Herbsaint is not only New Orleans’ venerable (and inexpensive and damned tasty) pastis, or “absinthe substitute” as it’s often called, it’s also the name of one of the city’s finest restaurants, headed by Chef Donald Link, who co-owns the restaurant with Chef Susan Spicer of Bayona.

Herbsaint the liquor was a product of Marion Legendre’s liquor company for many years, appearing in 1933 as an absinthe substitute (“Herbsaint” being a play on words and a homonym of absinthe en français). Legendre was acquired by the Sazerac Company in 1948, who have been producing Herbsaint ever since.

The namesake restaurant has a pretty good cocktail list, and their eponymous house cocktail, based on Herbsaint liqueur, is mighty good too. Here’s how they make it:

The Herbsaint Cocktail
(House cocktail at Herbsaint Restaurant, New Orleans)

2 ounces Herbsaint.
1 teaspoon simple syrup.
4 dashes Angostura Bitters.
4 dashes Peychaud’s Bitters.

Fill an Old Fashioned glass with cracked ice and
build with the above ingredients. Top with water
and stir. (You may substitute Pernod for the Herbsaint
if it’s unavailable.)

UPDATE, August 8, 2008:

This week I got an email from a fellow by the name of Jay Hendrickson, who introduced me to his wonderful website called New Orleans Absinthe History, concentrating on Legendre products, including Herbsaint and original Legendre Absinthe, and other New Orleans absinthiana. He’s also got what appears to be a stunning collection, including vintage bottles of 1930s- and 1940s-era Herbsaint. (Wow.)

Jay was kind enough to send me a scan from an Herbsaint recipe booklet from circa 1944 showing the Legendre/Sazerac Co. recipe for their own Herbsaint Cocktail recipe, slightly different but sounding no less yummy. (The entire booket is viewable and downloadable here.)

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For the image-challenged:

The Herbsaint Cocktail
(Legendre/Sazerac Co. house version, circa 1944)

Fill a large glass three-quarters full of cracked ice.

One teaspoon of simple syrup.
Two ounces of Herbsaint.
One dash of Anisette.
Two dashes of Angostura Bitters.
Two ounces of carbonated water.

Stir well and strain into a cocktail glass.

Jay points out that the anisette used in this cocktail would have been Legendre’s own brand, no longer produced. I’d recommend Marie Brizard nowadays.

I’m gonna try my own adaptation of this, which in my head tastes rather like the Ojen Frappé you get at Lüke Restaurant in New Orleans, although less sweet and more complex.

The Herbsaint Cocktail No. 2
(Chuck’s adaptation, 2008)

2 ounces Herbsaint.
1 teaspoon simple syrup.
1 dash of Marie Brizard anisette.
4 dashes Peychaud’s Bitters.
Chilled carbonated water.

Combine first four ingredients in a mixing glass with plenty of cracked ice. Stir for 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and top with carbonated water.

Be sure to add Jay’s fascinating New Orleans Absinthe History to your RSS reader. I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better and better as we apparently prepare to add a new chapter to that history.

UPDATE, December 2009: The Sazerac Company have finally begun producing their “new” 100-proof Herbsaint. “New” is in quotes because although it may be new to most of us, it’s the original 1934 recipe for Herbsaint, which was changed in the 1970s. The proof was lowered to 90, and the fresh herbs were replaced by herb extracts.

I’ve tasted the newly released Herbsaint original, and it’s superb stuff. The quality of the Herbsaint Cocktail is about to skyrocket.

One of my favorite bars in New Orleans is the Carousel Bar at the Monteleone Hotel. There’s a piano bar in the back with comfy booths, and a faux-starlit sky on the ceiling — very nice atmosphere. My favorite spot in here is actually at the bar, which is built from parts of an actual old carousel (or “flying horses”, as we used to call them as kids in New Orleans) and the barstools revolve around the circular bar. Not to worry, it’s slow enough that you won’t get dizzy, unless you have way too much to drink.

