Cocktail

If we had a family drink, this would be it. (Underage kids excepted, of course.) It’s my older daughter Louise’s favorite, and she makes this margarita perfectly for all of us on the weekends. I love the heat of the ginger balanced by aged tequila. Be sure to use high-quality aged tequila here. Otherwise, the drink will taste like spring break gone wild.

To get through the winter months, I rely on bright, in-season citrus like blood oranges. A nice, dry bubbly heightens their vibrant sweetness, as does orange-flavored liqueur. For the flavors to bind properly, you need to combine—but not stir—the ingredients before pouring into flutes. If you can’t find Crémant d’Alsace, my sparkling wine of choice, a dry cava will work as well.

This is easily my favorite party drink. I combine the white wine of my native Alsace with the tropical fruit flavors I first came to love when I cooked in Thailand. It’s a natural pairing and tastes amazing with just about anything. Best of all, it’s meant to be made ahead of time, leaving me free to finish up dinner prep.

The Beauty of the Manhattan is its smooth simplicity. That’s why it’s so important to use the best ingredients available. For the vermouth, I prefer Antica Formula Carpano, which has a fresh and complex herbaceousness. Near my country house is the Tuthilltown Spirits whiskey distillery, and their New York Whiskey tastes great in this drink. To embellish on the original, I add just a touch of brandied sour cherries and their juices. You can buy them at a specialty foods store.

Season: September to October. This is undoubtedly the best-known of the English hedgerow liqueurs. The sloe, or blackthorn, is a small, black, mouth-puckering plum that is native to Britain plum will do. If your plums are quite sweet, reduce the amount of sugar, or try some of my other favorite variations on this theme (below). There is no reason why you cannot use vodka instead of gin.

Season: June to July. A shrub is an old-fashioned kind of drink–essentially a delightfully fruity alcoholic cordial. Based on sweetened rum or brandy, it is traditionally flavored with acidic fruit such as Seville oranges, lemons, or red currants. Keep back some of the juice after straining red currants to make jelly (see recipe, p. 54), and you will find this lovely tipple very simple to make. Serve as an aperitif, either on its own or mixed half and half with a dry martini and finished with a splash of fresh orange juice, which is my favorite way.

On the first year of the garden, we planted six tomato plants, one smallish row of lettuce that bolted overnight, and, just for fun, a dozen wormwood plants (Artemisia absithium). Of course, by then the absinthe craze had faded and the silver-slotted spoons were long gone. It didn’t take much for us to soak way too much of those plants (in our houses, of course) in a jug of alcool (grain alcohol), then correct the awful taste of wormwood with a full bottle of pastis. Man, it was strong, and it worked, too. A few years ago, we gave Martin Picard at Au Pied de Cochon a pickle jar full of absinthe; when we later visited the restaurant, about a thousand dollars in cash was sitting in the liquid and people were drinking it right out of the jar. Disgusting. Picard would add more booze when the level dropped. So you have this huge jar of plants and money just sitting there with the top on. Every season we try to concoct a better mix—at home, of course. You’ll need a gram scale for this recipe.

This recipe, aka Kälte Glühwein trinken für Freunde im Sommer, was inspired by a box of German mulled wine: it depicted a blond, deliriously happy family sitting down to a few cups of this mulled tea. Serve in highball glasses.

When we opened Joe Beef, we didn’t have a patio. We had a patch of wasteland where only burdock grew. Not many people know what burdock is, though they may have seen or eaten the roots in vegan or Japanese restaurants. Its Latin name is Arctium lappa and it is a biennial plant, which means that the first year it makes a long taproot and hairy rhubarblike leaves. It survives the winter because of its reserve of food, and then the second year, it bears flowers, then fruits. These itchy little clingers stick to your pants. It’s a treasure chest of medicinal virtue for lungs, hair, and bowels. We didn’t know what to do with it. But the four leathery-skinned Italian men who came to lay our concrete slab knew what to do with it. In fact, it took them four hours to lay the slab, half of which was spent carefully pulling and collecting the burdock roots. They said they would wash it when they got home, then steep it in red wine and consume it as a tonic. So now every year, we send the newbies to dig for burdock in the fertile grounds of the Liverpool House backyard and make a few bottles of that tonic.

Here’s a short, delicious, and lethal concoction. Good when you’re in search of instant numbness. Serve in a lowball glass.

This drink started as a vinaigrette for razor clams, and it still is. But with scotch, really cold, it’s awesome. If you have a juicer, it’s the best. If you don’t, a blender and a sieve will do. Chervil is one of those herbs that you can’t cook, and if you buzz it in syrup, for example, you will end up with something more akin to soup Florentine than a cocktail component. Serve in a lowball glass.

Mixing beer and tomato juice is classic; some people call it a “soup.” This is an overlooked drink perfect for brunch, lunch, and hot summer afternoons. Molson brewing has been in the Old Port since 1786. It’s the beer we grew up on. It’s a beer for the tavern, Sundays, camping, and hockey. We love microbreweries, but a cold Molson Export, the Habs, and a hockey-arena smoked meat sandwich is the holy trinity. Serve in a tavern glass.

People are always complaining about Manischewitz. We think it’s tasty and has applications at the bar. This is our tribute to our financiers Jeff, Ronnie, and David. Serve in a Champagne coupe.

A few years ago, we had a server and a bartender who were in the middle of a “cleanse.” We tried their sordid-looking “drink” and decided to make our own, with booze, of course. Serve in a lowball glass.

We like to plow through these heady drinks with a stack of cheap Genoese salamis. Chinotto, for anyone who hasn’t sipped the bittersweet nonalcoholic soda, looks like Coca-Cola but is made from a citrus fruit grown primarily in central and southern Italy and some secret herbs. Serve in a highball glass.

Why did the olive meet the martini, the onion the Gibson? It just seems to make sense that if you want a snack in your liquor, you should make it a sausage. Give a new life to those pesky little Vienna wieners, or buy good-quality knackwurst and pickle them in a brine of equal parts vinegar and water. Serve in a small martini glass.

Our alternative to the Arnold Palmer. Serve it in a julep goblet.

This sweet-tea cocktail from the Patterson House includes lime juice and honey for a modern front-porch favorite.

When we're not drinking Manhattans, we'll take an Old Pal. Usually made with rye, we prefer it with bourbon (the higher the proof, the better).

Portland, Oregon, is one of my favorite places to visit—mainly to visit our dearest friends, but also for the fantastic foods and possibly the best farmers’ market in the country. This drink was inspired by a magical afternoon there, spent distillery hopping on a bicycle. The bell pepper is a surprising ingredient; it adds a slight sweetness to this unique, very quaffable beverage.