spruce rhubarb cooler

The new growth on the spruce trees is worlds apart from the mature needles that I worked with last winter. These are so tender and brightly flavored that they might as well have come from a different plant. As with the peach leaves, this serves as a reminder to taste and enjoy plants at different stages of growth.

Now that the peach leaf beer is nearly gone, I thought I would give spruce beer a try.

Spruce beer is nothing new–it's an old-timey beverage enjoyed by past generations in the northern US and Canada. The recipes that I found called for adding spruce to malted barley and hops or for sweetening with molasses, which I was sure would distract from the fresh flavor that I was trying to preserve, so I stuck with the sugar, citrus, yeast and infused water method. Again, the results were more like a dry soda than a malty beer and strangely reminiscent of gin and tonic. Actually, not so strange–juniper and spruce share piney terpenes.

Revisiting spruce in the spring calls for an entirely new palette–one that's as fresh and crisp as the feathery young tips. Rhubarb rose to the occasion.

The first spring after we moved onto our property, I was delighted to find a patch of rhubarb growing in the deep shade under a Catalpa tree. I held out for a big harvest, imagining a procession of pies, crisps, and cobblers, but the stalks never reached more than a foot in height or grew any thicker than a pencil. I knew that they were stunted by lack of light and thought about transplanting them, but I've come to love the unique tender snap of these slender whips that are not too puckery–even when raw.

I've always thought that the secret to a good cocktail is balance. That's not to say that I haven't had my share of cloy drinks– I have. They served their purpose but when I want something more than an alcohol buzz, I turn to luminous flavors.

Rhubarb, with its citrus-like tartness, cooked with a judicious amount of sugar, makes a balanced syrup that when combined with gin and spruce beer produces an agreeable and refreshing cocktail. The colors may look like they belong to a winter holiday, but it tastes like the threshold of summer.

Notes:

When harvesting spruce tips, keep in mind that essentially you are pruning the plant and encouraging branching. Prune evenly, around all sides of the plant, to maintain symmetry.

Rhubarb leaves contain toxins and should not be consumed.

Download recipe: Spruce rhubarb cooler

peachleaf sangria

With work kicking into full gear, I'm left scrambling to get the garden ready for planting. As if my plate wasn't already overflowing, there's the added distraction of all the things that are blooming that I'm itching to play with.

The creeping phlox (Phlox subulata) were glorious this year. I had something special planned for them but an unrelenting schedule and three days of rain have left them in a pitiful state of mush.

Ditto for the lilacs.

Oh, well…there's always next year (the gardener's mantra).

I was, however, able to harvest some of the tender young peach leaves.

Last year I learned that there is a short window– from the time that the blossoms drop until the fruit begins to set– that the flavor of the leaves is the least bitter and most almond-like.

I was able to harvest enough leaves to make a few liters of peach leaf beer, using a recipe for ginger beer. It's really more like a soda: light, crisp, barely-sweet, with refreshing effervescence from the addition of yeast.

After a gratifying day of weeding and tilling, a small celebration was in order. There was a bottle of Vinho Verde calling my name. And the peach leaf beer was ready.

Sitting in the shade of a peach tree.

Ice-cold peach leaf sangria in hand.

Life is good.

Download recipe: Peach leaf sangria

dandelion wine

"The golden tide, the essence of this fine fair month ran, then gushed from the spout below, to be crocked, skimmed of ferment, and bottled in clean ketchup shakers, then ranked in sparkling rows in cellar gloom.

Dandelion wine.

The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered."

~Ray Bradbury "Dandelion Wine"

As far back as I can remember, I've had a major crush on books.

As a child, I would enter the local library with the awe and reverence reserved for cathedrals. It was there that I would worship the written word; a place to receive the sacrament of ink on paper at the altar of ideas, imagination, and information.

Then, as now, books were magic carpets that transported me to worlds where anything and everything was possible. And I could be home in time for dinner.

I was eight or nine when I read Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. I have read it numerous times since to relive the wonder of childhood. It's a simple book; a semi-autographical collection of stories woven together into a strange and dreamy tale of an ordinary summer, filled with extraordinary moments, in a 12-year-old boy's life. It was an introduction to subtle and complex themes that revealed themselves like layers of an onion, with two in particular that keep me coming back:

The ecstatic awareness of being alive.

And the transubstantiating magic of dandelion wine.

In the book, dandelion wine is a metaphor for life itself; a prosaic weed transformed into a mystical elixir with the power to "change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in."

