audiences through printed facsimile editions, and cocktail books and pamphlets of every level of obscurity were scanned and shared. The popular image of the bartender was no longer Cheers’s womanizing Sam Malone or Tom Cruise’s doggerel poetry-spouting flairtender in Cocktail but a reallife figure like Sasha Petraske, warm and welcoming to his guests but holding exacting standards for himself and his craft—and looking like he’d just gotten back from a 1940s tailor shop.
The clientele matured as the bars did, with the trendy speakeasy style—quiet, dimly lit, intimate, and private—inspiring better behavior than the fern bars of the previous era. The religious magazine First Things even published “The Virtues of the Speakeasy,” in which the author approvingly called such bars “an island for adult behavior in a world of perpetual adolescence.” At the same time, bartending was gaining respect in the eyes of the public, as bartenders became owners and impresarios and people like Don Lee left jobs in lucrative industries to pursue soul-gladdening work in hospitality. (Did I mention David Wondrich has a PhD?) Other eras may equal the Renaissance in their widespread celebration of the cocktail as an art form, but none have surpassed it.
Necessarily, the Cocktail Renaissance was limited, as all such movements are, by the amount of revivable material it had to work with and by how well it prepared its adherents to create the movements that would replace it. Simultaneous with their study of the past, contemporary cocktail enthusiasts were inventing new recipes of their own, and when in time they felt they could surpass their predecessors behind the stick, the impulse to excavate mixological history began to dry up. A heavy focus on the classics came to seem hidebound and stuffy, and bartenders sought less serious alternatives.
In these ways the Renaissance sowed the seeds of its own succession by the Cocktail Baroque Period, a history we will unspool in the next two seminars. For now, though, we are in the High Renaissance and can experience it in its full flower, fleeting though that bloom may be.
Condensed milk adds texture and fattiness to a cocktail. It is also sweetened, so in this recipe we’re dealing with extra sugar. This is one reason we might prefer the pulverizing action of a conventional blender to the turboswizzling of the drink mixer: a slushy drink is just about as cold and diluted as one can get, both of which qualities will reduce its sweetness.
My description of passion fruit syrup should have sent you reaching back to seminar one for the Gimlet’s lime cordial, our original sour-sweet syrup. Even with the consistency and appearance of a boozy milkshake, the Batida has a bit of acidity to it—we want that to be part of the drink’s balance, rather than having it read as an off note in our sweetener.
Another popular Batida uses coconut milk or coconut cream, either in addition to passion fruit syrup or in place of it. But the sky is the limit—try it with your favorite fruit syrup! Tart sweeteners like lime cordial or raspberry syrup will change the drink’s structure least of all. You can also replace your condensed milk with a combination of evaporated milk and sugar to have more control over the sweetness. 1½ oz. sugar and 1¼ oz. evaporated milk will be roughly equivalent to 2 oz. condensed milk. 4.10
Combine in a conventional blender and blend until smooth. Pour unstrained into a highball glass and serve with a straw.
2 oz. condensed milk
2 oz. passion fruit syrup
2 oz. cachaça or cane juice rum
CACHA Ç A
exercise Batida
cachaça or rhum agricole
passion fruit syrup
condensed milk
Using the given ingredients, determine the proportions of the Batida and its method of preparation.
Conventional blenders are generally used when ice is meant to be pulverized for a texture that is more a thick, semifrozen liquid than a flowing one with solid bits of ice in it. This approach was common among the boat drinks that displaced tiki as the popular archetype of the tropical cocktail. Martin Cate has called such creatures “slushy Visigoths laying waste to the already wounded and failing tiki bar,” and identified the Piña Colada as their warlord. Now, I have enjoyed a Piña Colada or two in my day, but this seems an appropriate time to highlight a more interesting alternative from Brazil.
The Batida (bah–CHEE–dah in Brazilian Portuguese) is probably the second most popular use of cachaça after the Caipirinha. A frozen blended drink, it is sweet without being cloying, refreshing but deadly, and readily available from street vendors. If you like the Piña Colada, you’ll enjoy this one even more.
Batidas come in many flavors. Specifically, the subject of this exercise is the Batida de Maracujá, which uses sweet, tart, and aromatic passion fruit syrup. It also incorporates sweetened condensed milk. Think about these ingredients, reflect on the properties of conventional blending, and see if you can work out how they translate into the recipe. Remember: it should be accessible enough to be a giant country’s number two drink!
