Gin is a cabaret, old chum

One of the last things I remember doing just before lockdown was a trip to the launch of Hendrick’s Lunar Gin with David T. Smith. This expression was more spicily floral than regular Hendrick’s and apparently had lavender essential oil in it. More recently, Mr Smith passed me the remains of a bottle of Hendrick’s latest offering, the Grand Cabaret Gin.

As usual they aren’t very specific about what goes into it, though they call it “an indulgent creation infused with a sensuous cabaret of decadent stone fruit flavours and shimmies of sweet aromatic herbs. Inspired by a 17th-century fruity French experiment, where distilling mounds of stone fruit unexpectedly yielded a truly tasty potion sparked the imagination of our master distiller, Lesley Gracie, to experiment with that same sense of poetic extravagance.”

On the nose it is certainly fruity, though after pondering it a while I conclude that the fruit it most reminds me of is raspberries (which aren’t stone fruit, so who knows where that comes from), with a solid orangey citrus note too. On the palate it’s a bit sickly, but with a herbal dryness that holds these tendencies back a little. It’s certainly a gin underneath, but the fruitiness dominates.

Adding tonic seems to bring out the cucumber for which Hendrick’s is famous, plus something brambly. As G&Ts go it’s got quite a sherbet vibe to it. I try a Dry Martini using Belsazar Dry: this brings out a slight caramel note, but overall it’s not a match made in heaven. The dry, herbal quality of the vermouth actually seems to quarrel with the juicy-fruit character of the gin.

With this in mind, I try an Aviation (a proper one, made with both maraschino and crème de violette), wondering if the florality of that cocktail would work well with the gin. It certainly doesn’t not work, though surprisingly the gin slightly gets lost. Perhaps its defining character is being masked.

I usually try new gins in a Negroni too, though I suspected that the muscle of the vermouth and Campari would whup the gin good and proper. But in fact the raspberry note rises clear above the bitter-sweet melée, adding a distinct and wholly harmonious layer. This is without doubt the stand-out serve for the gin of the ones I tried. I makes a distinctly summery drink (and I say this having tried it in late January) and, now that it is quite summery here in the UK, one that I can heartily recommend you try.

Fit for a king: Buckingham Palace gins

We were at the King’s Gallery in London to look at the exhibition about Georgian fashion, and as we drifted out we were inexorably steered towards the gift shop, where I was interested to see they sold gin. The gallery is actually part of Buckingham Palace and the Buckingham Palace Dry Gin they had on offer uses 12 botanicals gathered from the gardens there, including lemon verbena, hawthorn berries and mulberry leaves.

Priced at a fairly stiff £40, the gin comes in a handsome fluted bottle with a rather understated label that might almost look laser-printed if it weren’t for the gold foil decorative border. Other than the three botanicals mentioned above, I can’t find any other details about what goes into it, but as soon as you open the bottle you get a joyous hit of juniper and citrus. This remains strong in the glass, with the mentholly juniper dominating, with a hint of candied violets and a sharp aromatic like lemon balm or lemon thyme (perhaps the lemon verbena), plus something earthy—maybe from angelica or orris.

On the palate those high, bright notes remain, but on a base that is warm and full, almost chocolatey. Perhaps it’s the contrast with the brisk nose, but the liquid gives a sense of smoothness and sweetness on the tongue, almost like icing sugar, although there is a slight bitterness on the finish. In a gin and tonic it is cool and sophisticated, with a traditional juniper and citrus profile augmented by a hint of cucumber. It’s still warm and smooth compared to some gins but with the bright, aromatic lift and a G&T is surely all about.

In a Dry Martini it has a classic profile, but that bitter finish is noticeable. I’m using Belsazar Dry vermouth which adds a note of vanilla, but the juniper and citrus of the gin cut through clearly. In a Negroni its presence is quiet: it benefits from upping the proportion of gin in the mix. Overall, I suspect the makers reckoned their target market would be mostly drinking it with tonic, and deployed in this way it works well. 

Overall, I rather like Buckingham Palace Dry Gin. It is very classic in style, but with some sophisticated flourishes. Which I suppose is what you would expect from the King’s gin.

While at the palace I noticed that they sold another gin, called Buckingham Palace Coronation Gin. Inevitably curiosity got the better of me and I decided to try this one too—fortunately they were selling it on Amazon, so I didn’t have to go back to Buck House to get some. Interestingly, although this also comes in a fluted bottle, it is a different design, with a larger number of narrower ridges. I would have thought there would be an economy of scale if they’d just used the same bottle with a different label…

The nose of Coronation Gin is immediately warmer, with less of the aromatic high notes of juniper and lemon, and more lower notes, reminiscent of rose, honey and cinnamon. On the palate it has the same initial smoothness but with more of a honeyed mouthfeel, and without the herbaceous, resinous high notes of the Buckingham Palace gin. 

With tonic water, it makes a darker G&T with an interesting whiff of toffee-mint on the nose. On the palate this is continued: it’s like a dark cupboard filled with toffee mints, candied geraniums, damson jam and marmalade. It’s less of a sharpener that a G&T made with the first gin—perhaps more of a late-night contemplative gin (just like Hendrick’s Lunar Gin, but without the added essential oils). 

I try a Martini made with the Coronation gin. (With both these gins I started with a ratio of 4:1 but, feeling that the vermouth dominated a bit too much, moved to 6:1.) While the nose is more about the midrange, the palate is savoury, almost salty, but with a somewhat candied finish. There is an odd hint of banana. 

Given the gin’s warm, spicy approach, I suspected it might work well in a Negroni, and it does, in the sense that it sits harmoniously with the vermouth and Campari. But to a certain extent it is lurking in the background rather than making firm friends.

As you can probably tell, I preferred the Buckingham Palace gin to the more spicy Coronation number. The former’s classic profile makes it eminently usable, but it has sophisticated nuances that give it certain class as well. Is it worth £40 a bottle? No, probably not, so I won’t be making it my go-to. But if money were no object, it would have many of the qualities you’d look for in a house gin. Particularly a house like Buckingham Palace.

Goodwood and Porthleven gins

A couple of new gins have come on to my radar in recent months. Of course, this is nothing but a teardrop in the ocean of gins that are constantly erupting on to the market, but one does what one can.

Goodwood is a place I associate these days with the Festival of Speed motorcar spree and the Goodwood Revival, which focuses specifically on vintage vehicles, and to which many of my chums in the vintage fraternity often go. Levin Down Goodwood Gin is produced for the estate and does include some botanicals sourced locally. I confess I was actually sent a sample last year, and it has taken me a while to get round to commenting on it. The bottle is notable in that the stopper is made entirely of glass, with a only a plastic grommet to give an airtight seal. The label features a drawing of a top-hatted rider in mid-air, apparently celebrating the days when Levin Down, a local hill, was popular for fox hunting—being too steep for farming—and the occasion when the third Duke of Devonshire galloped his horse down the hill so quickly that he flew over a gate at the bottom, inadvertantly inventing the hunt tradition of fence jumping. 

The label admits to local juniper, coriander, gorse and mint (plus presumably some other, non-local, botanicals). On the nose you get juniper plus orange and lime citrus notes, but also something distinctly savoury and vegetal. When I first opened the bottle this element, like nettles or sage, was rather dominating and frankly off-putting. After the bottle had been open a while it seemed to soften and the whole thing came a bit more into balance. I’ve never noticed this with a spirit before.

