Truth is, I secretly abhor the very notion of a low-alcohol cocktail and take a fairly dim view of those who do not. The whole point of cocktails ... what distinguishes them from desserts or smoothies, is the thoroughly grown up belt of strong liquor. Real cocktails do just enough to ethanol to make it drinkable and nothing more.
The other element that helps them go down is ritual. Which is what makes tonight’s offering so interesting.
Into your best frozen highball glass, place a stack of ice. Pour over a splash of Angostura followed by the squeezings of half a lime, then go to the very back of the drinks fridge and haul out a Schweppe’s Indian Tonic and a Schweppe’s Ginger Ale - full-fat of course...
Digression. There is something so brilliant about the ancient ‘mixers’. I know, a thousand small artisanal makers have created new and more interesting versions but the whole damn point of them is that they’re sui generis and fixed in the collective memory by time. A tonic water curated by a couple of man-buns in Clapton is about as useful a contribution to the gaity of nations as a chef’s ‘take’ on Worcestershire Sauce. It’s supposed to taste of the the Golf Club bar. It’s supposed to taste like the stuff your Nan had with her gin. If you like disruptors in the Adult No and Lo drink space, you’ll probably take ‘House Tommy K’ with your Gourmet burger and we can have no further contact.
I like the little tins, because they’re easy to hide in the fridge and they get really cold. Really, of course, they should come in the little bottles. The ones with a ground ‘collar’ around the widest part where they’ve rubbed against each other in the crate. Where they’ve been collected from a hundred pub tables, had the Lambert & Butler fag-ends shaken out and been returned to the bottler for refilling. God ... for the hiss and rattle of the crown cap!
Pour in both mixers at once, pausing half way up to let the effervescence subside a little. Straws. because by drawing from the bottom of the glass you pull the drink down through the ice. Garnish with a slice of lime because we’re all ready on the slick path to hell.
This is the drink they used to make for Adrian Gill, who, from around his 30th year was a committed, and by all accounts faithful Friend of Bill’s. So, ‘For a variety of reasons’ it was called an AA.
If I’m taking a night off (who am I kidding?), if I need to slow down or if, like this evening, I fancy something before The Hour, then this is the one. Sure, it’s firing blanks, but it’s got full liturgical drama and an origin myth you could hang a wet towel on.
Is it a cocktail?
Make one - a full-dress, Ceremonial AA - and let me know.
Ah, "the little bottles".
My parents ran a country pub and one of my first jobs, every morning before school, was to take the two huge baskets of empty "little bottles" into the cellar and sort them into their respective crates to go back to the brewery. The baskets were lined with plastic bags and if you can imagine the smell of a mixture of the dregs from all of last night's mixers and fruit juices, that's the sensory memory that has come flooding back.
Took me years to stop hating anyone who ordered a Bloody Mary.
Brilliantly put. The nostalgia of taste bringing you back instantly to a moment in time is a beaut. Would that explain why certain cocktail geeks are after old bottles of Gordon’s and others?