Having never tasted dandelion wine, I can only imagine its flavor will be sweet, slightly tart, mildly bitter. It may not turn out to be the most delicious of beverages, but I fully believe that on a cold wintry day, when I head down to the cellar and raise a glass to my lips, that the snow will melt, the sky will turn blue and–if only for a moment–it will be summer.

That is the power of flavor.

That is the magic of books.

Download recipe: Dandelion wine

cultured butter

Last fall, I enjoyed a memorable meal at Eleven Madison Park. I would be hard pressed to tell you what I had for breakfast, but I can remember every last detail of that meal, right down to the butter. In part, that may have been because the server made a ceremony of presenting it and pointing out that it was unsalted butter from Vermont. I can't deny that it was good. In fact, it was very, very good. But I would have been more impressed if it had been made in-house.

I distinctly remember wondering, as I ate the olive-studded baguette spread with the very, very good butter, why restaurants aren't making their own butter for table service. It seems a missed opportunity for customization and bragging rights.

Is it cost, time, labor, skill? The cost is on or below par to an artisanal butter and the time and labor are negligible. Making butter is such a basic skill that a five-year-old can produce an excellent product from fresh cream, a jar, and some elbow grease. Anyone who has ever over-whipped cream (raising hand) has unwittingly made butter. What is often viewed as a disaster is, in fact, a small, everyday miracle.

Butter is essentially the fat of the milk. It is an water-in-oil emulsion, composed of 80-82 percent milk fat, 16-17 percent water, and 1-2 percent milk solids. Transforming milk into butter will take place faster and the the yield will be higher if you start with fresh, pasteurized (preferably raw, but not ultra pasteurized) heavy cream. Agitation, whether in a jar (15 minutes of constant shaking), or in a food processor (30-60 seconds), incorporates air, forms bubbles, then fat globules collect in the bubble walls. At this point, whipped cream–a light, stable foam– is formed. If agitation continues, the friction warms and softens the fat globules to a near-liquid state, causing the walls to rupture and the fat globules to cling together, forming larger and larger masses. Knowing this is not necessary to make butter–the miracle will still happen.

After churning, the buttermilk is drained off. This buttermilk is the real deal–light, tangy, refreshing–and to some, the reward of churning your own butter. Ice water is then added to the fat crystals and they are worked together with a paddle or spatula until they are creamy and homogenized.

Making butter is rewarding to those of us who are thrilled by watching matter transform from one state to another, but anyone would be won over by the flavor of freshly-formed, sweet butter. In her new book "Milk: The Surprising Story of Milk Through The Ages", culinary historian Anne Mendelson describes the taste of homemade butter as " the taste of cream to the nth power, cream newly translated to some rarefied spiritual afterlife." Chemically, the flavor of butter is comprised of over 120 different aroma compounds that include: fatty acids, lactones, methyl ketones, diacetyl, and dimethyl sulfide.

Aside from the inherent flavors in butter, fat has long been recognized as a flavor carrier; a vehicle to deliver whatever flavors and aromas that are put in contact with it. This is why butter is wrapped and isolated in its own compartment in storage. But this capacity to absorb can be seen as an opportunity to infuse flavor. Truffles are often buried in porous foods such as rice or eggs to infuse them with their aroma–why not store them with butter? Or other aromatics: citrus, herbs, porcini, cheese, coffee, chocolate, vanilla beans? Can garlic butter be made more efficiently by storing cut garlic cloves in a closed container with butter? Similarly, a compound butter is made by blending a flavorful or aromatic ingredient into finished butter, but this can sometimes interrupt the texture. What if flavor was introduced into the cream before churning it into butter? The infusion would have to take place at a temperature below pasteurization (185F/85C in the US) or through cold vacuum infusion. One final interesting developement with fat is that it is being studied as the sixth taste, although the actual receptors are still undiscovered.

I've made butter many times (some times, on purpose), but this is my first attempt at cultured butter, which is simply cream that has been soured (with buttermilk) and allowed to ferment or "ripen" at room temperature prior to ageing in the refrigerator. As with all fermentation, bacterial action develops acids and aroma compounds. One in particular, diacetyl, when superimposed with the compounds already present in fresh butter creates a noticeably fuller flavor that carries over into the buttermilk, which is the thickest, richest, and most flavorful that I have ever tasted. If you can resist drinking it all or turning it into amazing biscuits, it can be frozen to ripen the next batch of cultured butter.

ripening & ageing

churning

washing & creaming

Recipe: Cultured butter

soy milk, yuba, and curd

As far as natto is concerned, the world seems to be divided into two camps: Hate & Repulsion, or Natto Love. I am an expat of the former, trying to find a home in the later.