Now, some months later, I would say that, nosed neat, orange and lime lead the profile, but that other element is still there. I’m guessing it’s the mint. But the warm citrus dominates now, making for an inviting nose.

For the palate, I’ve written several adjectives: “pointy”, “toasty”, “waxy”. I’m not getting gorse, which I associate with a sort of coconut smell, but the mint is definitely there. My first reaction was that it was slightly curried, perhaps from the coriander, but that impression is quickly lost. There’s even a hint of banana, and the mint flavour is not so much fresh mint, but more like cooked mint—as in the mint sauce that in Britain is traditional with roast lamb.

I try a Dry Martini, using Belsazar vermouth, and that savoury element continues to dominate, but now with an unexpected note of caramel. In fact I would characterise this cocktail by flavours of mint and caramel. I try the gin with tonic water and, at my standard test ratio of 2:1, the gin is hard to pick out at all. I add a bit more to the mix, and a sort of rubbery note emerges. I’m beginning to get the impression that this gin does not mix well: with other ingredients it goes to pieces, becoming soggy and cloying.

My other new gin is one that I encountered late last summer on holiday in Porthleven, Cornwall. I feel it’s hard to keep up with Cornish gins, though this may be more a reflection on the amount of time I spend in Cornwall than on the greater concentration of gins there—nowadays every town, institution or stately home in the British Isles seems to have to have its own gin. Porthleven Gin is made by Serena Pengelly, who actually runs the excellent Ship Inn on the harbourside. Porthleven actually already had a gin distillery, Curio, whose gin I reported on a few years ago. Initially Serena’s gin was made by them, but then she switched to the Rock Distillery. 

Compared to Goodwood, Porthleven gin is more exuberant and forthcoming on the nose, with a cool, juicy, slightly blackcurranty nose. On the palate, however, it is not fruity as I was expecting, but characterised by strong dry spice high notes, perhaps from the coriander, and possibly the celery seeds, listed among the botanicals. (It also contains orange, juniper, angelica and orris roots, and pink peppercorns.) I try a Porthleven Martini alongside the Goodwood one, and it is effortlessly superior, with that dry spice squaring up to the vermouth to make a dry, contemplative, grown-up aperitif. In a G&T—in the same 2:1 proportions that defeated the Goodwood—that same coriander thrust cuts through, with peppercorn notes swirling in its wake, to make a dry, crisp drink. Whereas Goodwood gin rather falls apart when you mix it, Porthleven gin almost gets better, which must surely be a hallmark of a good, practical gin.

While sipping the Goodwood neat I tried to think of other flavours that it might work well with. Perhaps sharp lemon juice might balance the slightly wallowing character? So I tried both gins in a White Lady: two parts gin to one part lemon juice and one part triple sec (I omitted the egg white on this occasion, out of pure laziness). 

Again, in these standard proportions the Goodwood gin was hard to detect at all. I raised the proportion to 2½ parts and it began to emerge as a dark, low-note presence (again with a hint of banana). Not unpleasant, but not very ginlike. It’s odd, because, neat, the gin seemed to have a pronounced citrus character, which you’d think would go with orange and lemon, but as soon as you mix it, it seems to collapse into a soggy gloop.

By contrast, a Porthleven Gin White Lady is an instant triumph, with the bright, dry coriander notes rising up—though you can feel the other elements too, such as a welcome suggestion of violets (which might be from the orris)—all slotting into place with the cocktail’s other ingredients.

While I’ve been writing this I’ve been sipping on a generous Porthleven G&T, from a bottle that is now nearly empty, which tells you all you need to know. Not sure what I’m going to do with the rest of the Goodwood, though…

Maverick spirits from Brewdog

I was intrigued to notice on the supermarket shelves two spirits made by Brewdog—Lone Wolf Gin and Seven Day Vodka. 

Brewdog, as their name suggests, are best known for brewing beer, and have established their brand mainly through controversy. They have repeatedly produced what they claim is the world’s strongest beer: Tactical Nuclear Penguin was an alleged 32% ABV and, when a German brewer trumped them with a 40% beer, Brewdog came back with the tastelessly named Sink the Bismarck at 41%, followed by The End of History at 55% (a record that has since been claimed by Snake Venom from fellow Scottish brewery Brewmeister, alleging an ABV of 67.5%). Brewdog are forever being censured by the UK’s Portman Group, a drinks industry self-regulation body, and are also litigious themselves, having threatened legal action against a pub called Lone Wolf and another called Draft Punk, which they considered an infringement of their Punk IPA brand.

The super-strength beer was achieved through freeze-distillation, chilling it to a temperature low enough for water to freeze but not alcohol, allowing the ice to be removed leaving a more alcoholic liquid behind, but Lone Wolf and Seven Day Vodka seem to have been distilled in the normal way. The distillery boasts a “triple bubble” still, with three bubble-shaped swellings in the neck rising out of it. A traditional pot still is not that efficient at separating out the elements in the fermented mash, producing a distillate that retains more of the flavour but usually means the process has to be performed two or three times. The triple bubble still, which seems to be a sort of pot/column still hybrid, can effectively perform these multiple distillations in one pass, with an emphasis on purity rather than retaining flavour from the mash. Head distiller Steven Kersley also says the design allows plenty of copper contact—copper is the material of choice for stills as certain undesirable elements in the vapour stick to it, drawing it out of the final distillate.

The distillery’s line-up of stills, with the triple bubble job on the left. Last year they moved operation to a new facility in Ellon, which (judging from photos) lacks the huge mural of a wolf.

Vodka brands tend to bang on about purity rather than flavour. Maybe they just decided that this is a better marketing ploy, since most people probably think vodka doesn’t taste of much anyway. In reality, if you sit down and taste several vodkas side by side you quickly realise how much variety there is, at least if you’re tasting neat. If you want purity you can, of course, just buy 96% pure neutral spirit and add water. In reality the various filtration processes that vodka is subjected to are more about imparting a desired flavour.

Seven Day Vodka is so called because they say it takes seven days to make, three of which are in the triple bubble still, starting from a wheat and barley base. It has a nose of vanilla and icing sugar, with a hint of red berries and cocoa nib. On the tongue it is smoothish, though with a bitter, slightly sharp top note—a tad sour with a ghost of vegetation—that overbalances the palate, with too little coming from the chocolately body.

Vodka cocktails tend to smother the taste of the vodka itself, though I find that a vodka Gimlet (vodka and lime cordial) can retain the character of a characterful vodka. Sadly this is not a very characterful vodka and I find myself repeatedly adding more vodka to the mix in the hope of striking a harmonious balance.

Interestingly, this is one of the few vodkas that benefits from being served from the freezer. Although it’s a hip way to drink vodka, all too often I find this just kills the flavour, and it’s disastrous for subtle and sophisticated products like Haku. Perhaps Seven Day Vodka just doesn’t have many subtleties to kill, but in all honesty it is highly approachable served this way, with an impression of gentle sweetness, the cocoa character coming to the fore and with a slight, odd, hint of ginger on the finish. This is certainly how I will deploy the rest of this bottle.