SWEETEN SOUR BITTER AROMATIZE
THICKEN LENGTHEN AERATE
It is worth reiterating that tiki flavors are more Caribbean than Polynesian in origin and the drinks themselves overwhelmingly hail from the United States. The genuine article—cocktails first compounded in the South Seas—is a rarity. Consequently any drinks that can claim a legitimately Pacific origin are eagerly embraced and enfolded into the canon, in much the same way that everyone crowds around an actual Irish person in a bar on St. Patrick’s Day.
The Doctor Funk is the first such drink we’ll see—but not the last. Its namesake was a German doctor, Bernhard Funk, who practiced medicine in Samoa, palled around with Robert Louis Stevenson, and published a Samoan grammar and dictionary in German. The precise circumstances of the drink’s creation are murky, but the version that made the rounds in the Pacific was a sort of long absinthe sour, augmented in some variations with grenadine. Vic and Donn both put rum-spiked versions on their menus, and dozens of later tiki bars followed suit, with names like Doctor Funk’s Son, Doctor Fong, Doctor Wong, and so on.
With all these variations, the Doctor Funk presents a problem for cocktail archaeologists: if there is no clear consensus or original version, how do we determine whether we’re making it “right”? This is the bane of tiki in general, and an issue we will run into again and again.
JAMAICAN BLACK RUM
Doctor Funk
2¼ oz. Jamaican black rum
½ oz. lemon juice
½ oz. lime juice
½ oz. rich demerara syrup
¼ oz. absinthe
¼ oz. grenadine
1 oz. seltzer
Pour seltzer into a chilled highball glass. Flash blend remaining ingredients with crushed ice for 5 seconds and pour unstrained into the same glass; or shake with ice and strain into the same glass, then top with fresh crushed ice.
The best answer I have is that we must look at the whole of the tradition for the drink, identify common elements, and give extra weight to contemporaneous sources and the opinions of tiki authorities (Donn, Vic, Jeff Berry, Martin Cate). Treat each cocktail as a canon unto itself and attempt by that method to understand the unchanging essence of the mutable recipe. Then, before we veer too far into phenomenology, we taste the resulting recipe and see if it’s any good.
This version of the Doctor Funk closely tracks Martin Cate’s in Smuggler’s Cove, an invaluable resource for the tikiphile. Cate contends that the absinthe shining through is the essential feature of this drink. The rum, while not to my knowledge attested in any version of the Doctor Funk that Dr. Funk might have recognized, is a definite improvement in terms of flavor, yielding a drink that is more cocktail and less bracing medicinal tonic. I recommend a pungent, viscous Jamaican black rum as the ideal base, largely in line with Cate’s specifications. It fills in the center of the sip, stands up to the absinthe, and is apt for a drink with “funk” right there in the name.
The Doctor Funk is a good introduction to the herbal/hogo pairing, which we’ll be using a lot. It’s also a sort of tiki twist on a fizz, shaken and topped with seltzer but served on the rocks for extra dilution.
conversions
1 tsp. = ⅙ oz.
1½ tsp. = ¼ oz.
32 oz. = 4 cups = 2 pints = 1 quart
750 mL is a little more than 25 oz.
juice of ½ lime ≈ ½ oz.
juice of ½ lemon ≈ ¾ oz.
juice of 1 lime ≈ 1 oz. juice of 1 lemon ≈ 1½ oz.
1 sugar cube ≈ 1 tsp. sugar
1 tsp. of sugar or 2:1 simple syrup ≈ ¼ oz. of 1:1 simple syrup
a n ote on the d ash
According to cocktail scientist Don Lee, there are about forty-one dashes of Angostura to the ounce, and thirty dashes of Peychaud’s or Regan’s orange bitters. He has not, to my knowledge, tested any version of Boker’s, but this gives us a reasonable benchmark of ~ 5–7 dashes to the teaspoon. Just remember that any time
an ingredient is measured in dashes, it is expected to admit some variation each time a drink is made—“a dash is whatever squirts out of the top of the bottle,” as David Wondrich puts it—while greater precision is intended when something is listed in teaspoons.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hoefling, Brian D., author.
Title: The cocktail seminars / Brian D. Hoefling.
Description: First edition. | New York : Abbeville Press Publishers, [2021]
| Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “A thorough mixological education for all cocktail enthusiasts, with colorful infographics”—Provided by the publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021005930 | ISBN 9780789214003 (hardcover)
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021005930
For bulk and premium sales and for text adoption procedures, write to Customer Service Manager, Abbeville Press, 655 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, or call 1-800-A rtbook . Visit Abbeville Press online at www.abbeville.com.