Once I got around to trying the mythical natto, it almost felt anti-climatic. The sweaty-feet smell was not as offensive as some of my favorite cheeses. It was the otherworldliness of the neba neba slime that took me aback. That just felt sooo wrong to consume. But once I got past that, I found the flavor to be mildly beany and nutty with a pleasantly bitter finish that reminded me of roasted coffee.

The main reason that I want to love natto is for its nutritional value, as confirmed by a reader:

"…since then I have made a good contact with a scientist who has managed to use natto for a better purpose, he found it contains a fantastic element called K2, if you have 0.35micrograms of K2 in your diet it reduces your risk of heart disease by a massive 52%!!!! Thats why the japanese have less heart disease in the country than any other, well until the west introduced McDonalds!"

……………………………………………………………………………………

Soy milk also divides the masses, but leaves the majority of us ambivalent and about as neutral as its flavor. Soy milk is a stable emulsion of oil, water, and protein. It contains 3.5% protein–about the same as cow's milk, but with far less saturated fat and 0 cholesterol.

Soybeans also have the distinction of being a plant source whose protein content can mimic dairy in its ability to coagulate and curdle.

rehydrated soybeans dried soybeans

………………………………………………………………………………….

soy milk rehydrated soybeans and water

Recipe: Soy milk

………………………………………………………………………………….

yuba Yuba is the coagulated protein skin that forms on the surface of heated soy milk. It can be used as a wrapper for sweet or savory fillings or crisped in hot oil

yuba miso roll miso, peanut butter, and okara enclosed in yuba with sweet shoyu dipping sauce

Recipe: Yuba miso roll

yuba crisp dehydrated yuba, fried in hot oil

…………………………………………………………………………………..

bean curd (tofu) soy milk curdled with lime juice and pressed

Recipe: Bean curd

Nutrition and versatility are certainly worthy enough reasons to explore the humble soybean, but there is another logic to all this soyfulness….

cedar brandy

Wood is the most primitive fuel used for cooking, yet no matter how high-tech our appliances and techniques become, there is nothing that can replicate the flavor of food cooked over a wood fire or in a wood-burning oven.

Wood also does wonderful things to wine and spirits. During the Roman Empire, winemakers discovered that storing wine in wooden barrels had a profound effect on flavor, color and texture. Further down the timeline, it was noted that oak had the best compatibility with wine and that toasting or charring the inside of oak barrels added favorable characteristics. Today, we know that heating the oak causes the simple sugars (hemicellulose) to break down. These wood sugars transform the body of the wine, softens tannins, enhances flavor with toasty and caramelized organoleptics, and deepens the color of spirits.

Because of the resins in cedar, it has been found to produce off-flavors in wine and it is used almost exclusively in the production of sake. It's curious that brandy is often described as having the aroma of cedar– when it has been aged in oak– and that the aroma of toasted cedar is reminiscent of brandy. These two were destined to be together.

I'm always on the lookout for unique service pieces. These searches sometimes turn up items that could be put to use for purposes that they were not intended for. For instance, this votive holder captured my imagination when viewed as a cup with a hollow bottom–a fun place to hide an unexpected surprise.

Upon lifting the cup to sip cedar-infused brandy, a wisp of cedar smoke is released and the experience is heightened and amplified.

Or, for an added treat: a cedar-infused brandy bonbon with a cedar ice cream center

crab mango spruce pomelo vanilla

In my mind, mango and pine will always be tangled together. I have Luciano to thank for that.

Luciano was a dishwasher at the first restaurant that I worked in. He could rip through stacks of dirty dishes faster than any machine, work any station where he was needed, fix anything that was put in front of him. He also made the most delicate pasta that I've ever tasted. All this, he did with the demeanor of a pit bull, alternately growling and cursing like a sailor, then laughing and smiling like an impish boy. He held everyones respect with his consummate badassness.

He was a man of many talents and just as many peculiarities. For one, he had a habit of chewing on pine twigs, of which he kept a fresh supply in a freezer. When questioned, he explained that it kept his teeth clean and it was Nature's breath freshener. I had to agree as he did, indeed, have a dazzling-white smile and always smelled forest-fresh.

Luciano also introduced me to the mango. He brought one in for me one day when I expressed an interest in the fruit that he spoke of with an exaggerated fondness that made his eyes go soft. He showed me how to peel it with a paring knife, then cut away the flesh from the flat seed that he kept for himself, scraping it over and over between his teeth, because–as he put it–"It is the sweetest part…Nature's candy."