Lone Wolf Gin takes its name from the original name of the distillery, intended to be a battle-cry for turning your back on convention and doing things your own way, though (after a physical move) the place is now just the Brewdog Distillery. Unlike the vodka, this gin is not short on flavour, though perhaps again lacking in subtlety. Regular readers will know I like a gin that tastes of gin, and this one is certainly juniper-led, with a fierce resinous waft of it on the nose, joined by lemon and lime citrus, a warm caress of lavender and some earthy notes. On the palate the juniper continues to dominate, an evergreen pine thrust, accompanied by a lightly chocolate low-mid and a slightly bitter finish.

A Dry Martini is usually a good showcase for a gin’s nuances and its interplay with dry vermouth, but a Lone Wolf Martini is crude and frankly a bit silly, with that pine-resin character completely dominating. In a Negroni (gin, Campari and sweet red vermouth) it makes a bit more sense: this cocktail is a complex blend of powerful flavours with strong sweet and bitter elements, and the gin easily makes its presence felt. But that presence is a sinus-scouring resinous one, so that has to be something you want. Perhaps the best serve is a simple gin and tonic, where even quite a modest proportion of gin will be clearly detectable.

Brewdog don’t list all the botanicals on their website, but it turns out that in addition to Tuscan juniper they do use Scots pine as well, which explains a lot. Elsewhere online I’ve found references to grapefruit peel, pink peppercorns, Angelica and orris roots, Kaffir lime, mace, lemongrass and, indeed, some lavender. Going back to it I’d agree there is aromatic pink peppercorn on the nose.

A Brewdog Vesper

Given that I have both a gin and a vodka from the same distillery and—for want of a better word—the same philosophy, it makes sense to make a Vesper. This cocktail, described in the James Bond novel Casino Royale, requires three parts gin to one part vodka to half a part Kina Lillet, well shaken, and garnished with a large strip of lemon peel. (Kina Lillet hasn’t been made since the Eighties and Cocchi Americano seems to be the closest analogue.) On the face of it you’d think the proportions would render the vodka irrelevant, but I found with Roku gin and Haku vodka, from Suntory, something interesting happened. And here I can confirm the same: despite the high concentration of gin, this drink presents a subtler and softer offering than a Lone Wolf Martini, doubtless partly because the Cocchi is bitter-sweet, but I sense that that the vodka is also lending a sweetening, mellowing effect. Make no mistake, that pine juniper character is not to be denied, but if you have these products then this is a good way to deploy them.

As you can tell, I’m not vastly impressed by either of these spirits, but I should point out one thing they have in their favour: they are relatively cheap. The vodka is just £20 for a 70cl bottle and the gin £25 (though I think I bought mine marked down to £21). Both are 40% ABV. By comparison, most “craft” gin seems to be around £35–37. 

On the other hand, however, Tanqueray, Bombay Sapphire and Sipsmith are all cheaper than Lone Wolf and I’d sooner drink those.

Brewdog also make three “flavoured” gins (I mean, it’s not as if the regular gin is short of flavour)—peach and passionfruit, cactus and lime and cloudy lemon—a navy strength Gunpowder Gin (featuring additional Szechuan and black peppercorns, bitter orange and star anise), plus three flavoured vodkas: raspberry and lime, passionfruit and vanilla, and rhubarb and lemon. I haven’t had the opportunity to taste any of these, but I tend to take a pretty dim view of this sort of thing.

Taste the rainbow

One of the minis of gin I was sent

I was contacted out of the blue by Jane Oake from a gin that was new to me, Rainbow Gin. She was actually hoping to get us to stock it at the Candlelight Club, but as a pop-up we can’t have a huge back bar, just a few key flavours. However, I’m always interested in new products, and I asked her what the distinguishing features of the gin were.

“Our USP is our Rainbow Branding,” she replied. “We set out to create a vibrant, colourful brand which would stand out on the shelf. We wanted a gin with a glamorous, celebratory feel.” I’m sure no one can attempt to market a gin, or anything else, without giving plenty of thought to branding but it’s interesting to encounter a gin that is presented primarily in terms of its branding. I mean, you can’t actually taste a rainbow, so it’s not rainbow-flavoured gin.

In fairness, Jane did then add, “In addition to this we have the gin itself! It is not only delicious, it is incredibly smooth with a creamy finish.”

Given the name, I asked if there was an LGBT connection. No, there isn’t, but “we want to celebrate all things Rainbow with our brand.  We are donating £1 per bottle to charities with a Rainbow connection.” I didn’t probe as to what a “rainbow connection” might be, but I’m assuming we’re talking about charities with the word in their name, rather than charities that create rainbows or hunt for crocks of gold at the end of them. I also wondered if there was an interesting origin story behind how and why the creators decided to make their own gin; I asked Jane what her background was before this, but she just said that her background was “very varied” and left it at that. You could be forgiven for thinking that the whole exercise has been generated by an experimental marketing bot.

When I read some of the literature I discovered there was more: the name also refers to their botanicals “reflecting the colours of the rainbow”, and Jane confirmed that, having established the branding, they then asked their Master Distiller to come up with a botanical bill that did this. These botanicals are red grapefruit, orange, lemon, (green) bay, (blue) gentian, juniper (which I guess is ticking the “indigo” box) and violet. Citrus peel and juniper are obviously fairly standard gin botanicals, but I’m not sure I’ve encountered bay before, so that’s intriguing. I know of at least one gin that uses violets (Tarquin’s Cornish Gin, which deploys violets from Tarquin’s own garden), but it’s still quite a rare botanical. 

A full-size bottle

As for gentian, it’s usually used for its bitterness—however, none other than Ted Breaux himself told me that it’s pretty hard for bitterness to pass through the distillation process, as the molecules responsible for that flavour are heavy and tend to get left behind.* I mentioned this to Jane, who spoke to their Master Distiller (who is not named anywhere), who insisted that the gentian does lend bitterness, so who knows? But remember that Jane herself gave the gin’s smoothness as a key characteristic, so I’m not sure why you’d actually want a bittering agent. A cynic might suggest that they wanted something blue and perhaps gentian has the advantage that it is certainly that, while not having any real effect on the flavour.

Anyway, what’s it actually like? On the nose there is a strong citrus element that hits me first, almost candied, before any juniper, plus something more flatly herbal and savoury. This could be the bay—certainly once I’d noticed this on the botanical list I could convince myself I could detect it. As time passes it’s this herbaceous note that comes to dominate. I don’t get any violets. On the tongue it is indeed smooth (though it’s not an especially high ABV). My first impression is that it is very savoury, almost salty, though I’m wondering if the strong notes of orange on the nose trick you into subconsciously expecting it to be sweet, exaggerating the absence of sweetness.

I only had a couple of miniatures to play with so I couldn’t do endless experiments, but I tried making a Martini using Rainbow Gin and Belsazar vermouth. On the nose the gin melds fairly effortlessly with the herbal character of the vermouth, and now I do get a hint of violet—perhaps it takes a bit of dilution to reveal itself. Likewise, on the palate this serve is more complex and interesting that the gin on its own (OK, so I guess that’s the whole point of cocktails, but I mean that I’m getting more from the gin this way than I do neat). It’s sort of sweet and salty. I even get a whiff of cinnamon, which is strange as there is none in the gin. But am I getting a rainbow of flavours? No. A tricolor at best.

