Make Mine a Manhattan
Contributed by Jessie Jane - Bar Stories
I’m a sucker for alchemy in a glass. A true cocktail joins its alcoholic and nonalcoholic parts into a single glorious whole, seemingly by nothing but the magic of a skillful bartender. I was reminded of just how sexy a cocktail can be last week while dining at a neighborhood restaurant. I ordered a Manhattan the way I always do: rye whiskey, rocks, lemon twist. The waiter looked at me funny but placed the order anyway. A few moments later he returned apologetically to inform me that they didn’t carry rye. A waiter who doesn’t know his bar stock—should I be concerned?
Now, a Manhattan cocktail is a deceptively simple drink, containing whiskey (traditionally rye, but these days Bourbon is more common), sweet vermouth and bitters. It is served straight up and garnished with a cherry. But its short ingredient list belies the complexity of flavors once those ingredients join each other—it is a total truly greater than the sum of its parts.
So why do so many bartenders fail miserably at the Manhattan? The first slight generally begins by skimping on the vermouth. It’s as though some bartenders believe the Manhattan should be made like a dry Martini—they’re served in the same glass, with some sort of vermouth and spherical garnish, so aren’t they basically prepared the same? Hell, no, and a real bartender will know better.
Whereas vodka or gin are much subtler spirits that are heavily impacted by such an aromatic liquor as dry vermouth, whiskey demands a higher proportion of sweet vermouth to complement the heavier caramel flavors. Too many bartenders skimp on the vermouth, adding instead a full pour of whiskey. The most successful proportion I’ve found is one part whiskey to two parts vermouth.
The real crown of the Manhattan, however, is found in just two or three dashes of aromatic bitters (these days it’s most often Angostura, though orange bitters may be used as well). The bitters serve to marry the sweet vermouth and whiskey, enhancing their less obvious flavors and imparting an ever-so-slight savory tinge to the cocktail. This is the true essence of the Manhattan, one that requires a light touch. All too often, however, the bartender who gets stingy with the vermouth attempts to make up for it in bitters.
Having placed my order through a rather green waiter, I never laid on eyes on the bartender who made my resulting Manhattan that night. But as soon as I saw this beautiful orb of a rocks glass filled with amber liquid and garnished with a carefully prepared lemon twist, I felt a dash of hope. I took a single sip and immediately tasted the perfect intermingling of vermouth and whiskey. A second sip revealed a depth of flavor only achievable with those few dashes of bitters. This was a cocktail prepared by a bartender with a love for his or her craft. This was a beautiful, glowing, richly textured cocktail. This was a Manhattan.