As I think every good bar should, this bar has a signature cocktail. I always find it amusing that the last several times I went to the Carousel, the cocktail waitresses seem not to be familiar with the drink, but all the bartenders know how to make it, and one said that he gets at least a half-dozen orders for it every shift. It was invented in 1938 by the man who was then their head bartender, Mr. Walter Bergeron (11 years before this particular bar was built), and he named the drink for the French name for the French Quarter. In New Orleans you say “French Quarter” if you’re speaking English, but if you’re speaking French it’s not “le Quartier Français”, it’s called “le Vieux Carré” (the Old Square). In New Orleans we say “VOO ka-RAY.”

THE VIEUX CARRÉ COCKTAIL

1 ounce rye whiskey.
1 ounce Cognac.
1 ounce sweet vermouth.
1 teaspoon Bénédictine D.O.M.
2 dashes Angostura bitters.
2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters.

Half-fill a double Old Fashioned glass with ice, add ingredients
and stir to mix. Garnish with a stemless cherry.

It’s mighty, mighty good. If you can’t find Peychaud’s Bitters in your area, order some (click “Food,” then “Mixes”) — they’re cheap. If you’re serious about cocktails, your bar is not complete without them.

This one’s another old classic that I’d never thought to try until relatively recently. My becoming a born-again gin drinker has helped, along with my fascination with cocktails that contain eggs. The final push was having it pointed out to Wes and me by Michael and Arturo, the two bartenders-from-Heaven at the Petrossian Bar, who like cocktails from 75-100 years ago as we do.

I’ve started using a pasteurized egg white product from the refrigerated section of the supermarket instead of fresh egg white, and it works just as well, plus no worries of pesky salmonella. You can’t get pasteurized yolks, so if I’m going to be making any flips or golden fizzes we’ll just have to take the leap. The “classic” recipe calls for grenadine, but this ingredient is so ubiquitous (and usually such poor quality, mostly artificially-flavored) that I took a cue from the Bellagio bartenders and used raspberry syrup instead. This drink is a deep pink with a thick frothy head, and is delicious.

Clover Club

1-1/2 ounces gin.
3/4 ounce fresh-squeezed lemon juice.
2 teaspoons raspberry syrup.
1 egg white.

Place all ingredients into a tall cocktail shaker with lots of ice and shake vigorously for about 30 seconds. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. This one’s pretty enough not to require a garnish.

UPDATE: Clover Club correction! Almost had some nice alliteration going there … kinda did anyway, but no “cl” sound to start the third word. Anyway, I digress.

In flipping through Stanley Clisby Arthur I saw his recipe for the Clover Club, which I like much better than the old traditional one. It’s almost exactly the same, but with a New Orleans touch that I love. Here’s his version with some of his comments excerpted.

Clover Club
(New Orleans version)

1-1/2 ounces dry gin.
Juice of 1/2 lime.
1 pony (1 ounce) raspberry syrup.
1 egg white.
1 dash Peychaud’s bitters.

Pour the ingredients into the shaker over ice in order given. Set yourself for a good shaking, for this is a cocktail that must be well frappéd. To give chic to the final result, decorate your cocktail glasses with sprigs of mint after straining into them the delightful liquid from your shaker.

We have always admired the added ummph the dash of Peychaud bitters gives this deservedly popular concoction.

So have I, Mr. Arthur, so have I.

A whole ounce of raspberry syrup’s a bit much for me, so I’d recommend the former recipe, but with the addition of that dash of Peychaud’s. The magic of bitters is not to be discounted.

Wes and I have grown fond of many “classic” (i.e., more commonly quaffed by sophisticated cocktail drinkers 60+ years ago) cocktails, one of which is the Fancy-Free, consisting of 2 ounces of Bourbon, 1/2 ounce of Maraschino and a dash each of Angostura and orange bitters. Wes, who seemed to be itching to create something new, decided that he was going to concoct a cocktail called … the “Footloose”.