Finally, I try a gin and tonic, using Fever Tree Light in a 2:1 ratio. Comparing it directly with G&Ts made with Beefeater and Tanqueray, which I happen to have to hand, the Rainbow produces a dark and savoury element like cumin that floats up (again, though there’s no cumin mentioned in the botanical bill). And despite the citric nature of both the tonic and this gin, in combination the gin actually seems to smooth away the tonic’s sharp citric edge, even though, deep down, there is still a lime Opal Fruit note. ** Overall it makes a smooth and mellow G&T. With no hint of gentian bitterness.

*  Ian Hart of Sacred Gin once gave me a couple of infusions of wormwood and hops to taste—and both were very bitter. Then he gave me distillates made from those same infusions, and there was no bitterness whatsoever. (I think the wormwood had a soft earthiness to it; I can’t quite remember about the hops.)

** Starburst to you youngsters.

Pickering's Gin, 1947 Gin and Navy Strength Gin

Back in December I reviewed the Brussels Sprout gin made by Pickering’s of Summerhall in Edinburgh. We’d stumbled across it while visiting friends during festival season, spending our days in damp basements that had become “venues” for three weeks. Although I ultimately can’t recommend the sproutwater, the basic Pickering’s gin was very agreeable.

I noted that in addition to their main gin they also did a “1947” edition, and now they have a navy strength too. So I decided to do a “horizontal flight” comparison.

The story goes that Marcus Pickering and Matt Gammell decided to start a distillery and make gin after Marcus inherited a gin recipe from a friend of his late father. Like many new gin-makers they had no experience of distilling, but unlike many they actually built theirs. They mention that their various previous business ventures together have revolved around, among other things, engineering, and the pair clearly love to make eye-catching promotional things. Things such as a pop-up tasting bar that folds out of a vintage trunk, a modified Japanese airport fire engine that dispenses cocktails from tanks through hoses, and a mechanical Martini mixer adapted from a wind-up gramophone and some 1960s chemistry equipment (which, as far as I can tell, can still play 78s). So far so Steampunk—Hendrick’s had better watch out. (Although one could observe that the Pickering’s creations are all actually functional, rather than just visual whimsy. In the words of Sir Reginald Pikedevant, “Just glue some gears on it and call it Steampunk”…) 

The Pickering's mechanical Martini mixer

The actual recipe, allegedly from a document handwritten in Bombay in 1947, was “full of fragrant spices and fresh citrus fruits”, evidently quite punchy, while the 21st-century Pickering’s people decided modern punters wanted something softer and smoother, so they tweaked the recipe. They also use a bain marie heating system for the still (rather than direct heat) which they feel coaxes out the soft, subtle flavours. The botanicals in the main gin are juniper, coriander, cardamom, angelica, fennel, anise, lemon, lime and cloves. The 1947 edition, which, as its name suggests, is “made precisely to the original recipe”, adds cinnamon. Pickering’s Navy Strength Gin is, as far as I can tell, the same as the main recipe but bottled at 57.1% ABV. You also can’t help but notice that it proudly sports a military bearskin, to mark its becoming the official gin of the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo.

Now I’ll be honest that I was surprised to read that the basic Pickering’s gin actually has no cinnamon in it. Tasting it again for this comparison, I opened the bottle and got a pleasing spike of juniper, followed by a creamy orange citrus character plus sharp lime and lemon notes, something floral and a warm, middly, woody note that I might have guessed was from cinnamon. Apparently not. Swirling it in a glass I get some caramel and mint too—though I suspect that herbal impression may be from the fennel. All of the above appear on the palate, making an immediately balanced impression. It is smooth and almost chocolatey, but still with the juniper backbone. But I could swear I’m getting cinnamon too. While it is the juniper that greets you, I would characterise this gin as being warm, smooth and spicy, rather than lean, fresh, crisp and dry.

In a Martini it retains this character, rich, smooth and perfumed. In fact if you like your Martini stern, airy and crystalline, you may consider this gin a bit wallowy. Oddly, in a Negroni the juniper comes out more. It’s a punchy but balanced example of the cocktail, bitter-sweet but smooth.

Given that the basic Pickering’s struck me as warmly spiced, I did laugh a bit when I first opened the 1947. It just seemed a bit bonkers to make another gin that was even more dominated by these elements. To me it is less well balanced, without the juniper structure that I personally require in a gin and more of those herbal notes, in addition to cinnamon. On the palate you can find juniper but it is sort of lurking in the background.

Given that I thought the normal gin made a warm, dark Martini, you won’t be surprised to hear that a 1947 Martini is rather on the muddy side. In a Negroni you still get a warm, spicy, bitter-sweet drink, and in fact you can find the juniper if you dig, but it doesn’t rise up to offer the effortless but complex triumvirate of a classic Negroni.

The fact that the 1947 formula seemed to play up the herbal elements (which I first interpreted as mint but which in fact must be fennel) reminded me of absinthe and made me wonder if this gin might work best in drinks that included absinthe. The Corpse Reviver No.2* sprang to mind and I have to say that it’s actually rather an intriguing triumph in itself, with the fennel and anise obviously sitting comfortably alongside the absinthe and the lemon and lime flavours marrying with the lemon juice and triple sec. But of course, lacking juniper, it’s not your classic Corpse Reviver.

If there were any doubt which version of the gin goes to make the Navy Strength it would be dispelled with one whiff of the majestic juniper fumes that come from the open bottle. It’s an immensely appealing aroma (if you like gin, and ginny gin at that). It’s remarkably smooth and drinkable despite its high strength. 

A Gimlet made with Pickering's

For scientific purposes I made a Negroni with it, and unsurprisingly it tastes like a Negroni made with the normal Pickering’s gin but on steroids. Using the standard equal proportions it’s a bit unbalanced, to be honest; you could just use less of the gin, but you might as well just use the regular-strength gin. In a Martini, this gin comes into its own, creating a powerful concoction, clearly a classic, juniper-driven Martini, but complex and evolving on the tongue. I was using Belsazar Dry vermouth, and its herbal strands intertwined voluptuously with those fennel and anise notes in the gin. Needless to say, a normal-sized Martini made with the navy strength will tend to make you squiffy.

Thinking about the citrus elements, I also tried a Gimlet. Classically this is a blend of gin and lime cordial,** though some prefer to make it with fresh lime juice and sugar syrup, which is nice but not the same. (Others suggest making a lime syrup by adding lime juice and zest while making sugar syrup, though I have not tried this.) I’m pleased to report it works very well. Again, the softness of the gin combined with the sugar in the cordial makes for a smooth, approachable drink. As before, I prefer the more prominent juniper from the regular Pickering’s but if you’re not that keen on that element then a Gimlet made with the 1947 gin will make a rich, complex, spicy, citrussy glass of happiness.

Pickering’s gins can be had for about £26 a bottle from various outlets, but if you buy direct from Pickering’s themselves you can currently buy a full litre for £28.

* Equal parts gin, lemon juice, triple sec and originally Kina Lillet—Cocchi Americano is a good modern-day substitute—plus a smidgeon of absinthe.

** The proportions are moot. Some say equal parts, but I think that makes for a cloying and tooth-curling sweetness. Perhaps start at 2:1 or 3:1 and see what you think. 

Squid's in. In the gin.

If you think Brussels sprout gin is wilfully strange, check this out. You may remember how taken I was by both the regular Caspyn Gin and the Midsummer gin from the Pocketful of Stones distillery: I noticed recently that they have now added a squid ink gin to the range. 

