eastern standard

FIRST WORD

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Origin: The Hawthorne, Kenmore Sq
Take On: Last Word

A cocktail named the “Last Word” is something of a paradox. Just like any craft, the art of drink-making lies in reinventing the past—there’s no last word about it. The Beatles listened to a lot of blues; in the same light, Sam Ross, creator of the popular Paper Plane cocktail, probably drank a lot of whiskey sours.

The Last Word, a bright, boozy prohibition-era drink that’s equal parts gin, Green Chartreuse, maraschino liqueur and lime juice, never did get the last word. There’s the Final Ward, an almost equally popular rye variation from Phil Ward at the Pegu Club in NYC; and there’s the First Word, which Ingrid Schneider made for me last Thursday at the Hawthorne in Kenmore Square.

It was Ingrid’s final week bartending at the Hawthorne, and the drink is her last word—for real, this time.

“I wanted to create something for my leaving, and I have a sort of obsession with Laird’s Bonded Apple Brandy,” she said.

At a lot of bars in the city, you’re more likely to see Laird’s Applejack, a pseudo-apple brandy that’s blended with neutral spirits. It’s sweeter and less potent, and called for in such classics as the Jack Rose and the Pink Lady. For Maeghan Phillips, a former co-worker of mine who was also tending bar at the Hawthorne last Thursday, Applejack has a different name.

“Crapplejack,” she said with a straight face. “It’s just too fruity.” Maeghan planted a bottle of 100-proof Laird’s Bonded Apple Brandy on the bar top in front of me, like a gambler with a winning hand. “This is the hardcore stuff,” she said. “It drinks more like a whiskey.”

For the First Word, Ingrid wanted to swap lime for lemon juice and replace the Last Word’s maraschino with falernum, a Caribbean-born syrup dating back to the 1800s that’s popular to this day in a lot of tiki drinks, made using almonds, ginger, cloves and citrus peel. But the falernum and lemon were too tart together, so Ingrid added honey to round the drink out and give it some body.

“You have a lot of sweeteners in there, with the honey and falernum and Chartreuse,” she said. “You still want the base spirit to stick out, so Laird’s Bonded works well.”

The First Word is my kind of seasonal drink. Nothing says autumn quite like apples and honey, and if you ask me, pumpkin beers are better for smashing than drinking.

But no matter what you drink for a blanket these days, you should do it at the Hawthorne. It’s a dim, velvety, lower-level night spot with a candle-lit bar and a lounge made up of quiet, private corners with sofa chairs and little tables, the kind of place where you’d bring your mistress (or mister). Despite its New England gothic vibe, the Hawthorne isn’t named after the guy who wrote The Scarlet Latter—it’s a reference to the hawthorne cocktail strainer, whose round, coiled body is printed on all of the bar’s coasters.

The Hawthorne is flanked by two of its sister restaurants, Eastern Standard and Island Creek Oyster Bar, both of which are known to serve up a mean drink, having been launched in part by local cocktail legend Jackson Cannon. But according to Ingrid, the Hawthorne is Jackson’s pet project; it’s the only bar within the group that he co-owns, with a seasonal drink list that changes every week. Ingrid calls the menu a bookmark—yes, it’s shaped like a giant bookmark, but it’s also just one page out of an epic, stirred and shaken history that the Hawthorne’s bartenders have learned to tell, one drink at a time.

As for the history of the First Word, Ingrid says it wasn’t the first name she came up with for the drink.

“When Jackson tried it for the first time, all he said to me was, ‘It’s a little tart.’ So I thought it would be funny to name it ‘A Little Tart,'” she said. “I also had a few names about me leaving, like ‘The Last Laugh.’ They didn’t pick that one, surprisingly.”

Oh, well—if we learned anything from the Last Word, it’s that there’s not much in a name. At least “The First Word” is honest; someone’s bound to put a new spin on it, whether it’s another Boston bartender, Ingrid herself, or just some amateur with a few cheap bottles lying around. I wonder how it would taste with Crapplejack…

. . .

First Word
adapted from the Hawthorne

1 oz Laird’s Bonded Apple Brandy
3/4 oz lemon juice
3/4 oz Yellow Chartreuse
3/4 oz honey syrup**/John D. Taylor’s Velvet Falernum (split)
Dash of Angostura bitters

Add all ingredients into mixing glass, add ice and shake vigorously. Double strain into chilled coupe glass and serve. Last Word my ass.

** To make honey syrup, combine equal parts honey and hot water, stir, then chill. That simple.

Follow Ingrid Schneider and Maeghan Phillips on On the Bar! Click here and here, respectively.

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Poor Little Rich Man

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Origin: Eastern Standard, Kenmore Sq.
Take on: Old Fashioned

Every so often I find myself in the fortunate position of sitting at the long, luxurious white marble bar at Eastern Standard in Kenmore Square. Seriously, fortunate—with a fat paycheck in my pocket aimed straight for the drink list. It was on one such occasion, my reflection appearing by the hundreds in the restaurant’s glitzy sea of glass and mirrors, that I was treated to a conversation with bartender Kevin Morrison about the allure of classic cocktails.

“If you go to a couple of different bars in Boston, New York, LA, Chicago, Denver, and order a classic drink, some part of it is going to be tweaked,” he said. “With the Old Fashioned, you never know what you’re going to get. They could be using a different kind of sugar, different bitters, different ice. But there’s no wrong way to do it.”

There’s certainly nothing wrong about the Poor Little Rich Man, an E.S. original that’s basically an Old Fashioned as you would enjoy it on a leafy terrace in Rio de Janeiro. The traditional whiskey base is replaced with cachaca, a sugarcane-made spirit and the preferred poison of the people of Brazil (for the wary, it’s pronounced ka-SHA-sa). Cachaca comes either aged or unaged, clear or amber, and Kevin says the Poor Little Rich Man calls for aged cachaca to match whisky’s color and complexity, while at the same time creating a brighter, more exotic drink.

“There’s a lot of tropical fruit going on,” he said. Even the Old Fashioned’s signature muddled orange and cherry is replaced with the clean, bright sliver of a fresh lime peel. As for the sweetener, the O.F.’s dissolved sugar is switched with a house-made red wine cola, also known as kalimotxo, a sort of poor man’s Cuba Libre they like to drink in Spain
(and most likely the reason for the drink’s name, though Kevin couldn’t recall its precise origin). Add a dash of Angostura bitters and there you have it, a variation on a three-ingredient classic that’s anything but simple.

As they shout over the bar counters in Brazil, Saúde!

. . .

Poor Little Rich Man
adapted from Eastern Standard

1 1/2 oz Leblon Reserve cachaca
3/4 oz red wine cola
1/2 oz Beefeater gin (to counter the sweetness)
Barspoon lime juice (same deal)
Dash Angostura bitters

Add all ingredients to lowball glass, add ice and stir. Garnish with fresh lime peel.

Follow Kevin Morrison on On the Bar by clicking here. It’s that easy.