I got mysterious updates all week, as he tweaked unnamed ingredients and their relative proportions. I was finally presented with one last Friday. Initial impression … pretty! Pink not unlike a Cosmopolitan, but slightly opaque and with a lovely green twist of lime floating in it — a nice change from the usual lemon. The aroma was familiar yet unfamiliar, with a bouquet of fruit that I couldn’t quite place. I sipped it, and the familiar-yet-unfamiliar sensation intensified. It’s a yummy drink, but I just couldn’t place the ingredients. It was fruity without being cloyingly sweet, and with a nice bite to it (or, as my friend Jordan said, “Oh, like Paul Lynde.” Heh.) and a pleasing finishing scent from the lime oil in the twist.

Wes finally let me in on the ingredients. They combined together so well that I might never have guessed. I found it to be very different and quite nice. Try one sometime.

The Footloose Cocktail
(created by Wesly Moore)

2 ounces Stolichnaya Razberi raspberry-infused vodka
1 ounce Cointreau
1 teaspoon fresh squeezed lime juice (NOT Rose’s!)
2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters

Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker with cracked ice. Shake and strain into a chilled cocktail glass, and garnish with a long twist of lime.

This is my longtime favorite cocktail, and my dad’s favorite too — it’s the one he first taught me to make. When I was a kid, if I was lucky and if he was in a generous mood, I’d get to make this for him when he got home from work. Ah, a quality New Orleans upbringing — you teach the kids the important stuff early.

The popular myth in New Orleans is that the Sazerac was the first cocktail, but if any case or argument can be made for anything being “the first cocktail,” it’s the Old Fashioned.

As you may be aware, the first published definition of what a cocktail (“cock-tail” or “cock tail”) was appeared in a Hudson, New York newspaper called The Balance and Columbian Repository, in a reply to a letter to the editor on May 13, 1806. After a local Democratic candidate lost his bid for office, the paper published a humorous account of his Loss and Gain; in the gains column was “NOTHING,” and in the losses column there were “720 rum-grogs, 17 brandy do., 32 gin slings, 411 glasses of bitters, 25 do. cock-tail and My Election.” A reader wrote in to inquire as to what this “cock-tail” actually was, as he’d never heard of it. The editor replied,

As I make it a point, never to publish anything (under my editorial head) but which I can explain, I shall not hesitate to gratify the curiosity of my inquisitive correspondent: Cock tail, then is a stimulating liquor, composed of spirits of any kind, sugar, water and bitters; it is vulgarly called a bittered sling, and is supposed to be an excellent electioneering potion inasmuch as it renders the heart stout and bold, at the same time that it fuddles the head. It is said also, to be of great use to a democratic candidate: because, a person having swallowed a glass of it, is ready to swallow any thing else. — Edit. Bal.

See, political snarkiness in the press is far from a modern phenomenon. But there it was.

Spirits, water, sugar and bitters. If you combine the sugar and water into simple syrup, for convenience and to keep any sugar grit out of your drink (because who wants that?), then you’re down to spirit, simple syrup and bitters.

If your spirit is whiskey, then this drink was called a Whiskey Cocktail.

There are origin stories of the Old Fashioned that claim it was invented at the Pendennis Club in Louisville, Kentucky in the 1880s. This is highly doubtful, given that the drink with the exact same ingredients had been swilled for at least 74 years before that, and probably a lot longer. A more believable origin story is that when bartenders like Professor Jerry Thomas started introducing far more cocktails and mixed drinks of all kinds into the American drinking repertoire, especially those involving exotic-at-the-time ingredients like vermouth, those who wanted a good ol’ whiskey cocktail took to asking for it old-fashioned style, an Old Fashioned Whiskey Cocktail.

It was around 1936, if I recall correctly, that the Old Fashioned began its downfall — not because it was a bad drink, but because it started to be made in variations that I just consider to be unworthy.

If you have some time, read Robert Hess’ marvelous article tracing the development of the Old Fashioned, “Renewing an Old Fashion.” For years Robert had the same problem I did — he had a very hard time ordering a decent Old Fashioned at a bar.