You read that right. Apparently they’ve been trying to make Dr Squid Gin work since 2018, and the final recipe uses, they admit, only a very small amount of squid ink. The website doesn’t say if it uses their regular gin as a base (as the Midsummer gin does), only that this version also features vanilla and sea buckthorn. Before you even clap eyes on the gin itself you are struck by the other departure with this product—instead of a bottle it comes in a rectangular copper flask. I’m wondering if this was a practical necessity—for example, if it turned out that the colour of the gin was unstable if kept in a transparent bottle—or if they just wanted find a way to add to the “special edition” vibe. If you look at comments and reviews, customers have certainly had problems pouring from the flask without spilling gin all over the place, and my example actually came with a speed pourer to jam into the neck to create a reliable spout, so clearly they have conceded that there is a bit of a design flaw here. Other comments suggest that some customers detected a metallic taint in the gin or allegedly found bits of copper swarf in the liquid.

The flask is certainly a handsome object, however. Let's pause for some packaging porn:

As you can see, the exterior is etched with Cornish scenes: on one side are sea creatures (shark, whale, turtle, penguin, some fish and an evil-looking squid), a surfer and a galleon, while on the other we find birds and land creatures, including a fox, a badger and a hedgehog, plus a standing stone with a hole through it (Mên-an-Tol, I assume). On the spine, uniting the land and sea, are a mermaid, a chest of pirate treasure, some decorative skulls and what I think is St Michael’s Mount. Technical problems notwithstanding, this flask is clearly not cheap to make, which goes some way to explaining the hefty price tag of £50 for 70cl.

There is no explanation given as to why it’s “Dr Squid” Gin. Who is Dr Squid? The stick-on label features a top-hatted Edwardian gentleman whose lower half is a squid, so I guess it’s him. But it’s a bit odd, having a tin that is all about the Cornish identity of the gin, then a label and title that goes off on Hendrick’s-esque self-consciously-eccentric diversion.

Part of the USP of this gin is it’s colour—squid ink black as it comes from the can, but miraculously turning pink when you add tonic. How does that happen? Well, as you can see from the photos, it isn’t really black at all, but dark purple; so it’s no surprise that this purple becomes pink as you dilute it. From my experiences of cooking with and eating squid ink in Italian cuisine, I don’t remember it being this colour, but according to Wikipedia, while octopus ink is black, squid ink is indeed “blue-black”.

Some reviewers have complained that the gin consequently has a fishy smell, but I must say that I cannot detect anything of that nature. Sniffing the open flask, I get a hit of bold juniper plus warm orange and lemon citrus notes. In the glass I also get a strong coriander element, plus something floral like violets (and I don’t think that is just suggested by the colour!). There’s also a strong herbaceous element—the first thing that springs to mind is parsley, perhaps blended with watercress and a smidgeon of pungent sage.

On the palate it is immediately sweet and smooth (perhaps from the vanilla, though I don’t obviously get vanilla as such), with flinty juniper, prominent coriander seed and a dry finish. It’s a powerfully flavoured gin—you can’t help wondering if this is done deliberately to mask the taste/smell of the squid ink! There’s something in the herbal/mentholic notes that make me wonder if they have included rock samphire in the botanical mix, which would be a consciously Cornish thing to do.*

A daunting-looking Dr Squid Martini

That colour creates some odd effects in cocktails—a simple Martini is a terrifying murky presentation. At first I try a largely undiluted version, and the herbal notes are unsurprisingly brought out, the juniper and coriander; I’m also getting a sort of sweet/pungent effect that concentrates on the tongue like anise (which, oddly, I didn’t notice when tasting the gin neat). I try a heavily shaken version to dilute it, but the only thing that changes is a slight cellulose note. I have to say that I do not think this gin makes a terribly good Martini. A few days later I try a Martini again and this time it’s really that mentholic-pungent character that strikes me, somewhere between sage and anise.

Another cocktail I often use to put a gin through its paces is the Corpse Reviver No.2—equal parts gin, lemon juice, triple sec and Cocchi Americano (standing in for Kina Lillet, which is no longer made), plus a dash of absinthe. It’s a powerful combo and some gins get smothered by it. Made with Dr Squid, it’s certainly a nice, complex drink, with sweet, sour, bitter and herbal elements—but then it always is. The coriander comes out noticeably and one thing I notice for the first time with this gin is a saline element, which I don’t recall being a characteristic of this cocktail. Of course the colour is weird, with the purple gin meeting the yellow of the lemon juice to produce a not-unattractive pinky colour. But from a flavour point of view, the cocktail is certainly a success. It makes me think that I should try more combinations of Dr Squid and absinthe.

The pinkish colour of a Dr Squid Corpse Reviver No.2

On the website they mention that it works well in a Gin Mule, i.e. served with ginger beer. I try this, using Fentiman’s ginger beer: it’s nice enough, the juniper adding a sort of backbone to balance the sweetness of the mixer. Mrs H. is not keen, claiming she gets a “TCP” note—I don’t know how widely available TCP is, but if you don’t know it it’s a household antiseptic with a strong phenolic smell. Which brings us back to that pungent aromatic element.

Shaun Bebington, the man behind the distillery, was helpful last time so I drop him a line and he comes back with some interesting answers. He confirms that Dr Squid does not use their existing gin as a base. “It is a new recipe we developed to compliment the main ingredient, squid ink,” he explains. “Botanicals included in this recipe are coriander, lemon peel, sea buckthorn, cinnamon, vanilla, hibiscus, black mallow and blue pea flower. The phenolic taste you're getting is a direct result of the squid ink being used.”

He also reveals the truth about the tin: “It was envisioned for the whisky we are planning to release later this year but was too good a combination not to run with it for Dr Squid—the fact that it stops UV is an added bonus. Saying that though, any floral infusion post distillation will suffer from oxidation resulting in a loss of colour anyway.” 

So does this mean that the colour of Dr Squid will actually fade with time? “Yes the liquid will fade,” Shaun confirms. “Even out of the light. All liquid will have diluted oxygen in it as well as the oxygen in the space in the bottle. So unless the liquid is vacuum packed and has less than 1.8 parts per million of diluted oxygen it will oxidise and fade over time. Our sister distillery in South Africa, www.wcdistiller.com, is working on this at the minute with their Night Shade Gin.”

A Dr Squid Tuxedo

Thinking about the success of the Corpse Reviver No.2 and the way that phenolic element in the gin reminds me of anise, fennel, sage and parsley, etc, I poke around for more cocktails that combine gin and absinthe and come across the Tuxedo. Invented at the Tuxedo Club in upstate New York some time in the late 19th century (the earliest printed record is in Harry Johnson’s Bartenders’ Manual from 1900), it was originally equal parts Old Tom gin and dry white vermouth with variously 1–3 dashes each of maraschino and absinthe. Later versions play around with the proportions, use dry gin and sweet vermouth, or add a spoonful of sherry as well. It’s essentially a variant of the Martini, which evolved around the same time. Simon Difford has assessed the various iterations and his own version, which I try with Dr Squid, uses a 50:50 blend of sweet and dry vermouths. 

