Measure & Stir

A Craft Cocktail Blog for the Home Bartender that Focuses on Original Creations Drawn from Culinary Inspiration.


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Vessel In Seattle

Back before I got into this whole craft cocktail scene, there was a bar in Seattle called Vessel, and they were famous for pioneering a lot of molecular mixology techniques, and for the general quality of their drinks and their atmosphere. Sadly, they closed in 2010, and I never got to visit them. They’re back, sort of, and at a new, bigger downtown location. When I heard that they were re-opening, I visited them that same week, but I didn’t get around to posting about it until today. That’s probably my loss, because I missed the buzz, but I think it’s still soon enough to care.

Their big gimmick this time is a rotating bar staff. It seems like the deal is, each bartender who appears there brings his or her own menu to the establishment. On my visit, the bartenders were Michael Bertrand of Mistral Kitchen and Kevin Langmack of Knee High Stocking Co. Their menus were thus:

To be honest, I was expecting a bit more. No offense to these seasoned veterans, but these drinks are all so safe. I want recipes that push the envelope! I want drinks on the cutting edge of mixology, with flavor combinations and techniques that I’ve never seen before. Instead you hit me with a vesper, a gin and tonic, and a sidecar with expensive brandy. This is the kind of menu I expect in an old money hotel, not a bar that was renowned in its heyday for molecular mixology. There’s nothing wrong with any of these recipes, but neither is there anything exciting.

Of course, if you go, the menu will probably be totally different. As such, I give them two out of ten for creativity, but nine out of ten for execution. All of the drinks we ordered were beautifully presented, and executed with technical excellence. John ordered a Preakness, which is not on their menu, but it is a common Manhattan variation containing Benedictine:

Very nice glassware. I ordered a Violette Fizz:

Truly a beautiful fizz, but alas, in a very impractical glass. As I drank it, a portion of the head persisted and ultimately clogged the flow of the drink through the glass when it reached the narrowest part of the glass, forcing me to tilt it to a precarious angle. This is a minor quibble however, as the glass was very elegant. Still, if the radius were constant across the length of the glass, I would have been better served.

James ordered the Batcat, a mix of rye, sweet vermouth, fernet branca, and elderflower liqueur:

I apologize for the terrible photo, but as you can sort of see, the drink came with a sphere of beautifully clear ice, cut to fit exactly within the glass, and the sphere was circumscribed by a spiral of orange peel for which a whole orange gave its life. James and I both tasted the drink and found the flavor to be very light. It was over-diluted, but it was probably not the bartender’s fault, it was probably the fault of the waitstaff.

The service was agonizingly slow, but I was willing to give them some leeway in their opening week. It takes a while to get all the bugs out of your service pipeline, I am sure. Did we sit at the table for fifteen minutes before anyone even took our order? Yes. Did it take them another twenty five to bring us our drinks? Also yes. But like I said, leeway.

Since I’m already slinging hate, I might as well take this opportunity to mention the acoustics, which are a crime against the fine art of architecting interior spaces. Maybe it’s the high ceilings, but every word of every patron echoes in this bar, and makes it very loud even when it is not particularly crowded. I wouldn’t take anyone here if I wanted to have a conversation with them. On the plus side, the hand soap in the bathroom contains rum.

The food was mediocre. We ordered foie gras popcorn, and it was a staunch reminder as to why no one sautes liver and then tosses it with popcorn. The high fat content of the liver killed all the crispness of the popcorn, while imparting only the scarcest flavor of foie gras. The hummus platter, though beautifully plated, was nothing I couldn’t get from Trader Joe’s. The carpaccio was adequate, however. Delicious and reasonably portioned for the price.

Over all, if you’re downtown, stick to the Mistral Kitchen or the Zig Zag Cafe. If you’re not tied to a particular locale within Seattle, may I recommend the Canon. It is clearly at the top of the craft bartending game in Seattle right now.


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flying cucumber

With all the hullaballoo about the aviation, it seemed like the right time for this post. Last year I bought a juicer, and it opened up a world of mixed drink possibilities. Everyone wants to have the coolest, sleekest gadget around, but I got mine from a second hand store for twenty dollars. Although it’s no Champion, it gets the job done, and I get to enjoy its tasteful mauve 80s aesthetic.

Last March I had the feeling the spring was upon us, and to celebrate I juiced a whole english cucumber, skin and all. As you can tell, I am a wild man. The skin made the juice come out in a rich forest green color, but it also added a discordant sensation of chlorophyll, which took away from the bracing, crisp quality that any presentation of cucumber aspires to have.

Gin and cucumber go together like peanut butter and jelly, and once I started thinking down that road, it did not take long for me to hit upon the idea of using it in an Aviation. I think everyone in the world who cares has heard of the Aviation by now, and most people have moved on, but I am a real sucker for floral flavors and I have trouble letting go.  Using my tremendous mathematical prowess, I decided that Aviation + cucumber juice = The Flying Cucumber, but it turned out that A Dash of Bitters had already claimed that name, so I had to get creative:

The Flying Cucumber #2

2 oz Gin (Plymouth)
1 oz Fresh Cucumber Juice
1/2 oz Lemon Juice
1/2 oz Maraschino Liqueur (Luxardo)
1/4 oz of Violet Syrup (Monin)

Shake over ice and double strain.

The Aviation is intended to have a subtle purple-bluish color, evocative of a clear, open sky, whereas my drink was the color of a swamp, and just a bit muddy. Obviously, I will peel my cucumber in the future, which will also provide a much smoother texture, more appropriate to the original spirit of the drink. Other than that, the cucumber juice was mild and a perfect complement to the violet, capturing the romance of spring.


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Attention!

Jamie Boudreau is much cooler than I am, and he wrote these excellent posts on the topic of creme de violette. In the second post he gives the recipe for a drink called the Attention Cocktail, and I thought the combination of ingredients was too interesting to pass up.

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Attention Cocktail

2 oz gin (Beefeater)

1/4 oz dry vermouth (Dolin)

1/4 oz absinthe (Arak and I can’t read the bottle)

1/4 oz creme de violette (Monin violet syrup)

2 dashes Regan’s orange bitters

stir with ice, strain into a cocktail glass

garnish with a lemon twist

As you can see, I substituted Monin violet syrup for creme de violette, and Lebanese arak for absinthe. Arak is similar to pastis, which is made by maceration of aniseed and licorice root in a base spirit. Arak uses a grape distillate for its base spirit, and does not contain licorice root, but just like pastis or anisette, the end result is a licorice bomb in your drink that greedily stomps on every other flavor. Every drink I have tried to make using pastis as a flavoring agent has been so licorice-forward that I can barely enjoy it, even with a quarter ounce.

If you read Jamie Boudreau’s post you’ll notice he tried Monin’s creme de violette, and thought that it was awful, but he had better things to say about the syrup. I find the syrup to be pleasant and highly aromatic, though as with most floral flavoring agents, a little goes a long way.  I had high hopes that the quarter ounce of violet syrup would be able to stand up to the quarter ounce of arak, and it did better than most, but it, too, was mostly defeated. As you can see, the violet lent this drink a mild purple hue, which looked very elegant with the the slice of lemon peel.

The gin and the dry vermouth were mostly lost in this concoction, just barely perceptible as an herbal baseline to the anise, which filled the palate until the swallow, when the violet was allowed to come through. My new policy on licorice drinks is going to be a dash and no more. Even so, the combination of these flavors was intriguing, and I intend to try it again with much less arak.