They kill it with soda, they leave out the bitters, the grind an orange slice into a disgusting paste, they muddle the fake cherry, for God’s sake. Robert’s essay traces the drink’s history and development, and the proper way to make it (as well as how not to), including recipes from over two dozen sources, some going back over a century.

I’m going to print a few of these out and stick them in the trunk of my car. Next time some bartender tries to insist that the crappy watered-down Bourbon spritzer with a shredded cherry and a mess of finely ground fruit paste he’s just served me is a “traditional Old Fashioned”, I’m going to politely excuse myself, go to my car, fetch the papers, go back to the bar and present them to the bartender with my compliments.

It’s fascinating reading, but if you don’t have the time to go through the whole 36 printed pages’ worth, learn from this:

For myself, the key concepts I think are important to the Old Fashioned are as follows:

Water is only intended to aid in the dissolving of the sugar, and should be kept to a bare minimum. In fact, it can be omitted entirely if you use simple syrup.

A fresh slice of orange, when muddled in the drink at the beginning, adds some interesting and useful flavor notes that play nicely against the bourbon or rye.

A cherry adds a nice visual touch when used as a garnish at the very end, but is nothing but an ugly mess when its crushed carcass lies at the bottom of your glass.

Soda water has no place in this drink. Ever.

Yeah you rite. However, I have to say that I am a purist and I do not care for the muddled orange slice. Yes, I know this puts me at odds with Gaz Regan and Dale DeGroff, but that’s the way my dad taught me to make it, as a true old-fashioned whiskey cocktail: whiskey, sugar, water, bitters. I do like a large swath of orange peel in it, though, either gently muddled or (preferably) with the oil expressed over the top.

I will drink an Old Fashioned in which an orange slice has been GENTLY muddled, removed and replaced with a fresh slice for garnish, but I have never actually seen anyone do this outside of a top professional like Dale or Gaz doing it at a demonstration. 999 times out of 1000 the orange slice is ground into a purée, and gives the drink, for me, a disgusting consistency.

I make Old Fashioneds in myriad ways — different combinations of bitters, different whiskies, different spirits even (I adore Rum Old Fashioneds, Añejo Tequila Old Fashioneds and Mezcal Old Fashioneds). Here’s my “standard,” though, which is a winner.

The Old Fashioned Cocktail
(Chuck’s standard version)

2-1/2 ounces rye or Bourbon whiskey.
1 teaspoon rich simple syrup.
2 dashes Angostura bitters.
1 dash Peychaud’s bitters.

Build in and Old Fashioned glass, add ice to fill and stir for 20 seconds. Garnish with a Bourbon-soaked or brandied cherry, and/or a piece of orange or lemon peel.

Let’s watch master New Orleans bartender Chris McMillian make one.

Chris is The Man here … no club soda (the ruination of any Old Fashioned) and no muddled fruit (I want a strong whiskey cocktail, not a puréed fruit salad). I do like the orange peel in it, though, and I often like Peychaud’s bitters in addition to or instead of the Angostura (I got that from my dad; Peychaud’s was always his favorite).

Most if not all whiskey-based Old Fashioneds you order now (if you can even order one and get it made properly) are going to be made with Bourbon, but if you really want to make this drink great make it with rye.

I occasionally like to make what I call a “Houlihan Old Fashioned” or a “Hot Lips Old Fashioned.” I was watching an episode of “M*A*S*H” once, one of the episodes later in the series when Margaret Houlihan stopped being a one-dimensional ninny and foil to Frank Burns, and started to be developed into a more complex and human character (whom I liked very much). She was in the officers’ club, went up to the bar, and ordered her favorite drink — firmly but politely, and with a tiny grin and a twinkle in her eye…

“Old Fashioned. Straight up. No fruit.”

Margaret was awesome.

[The first version of this article was published on September 8, 2000 and was revised on April 13, 2002; August 24, 2007; and February 4, 2010.]