It’s actually a very interesting cocktail: I was afraid that the high proportion of vermouth to gin might make it seem watery, but with the hits of orange, absinthe and aromatic spices from the Angostura it’s complex and reasonably balanced. For me it’s a bit on the sweet side (and I was actually using dry gin rather than the Old Tom prescribed). I think it needs some sweetness—although the Tuxedo Cocktail No.1 from the 1930 Savoy Cocktail Book is simply equal parts dry gin and dry vermouth with two dashes of absinthe and a strip of lemon peel, so much drier—and I later try it with just dry vermouth, controlling the sweetness using the maraschino, and then again using a 3:1 ratio of dry to sweet vermouth, but it didn’t seem to recapture what seemed to make it all pull together the first time. 

Would I recommend Dr Squid Gin? You can tell that a lot of effort and polish has gone into it; it’s certainly interesting, and tasted neat it reveals intriguing strands of flavour. But in most cocktails (and even in a G&T) I confess that the drink actually tastes nicer with a different gin. If you particularly like that phenolic thrust it might be to your taste, and it does seem to work best in strongly flavoured cocktails that have absinthe in them. But then there’s the price: unless you particularly want one of these copper flasks then it is hard to justify.

* You may have encountered marsh samphire in fishmongers or delicatessens: it’s a salty crunchy thing that is in season in the UK for a few weeks in June, growing in marshy areas by the sea. Rock samphire, or sea fennel, is not actually related (it’s part of the carrot/deadly nightshade family) and grows on cliffs in Cornwall. While holidaying there I did harvest what I’m fairly sure was rock samphire and tried eating it—it had a powerful phenolic taste and aroma (“fumes” would be a better word). Apparently it’s considered a delicacy, and is a good source of vitamin C, but I wasn’t convinced. It’s traditionally pickled, so maybe I should try preparing it that way next time I’m in the area.

Brussels sprout gin?

A couple of summers ago we were visiting friends in Edinburgh and they suggested we stopped in at Summerhall where they made their own gin. This turned out to be Pickering’s Gin, and very nice it was too. The backstory is of a recipe dating from 1947 in Bombay, kept a family secret until they decided to start distilling at Summerhall. (There’s always a story like that, isn’t there?) The botanical bill for their main gin includes juniper, coriander, cardamom, angelica, fennel, anise, lemon, lime and cloves. They also make a “1947 edition” which adds cinnamon. It’s a fairly modern style of gin with an emphasis on smoothness. Their suggested serves and cocktails often have an emphasis on citrus.

So I was interested to see that they have produced, for the festive season, a Brussels sprout gin. You read that right. The famously divisive pellet of pungent-bitter cabbage-iness. Moreover, this is apparently the third year they have produced it, such is its popularity. How could I resist? OK, I was suspicious enough to order only a 20cl bottle, so I needed to be careful how I deployed my limited supply.

The first thing you notice is that it is green. I have no doubt, however, that the colour is artificial, added for gimmickry—it’s a rather bluish green which, in the world of absinthe, is a sure-fire sign of artificial colouring. The colour from naturally green absinthe tends to a more olive shade, and it is rather unstable, particularly when exposed to light; hence such absinthes tend to be sold in very dark bottles. So the hue of this gin in its clear glass bottle is presumably fake.

Upon uncorking the bottle I actually laughed out loud. Sure enough, there was that sharp, sour, sulphurous note that some reviewers describe as “cabbage water”. But it quickly resolves itself into something like turmeric—Mrs H. commented that it had a curry smell. There is an element of rubber too. All very savoury. On the palate this continues, though clear juniper comes in too, with a slightly bitter, peppery finish. It’s quite “dark”, with caramel notes (without being sweet), but altogether less pungent than you might expect.

A muddy-looking Brussels sprout Aviation

I try a Martini using Belsazar Dry vermouth. Adding the vermouth seems to release a new waft of that initial cabbage aroma, though on the palate the savoury character of the gin seems to go quite well with the herbal elements of the vermouth. Well, they don’t clash, which is perhaps not quite the same thing. Is it nice? I’m quite a fan of savoury, herbal gins, but I have to say—no. “Not as horrible as I was expecting,” was Mrs H.’s verdict on the Martini, which is about right. But the truth is that there is little joy to be had from this drink.

I couldn’t resist trying an Aviation (gin, maraschino, lemon juice and crème de violette), partly because it is one of my go-to cocktails for testing gins, but also, I admit, because I wanted to see what colour it would be. As you can see, between the green of the gin and the violet of the violette, it’s a rather muddy colour. Taste-wise, it is not a success, a constant argy-bargy between the delicate juniper-fruit-floral axis of the cocktail and the sulphur-savoury thrust of the gin, which elbows its way through now and then. It is not a harmonious combination; it’s a cocktail that exists in spite of its ingredients rather than because of them.

Given the vegetal nature of this drink I wondered how it would work in a Red Snapper (a gin-based Bloody Mary), and I see on their website this is indeed a recommended serve. I also wondered how it would work in a Last Word (gin, lime juice, maraschino and green Chartreuse). But by now I’d used up about half of my 20cl so I had to choose my experiments carefully. I made up a scaled-down Last Word and I do think that it is a place where this gin can feel accepted, its savoury intensity standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the herbal intensity of the green Chartreuse. With both the Chartreuse and the maraschino it is potentially quite a sweet cocktail, but the gin keeps making savoury, almost salty, sallies on to your tongue. Having said that, Mrs H. still made a face like Beelzebub had just tried to steal her tongue. She is not a fan.

A G&T made with the sprout gin

It seemed sensible to try this gin in a straightforward G&T. From my earlier experiences I guessed that adding the tonic would stir up a hornets’ nest of sulphurous swamp tones, but in fact it worked better than I expected; there’s a mysterious synergy between the tonic and the gin. The recommended garnish is a strip of cucumber; in fact cucumber and elderflower crop up as key ingredients in a number of the showcase drinks, which gives you some idea of exactly how the sproutiness translates into a gin flavour. As you can see, I bowed to that suggestion and garnished my drink with a long strip of cucumber peel and a single, noble sprout. You can, of course, immediately pick up the sprout-note on the nose, though I must concede that there is something in common between the sprouts and the cucumber. However, after much consideration I would have to say that the cucumber does not emerge well from the association; while we tend to think of cucumber as fresh and herbal in a zingy way, this drink, while not repulsive, does seem to emphasise less pleasant botanical associations. It’s as if the cucumber has fallen in with a bad crowd, that brings out its less pleasant side.

Would I recommend Pickering’s Brussel sprout gin? No. Although it has some polish, you ultimately find yourself longing for the underlying gin without the sprouts in it. If you fall into the camp of those who actively like sprouts (and I do), and you like herbal, savoury gins, you might want to try this one. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Test Valley Gin

In the Hampshire market town of Romsey to visit my elderly mother-in-law a few weeks ago, we were hunting for lunch among the tentatively opening shops (it’s a place with an ageing population, so I guess they have to be careful in COVID times). In a deli that I’d not set foot in before I noticed a display of local gins (inevitably these days, I suppose). One that caught my eye was Test Valley Gin, from Wessex Spirits.

They don’t give much away on the label other than that the botanicals include fresh herbs—I wondered if these were infused post-distillation, as the gin has a pale yellow hue. The gin’s website doesn’t elaborate much more, other than to mention fresh basil and thyme specifically (and they do indeed use the word “infused”).