My first impression of the mango was favorable–a nice balance of sweet and tart, exotic aromas, buttery texture–yet there was an underlying flavor that intrigued me. When I identified it as pine and relayed this to Luciano, he burst out in a belly-laugh, explaining, "To me, everything tastes like pine"

It came as no surprise when, many years later, I confirmed that there is a concentration of the hydrocarbon, terpene, in the flavor profile of mangoes. Among these are limonene (citrus), pinene (pine), carvone (caraway, dill), myrcene (bay, verbena, myrtle), and ionone (violet, vetiver).

While playing with the flavor of pine (here, in the form of spruce) and mango, I found vanilla to be a nice bridge with both flavors, rounding out the sharp pitchyness of the pine and enhancing the floral aroma of mango. Pomelo, an enormous citrus that tastes like grapefruit without the bitterness, has a fragrant peel with tones of bergamot that played along well with these flavors.

Recently, in an email exchange with another chef, I mentioned this relationship between mango and pine. He was quick to reference a dish in The Big Fat Duck Cookbook. Sure enough, Heston Blumenthal had uncovered this relationship and composed a beautiful dessert around it.

king crab

mango

spruce

pomelo

avocado

vanilla

Although Luciano was in his fifties when I knew him, he was one of the fittest people I knew. He attributed this to a daily regimen of weight lifting and mango power shakes.

I think that he would approve of this mango lassi with a head of spruce foam, scented with a split vanilla bean.

Spruce (Picea) proliferates throughout Northern temperate zones. It is distinguished by its symmetrical conical growing habit, making it a prized landscape plant as well as a favorite Christmas tree. Spruce contains a good amount of vitamin C and its sap was used by Native Americans to make a gum, which later became the inspiration for the first commercially produced chewing gum.

Addendum: an interesting bit of information from a reader via email:

"…I lived on Kauai for four years where people with property have varied and excellent cultivars of all sorts of mango trees and one of my neighbors took me to his 'special' tree to harvest a basket load of perfectly luscious golden mangos. Then he showed me his personal quirk – mangos will bleed sap from the stem when they're picked and that was one of his favorite parts. I tried it and found it to be totally piney in flavor and from then on, I really taste the terpenes in the mango's I eat quite clearly. So fun. He believed it to be particularly healing too, though he didn't have any concrete thoughts about why specifically.
I recommend looking near the stem end of the mangos you find in the market for a shiney, dried drip of sap somewhere on the skin. You can usually peel it off and chew it like gum. It will be totally piney and delicious.
Thought you'd find this a fun bit to know…"

ginger beer

The oldest recipe in existence is a collection of ancient tablets in the Sumerian language describing the making of barley into bread which was used to make a drink. Its quite possible that this drink was a form of beer as it is said to have made the consumer feel blissful and exhilarated.

Another early form of beer was mead, a simple fermentation of honey and water, enjoyed by the Vikings, Saxons, Celts, and even the Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans. In those days, mead was celebrated as a nectar of the gods, a mind-expanding potion that brought on euphoria and wove together the primitive worlds of science and magic. In Scandinavia, it became a symbol of romance and fertility. It is commonly believed that the origin of the word "honeymoon" refers to the Nordic belief that if mead were consumed for one month (one moon) after a wedding, the first child would be born a male–a prized addition to a clan of warriors. Ironically, this primitive superstition falls in line with modern science that has revealed that the PH of a women's body at the time of conception can help to determine the sex of a child.

The introduction of exotic spice to Medieval Europe made an immeasurable contribution to their enjoyment of food and beverages. Not only did spice enhance and mask off-flavors, it was valued for its medicinal properties. Water was often contaminated from widespread diseases which led doctors to prescribe beverages of fruit juices and spices. Ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg were used to flavor metheglin, a spiced mead. Another variation, ginger beer, was made from fresh ginger root, honey, water, and a mysterious "plant".

Ginger root plant, the source of fermentation of early ginger beer, is a misnomer. Its not of the green, leafy variety, but a naturally occurring, self-propagating organism similar to gelatinous lichen. This anaerobic starter culture resembles various sized knobby grains that must be activated in sugary water and can be recycled, or used over and over. It consists of many microorganisms living together, two of which are vital to producing ginger beer; a fungus Saccharomyces pyriformis and a bacterium Brevibacterium vermiforme. Together, these form carbon dioxide and alcohol. The origin of the ginger root plant is unknown and was not identified until the late nineteenth century– yet another testament to the interminable will of man to explore the wild and strange world of nature.

