Bloody mary
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Told by the Concierge
Paris, the winter of 1921, in a cellar bar just off the Rue Daunou that called itself, with more ambition than modesty, the Left Bank Embassy.
I was not the bartender. I want that understood clearly, because at least four bartenders across three cities have since claimed otherwise, and I find their confidence rather touching.
The actual credit belongs to a man named Ferrand — not Fernand, whatever you may have read, though the two of them worked six feet apart for the better part of a decade and I occasionally struggle to remember which one owed me money. Ferrand had a gift for solving a particular kind of problem: gentlemen and ladies of consequence who had spent the previous evening being significantly less discreet than their titles required, and who arrived the following morning requiring, with some urgency, to feel human again.
I have never needed such a cure myself. I have, however, watched enough people require one to become something of an expert by proxy.
His solution involved vodka, which nobody in Paris trusted yet, and tomato juice, which nobody trusted at all. He added both to a jug of ice regardless, along with lemon, a rather aggressive fish sauce he'd smuggled out of London, and something red and volatile he refused to name. The Duchess of Aveline — a woman who owed her title to a marriage and her composure to absolutely nothing at seven in the morning — drank the first glass, went very quiet, and asked for a second.
Ferrand named it after the colour, mostly. Someone else, later, insisted it must be a reference to an English queen with an unfortunate reputation for burning people. I have heard both stories told as certain fact by people who were not there.
I was there. Possibly for both.
Where was I. Ah — yes. I have made a version of this drink at least four times a decade since, in at least six countries, for people who needed exactly what the Duchess needed: proof, before noon, that the previous night hadn't killed them.
It is not subtle. It was never meant to be.
Now, sweetheart. You'll want a jug, plenty of ice, and something to stir it with.
I was not the bartender. I want that understood clearly, because at least four bartenders across three cities have since claimed otherwise, and I find their confidence rather touching.
The actual credit belongs to a man named Ferrand — not Fernand, whatever you may have read, though the two of them worked six feet apart for the better part of a decade and I occasionally struggle to remember which one owed me money. Ferrand had a gift for solving a particular kind of problem: gentlemen and ladies of consequence who had spent the previous evening being significantly less discreet than their titles required, and who arrived the following morning requiring, with some urgency, to feel human again.
I have never needed such a cure myself. I have, however, watched enough people require one to become something of an expert by proxy.
His solution involved vodka, which nobody in Paris trusted yet, and tomato juice, which nobody trusted at all. He added both to a jug of ice regardless, along with lemon, a rather aggressive fish sauce he'd smuggled out of London, and something red and volatile he refused to name. The Duchess of Aveline — a woman who owed her title to a marriage and her composure to absolutely nothing at seven in the morning — drank the first glass, went very quiet, and asked for a second.
Ferrand named it after the colour, mostly. Someone else, later, insisted it must be a reference to an English queen with an unfortunate reputation for burning people. I have heard both stories told as certain fact by people who were not there.
I was there. Possibly for both.
Where was I. Ah — yes. I have made a version of this drink at least four times a decade since, in at least six countries, for people who needed exactly what the Duchess needed: proof, before noon, that the previous night hadn't killed them.
It is not subtle. It was never meant to be.
Now, sweetheart. You'll want a jug, plenty of ice, and something to stir it with.
This ritual has not yet been translated.
Reveal the mundane truth
large handful of ice
100ml vodka
500ml tomato juice
1 tbsp lemon juice plus 2 slices to serve
few shakes Worcestershire sauce
few shakes Tabasco (smoked Tabasco is nice)
pinch celery salt
pinch black pepper
2 celery sticks to serve
100ml vodka
500ml tomato juice
1 tbsp lemon juice plus 2 slices to serve
few shakes Worcestershire sauce
few shakes Tabasco (smoked Tabasco is nice)
pinch celery salt
pinch black pepper
2 celery sticks to serve
1. Place the ice in a large jug. Measure the vodka, tomato juice and lemon juice and pour it straight onto the ice.
2. Add 3 shakes of Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco (or more if you like it very spicy) and a pinch of celery salt and pepper. Stir until the outside of the jug feels cold, then strain the cocktail into 2 tall glasses.
3. Top up with fresh ice, add a celery stick and lemon slice to both glasses and enjoy.
2. Add 3 shakes of Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco (or more if you like it very spicy) and a pinch of celery salt and pepper. Stir until the outside of the jug feels cold, then strain the cocktail into 2 tall glasses.
3. Top up with fresh ice, add a celery stick and lemon slice to both glasses and enjoy.