Uncork the bottle and you are not overwhelmed by aroma—maybe a hint of orange. In the glass the bouquet is herbaceous with a sweet and aromatic angle. Knowing that there is thyme involved I can believe that this is the source, and perhaps the basil contributes to the sweet fragrance. I happen to have a sprig of fresh thyme to hand from the garden, and the fragrance is not the same, but related. There is a savoury woodiness too, and something vaguely salty like olives—in this respect the gin reminds me somewhat of Gin Mare. And as it opens up in the glass I’m sure I’m getting off wafts of something low and honky like bananas.

So a pretty complex nose. On the tongue it is immediately soft and sweet, with a delicate sappy herbal note, lingering pungently like watercress, and a sugary weight. Despite being diluted to a bottling strength of just 37.5% ABV (the minimum permissible for a gin, so I guess done to keep the duty as low as possible) it has a respectably long finish.

I try Test Valley in a Martini with Belsazar Dry vermouth: straightaway there seems to be a natural harmony between the herbaceous character of the gin and the botanicals in the vermouth, with the two ingredients forming a continuum, a wide vegetal vista on the tongue, plus a sweet, buttery mouthfeel. I initially mixed and tasted it without chilling, and I would say that any application of ice—whether shaken or stirred—has the disadvantage of of diluting what is already a fairly dilute gin, washing away some of the flavour. (Some stronger gins actually benefit from a bit of dilution and only really come into their own with a bit of ice, but not this one.) A solution might be what DTS calls the Diamond Method, keeping the gin in the freezer, but at 37.5% ABV I think that Test Valley Gin would start to freeze, unless you are able to have a dedicated booze freezer set to an ideal temperature.*

I also try a Negroni, though the results are less exciting. The gin certainly harmonises with the vermouth and Campari, but at equal parts it gets a bit lost, and even at 1½ parts gin it’s still hard to pick out.

A Test Valley G&T with prescribed thyme garnish

Although Test Valley do suggest a Martini as a suitable serve, their first choice is a G&T, garnished with a spring of thyme. It certain works, with that herbal character sitting comfortably with the tonic (Fevertree Light is my go-to). But I do find you have to add quite a bit of gin before the distinct flavour comes through—again this is probably a reflection of the niggardly ABV. So in my opinion a Martini is probably the best platform for this gin, making an intriguing and savoury beverage.

* Of course this is something you can turn to your advantage. I first discovered this issue with Bombay Dry/Bombay Original, which I prefer to Bombay Sapphire. In the past it was hard to come by in the UK, but when you found it it was a respectable ABV; now it has been relaunched here as the brand’s entry product they have reduced the strength to 37.5% to keep the price down. In order to avoid further dilution from ice, I tried keeping it in the freezer and found that it does indeed start to form ice crystal inside the bottle. However, I realised that if I quickly emptied the liquid contents into a jug, warmed the bottle to melt the ice left inside, poured the meltwater away, then decanted the gin back into the bottle, I had simply removed some of the water, leaving a higher ABV gin behind. Sure enough, after doing this a couple of times the problem goes away, as the residual liquid is presumably now alcoholic enough to resist freezing—and you end up with a more concentrated flavour.

However, I don’t know if some flavour component might be lost with the ice. So it occurs to me now that, instead of melting the ice then just pouring it away, you could actually use that meltwater to make ice cubes that you could then use to make your Martinis! Crikey, sometimes my genius astounds me.

Drinking off the land

The final version

Of course foraging is a bit of a Thing these days (doubtless part of the whole trend for “artisan” everything, slow living, etc). But I still find it rather uplifting to be able to cook with and eat something I have just found growing wild. It doesn’t come up much here in London, but often on holiday in more rural bits of Britain I’ll be able to gather wild garlic or marsh samphire (and, on one occasion, rock samphire—though I wouldn’t recommend that). This time round, while stomping around Cornwall’s Penwith peninsula (the most westerly part of mainland Britain) we were surrounded by blackberry bushes—every country path was bordered by them and they are equally happy popping up at the edge of a car park or road. These wild ones were not generally as sweet as the huge commercial ones you can buy in supermarkets, but it did seem a waste not to do something with them.

The Mk I with berries but no mint

So I made myself a sort of Bramble cocktail. This Dick Bradsell creation is normally made with gin, lemon juice, sugar syrup and crème de mure, but I used fresh blackberry juice instead of the liqueur. It worked pretty well, though I think you have to get the balance between gin and fruit right, to keep the juniper in its place. (I was using Tanqueray.)

But we also found fresh water mint growing by a stream near to where we were staying: it was rather tasty, with a zippy, almost mentholic mint flavour. So my next experiment was a sort of Southside Fizz—gin, lime juice and sugar syrup as before, but this time with about a heaped teaspoon of mint, chopped then muddled with the lime and syrup, before adding the gin, ice and—in the absence of soda water—a little tonic. (Without the mixer it is just a Southside.) This was actually more successful, with the mint flavour clear and refreshing.

But the best was yet to come. For my final experiment I combined both of these ideas into one cocktail—to great effect, I felt, as the blackberries and the mint have a natural harmony. (I also felt the that the blackberries sat more comfortably with the gin, which may just mean I got the proportions right: sadly I had no measuring equipment with me, so the proportions here are an estimate.)

The Mk II, Southside Fizz

Forager Cocktail
45ml gin
Juice of half a lime
About 1–1½ tsp sugar syrup
1 heaped tsp chopped water mint (although I’m sure it would work with other kinds of mint)
About 30 wild blackberries (fewer if using larger commercial berries)

Add the mint to a glass with the syrup and lime juice and muddle to extract the flavour. Add the berries and muddle until reduced to a pulp. Strain (rubbing through the strainer if necessary, to release all the juice) into another glass, filled with ice, or into a shaker and shake with ice then pour into a cocktail glass. Garnish with mint, a lime wedge, or a blackberry. I was constructing this in the kitchen of a rented cottage, so I had no shaker or special equipment, but I imagine you could use a food processor to purée the berries, but they will still need straining, as they contain a lot of seeds.

A cocktail fit for a Queen

Recycling again. I liked this Charles Merser & Co. Rum bottle so much I hung on to it after I drank its contents, and I’ve now had the perfect opportunity to find a use for it: for my sister’s 50th birthday I knocked up a batch of this regal-looking cocktail.

(The name I’ve given the cocktail is a reference to Queenie in the TV sitcom Blackadder II—she’s a capricious Queen Elizabeth I with the soul of a toddler, whose response whenever someone suggests she can’t or shouldn’t do something is, “Who’s Queen?” This phrase became associated with my sister so long ago I can’t remember why…)

Although eminently suited to a golden jubilee, the concoction itself is actually based on a cocktail invented in 1935 for George V’s silver jubilee, called a Jubileesha. The original contains ⅔ gin and ⅓ “Lillet”, plus three dashes of orange bitters. At the time “Lillet” would have been Kina Lillet, an aromatised wine with quinine in it, so notably bitter. Kina Lillet was a popular cocktail ingredient back in the day but in the 1980s Lillet discontinued it and replaced it with the current Lillet range—it’s generally agreed that Lillet Blanc (sweet and orangey) isn’t the same thing. Even if you’ve never tasted Kina Lillet—which I haven’t, but many scholars have—you can tell from making vintage cocktails that Lillet Blanc doesn’t work in those recipes. There are various theories about what currently-available product is closest to Kina Lillet, and I feel that Cocchi Americano does seem to fill the gap—in the sense that, used in the same proportions in these vintage recipes, it creates balanced cocktails.