Ginger beer was brought to North America by the British colonists where it was brewed locally in homes and taverns. After the civil war, it was commercially produced and transported to new markets, mostly in western New York State, where breweries cropped up along the Erie Canal. In the US, production was abruptly halted by Prohibition.

Today, industrially-produced ginger beer is but a shadow of its predecessor. Only occasionally can it be found as an alcoholic beverage. Most often, it comes in the form of a soft drink that is not fermented, but carbonated with pressurized carbon dioxide. It is enjoying a resurgence in the cocktail arena as a component of the cocktails Dark 'N Stormy (a blend of dark rum and ginger beer), Shandy (beer or ale and ginger beer), and the Moscow Mule (vodka, ginger beer, and lime).

An authentic and worthy ginger beer can effortlessly be brewed at home with a few basic ingredients. The hard part is waiting two days for it to ferment. The finished product is delightfully fizzy, brightly flavored, minimally sweet, pleasantly dry, and only slightly alcoholic (about 0.4%). Unlike pressure carbonized ginger beer or soda, this product remains carbonated for extended periods, even after multiple openings.

The beauty of this method is that the only essential ingredients are water, yeast, and sugar (to feed the yeast), the rest is flavoring. What that represents to me is a blank liquid canvas on which to paint with flavor. And that is where the parade begins….passion fruit beer, watermelon beer, coffee beer, popcorn beer, pumpkin beer, celery beer, parmesan beer, jalapeno beer…and can we make milk beer…or brown butter beer (please, oh, please)? And what could these fermented products be used for? Can they be added to breads or baked goods to add or reinforce flavor and make them lighter? What would a fermented soup taste like? The parade marches on…

ginger beer

Be sure to use a plastic bottle when making ginger beer for two reasons: 1) You can easily tell when the beer is ready by pressing on the bottle. It will be rock hard like an unopened bottle of soda. 2) You don't want to be anywhere in the vicinity of an exploding glass bottle. Trust me.

114g (4 oz) fresh ginger juice

114g (4 oz)fresh lemon juice, strained

171g (6 oz) granulated sugar

.8g (1/4 teaspoon) granular bakers yeast

Place all ingredients in a clean 2 liter plastic bottle. Fill with cold, fresh water to within 1" of top of bottle. Cap tightly and shake gently to distribute contents. Set aside in a warm (70F) spot for up to 48 hours. Begin testing after 24 hours. When the bottle no longer yields when pressed, place bottle in the refrigerator to retard fermentation for at least 4 hours before opening. Slowly release cap. When fizzing stops, re-cap and shake gently. Store remainder in the refrigerator, carefully releasing cap each time that you open bottle. Enjoy!

ginger bread bourbon cocktails

"She who wakes to play with cocktails goes to bed with hangover"

– Ancient Chinese proverb

Red Hot

Is it just me or do red hots and fireballs taste more like ginger than cinnamon?

Rub rim of shot glass with a cut piece of ginger root. Dip in pulverized red hot candies. Gently warm ginger bread bourbon. Pour into shot glass. Ignite. Don't do anything silly like try to drink it while its on fire.

Spice Island

This is the kind of cocktail that I could drink all day (if I were inclined to drink all day)…light, bright and well balanced.

Place 180ml (6 oz) ginger beer, 60ml (2 oz) ginger bread bourbon, 30ml (1 oz) kaffir lime juice, and 15ml (1/2 oz) agave nectar in a cocktail shaker. Fill with ice. Shake and strain into a chilled highball glass.

For spice-ice stirrer: Plug one end of a wide straw with softened beeswax. Pack with alternating layers of whole cloves, shards of cinnamon stick, diced fresh ginger root and pieces of kaffir lime leaf. Slowly fill with water, tapping lightly to eliminate air bubbles. Plug top of straw with more beeswax. Freeze until solid. Remove plugs and unmold by quickly dipping in warm water. Use immediately.

Bourbon Ball

In the Alinea book, the liquid-filled spheres are made by dipping molded frozen apple juice in horseradish-infused cocoa butter to form a shell. Here, because alcohol does not freeze solid, the shell is made first in silicone molds with an opening and then filled.

For the spice shells: Place molds in freezer. Melt cocoa butter with ground ginger, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Fill the chilled molds to the top and let the cocoa butter set up for a few minutes. Invert the molds, letting the excess cocoa butter run out. Place in freezer until frozen solid.

To fill the shells. Blend together 4 parts ginger bread bourbon, 2 parts creme de cacao and 1 part frangelico. Fill the shells, then seal the opening with cocoa butter.

For the nutella powder: blend together 2 parts tapioca maltodextrin with 1 part nutella until it is absorbed.

smoked eggnog

Infusing with Lapsang Souchong tea is a quick and effective way to impart smoky flavor. That little trick is courtesy of Dave Arnold and Nils Noren.

Place 228g (8oz) whole milk in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. Stir in 28.5g (1 oz) Lapsang Souchong. Cover and let infuse for 10 minutes. Strain and chill. In a bowl, whisk together the chilled milk, 285g (10 oz) heavy cream, 114g (4 oz) ginger bread bourbon, 85g (3 oz) sugar and 3 eggs. Strain into a whipped cream charger, filling halfway. Charge with 1 N2O cartridge. Chill for an hour. Shake well and discharge into cup.

For ginger bread croquant: Grind 60g of ginger bread in a spice grinder into a powder. Spread out on a baking sheet and bake in a 300F oven until toasted and dry. Heat 40g isomalt until fluid and bubbly. Pour out on a silpat. Let harden, then break into pieces and grind in a spice grinder into a powder. Combine with the cooled ginger bread powder. Spread out on a silpat into desired shape and bake in 300F oven for 8-10 minutes or until fused.

ginger bread bourbon

Its hard to believe that nearly four months have passed since the Starchefs International Chefs Congress and I am just beginning to assimilate the plethora of ideas and information that I gathered there. Over the course of three days, a large group of food professionals witnessed demonstrations by some of the most creative chefs on the planet: Heston Blumenthal, Jordi Butron, Masaharu Morimoto, Joan Roca, Carlo Cracco, Rene Redzepi and Grant Achatz, to name a few. And that was just on the main stage.

In addition to these demonstrations, there were optional hands-on workshops and seminars that catered to smaller groups. I wished that I could have attended all of them, but time and money forced me to choose the ones that I felt were relevant to my interests. In the end, these were the ones that I chose:

Wylie Dufresne of WD-50–what was supposed to be a demonstration of his re-interpretation of the classic Eggs Benedict turned into an invaluable discussion of the evolution of the dish and his unique process of creativity.

Michael Laiskonis of Le Bernadin–a thoughtful and meticulous approach to creating petit-fours using classic flavors and modern techniques.

Blogging with Andrea Strong, Traci Des Jardins, Aki Kamozawa, Alex Talbot and Michael Laiskonis–lots of good information and insight from a panel of chef-bloggers.

Eben Freeman of Tailor–this one proved to be the sleeper of the bunch. I was hesitant about this workshop that was geared for mixologists and controlling costs in a recession, but I've been an ardent fan of his innovative cocktails and hoped there would be some creative content. I wasn't disappointed–his sound economic strategy could be applied to all aspects of operating a restaurant and his discussion of infused spirits and flavored sodas broadened my horizon of perceived liquid flavor. In retrospect, this workshop was confirmation that a modern mixologists approach is the same as a chefs and that a well conceived and executed cocktail lifts the craft beyond the formulaic blending of beverages and into an artform. Did I mention that the 9:00 AM workshop started out with a sample of Eben's popular cocktail: the Waylon, a blend of bourbon and smoked coca-cola? Amazing depth and complexity of flavor.

As it turned out, the day ended with more Waylons at a cocktail party where Eben Freeman, along with other master mixologists, offered up some of the most deliciously creative potions that I had the good fortune to sample. Among these were: Junior Merino's Ginger Julep, Hibiscus Cocktail with rose-aloe foam, and a savory fennel potion; Simon Difford 's In-Seine–an evocative blend of cognac, St. Germaine and absinthe; and Audrey Saunder's refreshing and beautifully balanced Gin Mule.

Modern cocktails–its a Brave New World.

ginger bread-infused bourbon

The yeasty, fermented aromas of brioche reinforce those that are already present in bourbon. The spices add an evocative complexity. I leave the quantities up to you and your personal taste.

bourbon

thick slices of spice brioche

whole cloves

cinnamon sticks

chunks of nutmeg

slices of fresh ginger root

Place the brioche and spices in the bottom of a glass jar. Cover with bourbon. Seal and set aside for at least 3 days. If you have access to a chamber vacuum sealer the process is instantaneous. Strain through a very fine mesh.