I actually wrote about this cocktail before, back in 2012 when we had a Candlelight Club event themed around the Queen’s jubilee that year. But I didn’t simply replace the Kina Lillet with Cocchi Americano—I actually used a half and half mix of Cocchi and Lillet Blanc. I can’t remember why I decided that a Lillet Blanc/Cocchi Americano blend worked better than just the Cocchi on its own—it’s quite exposed in this recipe, so maybe I decided that this blend dialled down the bitterness and added some needed sweet and fruity elements. I certainly feel that it works, though. As for the gin, this time round I actually tried four different gins that I had to hand, and concluded that Broker’s gin worked best. It’s a gin I intend to explore in greater depth.

So the recipe this time is:

Who’s Queen?
50 ml gin
12.5 ml Cocchi Americano
12.5 ml Lillet Blanc
3 dashes orange bitters
1 dash grapefruit bitters

Shake all ingredients with ice and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with strips of lemon and orange peel.

As you can see, for this bottled version we upped the ante by adding edible gold leaf, which creates a regal snow-globe effect when you shake the bottle. To serve this version you would shake the bottle to distribute the leaf, then pour out the desired quantity into a shaker, shake with ice and pour out—this time without fine-straining. Interestingly the gold leaf doesn’t seem to get stuck in the shaker as long as you pour it out vigorously.

Cornish gin update 2.0

Back in Cornwall last summer I popped once again into John’s Liquor Cellar in St Ives to see if they had any new local gins in. What they suggested this time was Caspyn Midsummer Dry Gin, made by Pocketful of Stones who have a distillery just outside Penzance in Long Rock. In fact the man behind the distillery is a displaced South African, Shaun Bebington, but the lure of the coastal life he grew up with drew him from London where he’d been running a pub. The name Caspyn came from a Neolithic stone circle near the distillery: it’s actually called the Merry Maidens—apparently Bebington misread a sign that was actually an acronym: CASPN, “Cornish Ancient Sites Protection Network”, but by the time he realised his mistake the gin was named.

I was immediately taken by it: the nose is a perfumed tapestry of citrus and other fruits—blueberries, pears, melons—with cucumber and dry spice like cumin. On the tongue it is fruity and spicy, with a curious salty finish (what could be more Cornish than that?). The cucumber is not a coincidence: the very pale green colour of the gin is because fresh cucumbers are infused in it. In a Martini it intrigues with a combination of floral perfume on the nose and a relatively savoury, vegetal palate, again with that very subtle briny finish.

In fact the Midsummer gin is a relatively recent addition, a development from the original Caspyn Cornish Dry Gin (the suggestion is that the Midsummer is nothing more than the original Dry Gin with those cucumbers infused in it). This brings us back to the old question of what makes, or might make, a gin intrinsically Cornish—last time I idly suggested gorse and brine, and Caspyn does indeed have gorse in it, which they say combines with orris to give a sherbet finish. (There is no suggestion of brine, but, as I say, I do get a hint of salt on the finish.)

Mind you, the other botanicals don’t seem particularly Cornish: floral hibiscus, citrus from lemon and orange peel, lemongrass and lemon verbena, Japanese tea. And it’s lemon that really hits you on the nose when you sniff the Cornish Dry, plus something vividly herbaceous; there is also a floral note, something like berries, and an earthy echo at the end, but overall the nose is bright and zingy. By comparison the nose of the Midsummer version is mellower, slightly waxy, with a definite cucumber note but also savoury hints like agave or dill pickle.

On the palate the Cornish Dry is sharp, dominated by that lemon zestiness, with a peppery finish. They do say the aim is to make it taste like a crisp Cornish spring morning, bright but cool. Again the Midsummer version is mellower, with the citric spike softened and more of a fleshy vegetal warmth. Maintaining the climatic analogies, the distillers say that the Midsummer gin is intended to evoke a hazy summer afternoon. Both gins are absorbing, with vivid flavours that reveal themselves in layers, inviting close contemplation, but if the Midsummer really has just had cucumbers bunged into to it for a while, it’s interesting how much of an effect they have had.

Of course putting cucumber into gin is not new—Hendrick’s famously do it and so do Martin Miller’s. But Hendrick’s don’t use fresh cucumber: they use a commercial essence sourced from the Netherlands (I’ve tasted it neat, and found it rather delicious). In each case it seems well established that trying to macerate cucumber prior to redistillation, as you do with normal botanicals, doesn’t work, so it has to be added after distillation. Why do Hendrick’s use an essence rather than the real thing? I guess with their multi-shot technique (essentially producing a botanical concentrate, which is then diluted with alcohol and water to boost the volume for bottling) it is perhaps too difficult to get a strong enough flavour this way. The Caspyn Midsummer certainly achieves a distinct cucumber flavour, which balances deftly with the other flavours.

I like both these Caspyn gins. After I first tasted the Midsummer I decided I wanted to post about it but, tellingly, I got through it so quickly I had to order another bottle, along with a bottle of the original Cornish Dry for comparison. As I write this both bottles are nearly empty. This tells you all need to know. They are vivid and inviting, with a smooth spirit base that makes them all too easy to drink neat.

But of course most of us don’t drink gin neat most of the time. I was afraid that the Cornish Dry’s pronounced fresh lemon effect of the lemon peel, lemongrass and lemon verbena, when combined with the citrus thrust of most tonic waters, might be too much, but in fact it works well. What seems to come out in this combination is a midrange herbal spiciness and a gentle earthy note. The Midsummer mixes with tonic to bring out the cucumber character, mellow and relaxed, again with an earthiness. It is savoury almost to the point of being like food.

In an Aviation cocktail the Cornish Dry slots effortlessly into the drink with poise and balance, though the Midsummer is perhaps a bit too bohemian and savoury for the floral/tart structure of this cocktail. In a Negroni the Cornish Dry again shows its classic credentials and works well, but again the Midsummer is a bit odd. In a straightforward Dry Martini the Cornish Dry is crisp and sharp, with a warm and slinky midrange perfume—very inviting. By direct comparison, the Midsummer again seems strikingly savoury; it’s nice but certainly not a classic Martini. I’m beginning to think the Midsummer gin’s natural place is in a G&T, which is probably how it was intended.

The Caspyn gins come in chunky, round-shouldered bottles with wood-capped corks for a high-end feel. The labels have hand-written batch numbers. The Cornish Dry features a picture of a basking shark, rather a local emblem in Cornwall, also featuring on Tarquin’s label, though I’ve never actually managed to see one in the flesh. The Midsummer Gin, somewhat bizarrely, features a picture of a hoopoe—an odd choice for a gin that is meant to evoke an English summer. Is this a reference to Bebington’s South African roots?

“I first started thinking about using the hoopoe whilst I was is Croatia doing some juniper research and one happened to cross my path,” Shaun tells me. “The hoopoe does reside in South Africa during the Southern Hemisphere summers but flies to Europe for the Northern Hemisphere summers, mostly to the countries around the Med. Occasionally they overshoot their migration route and end up in Cornwall. I’ve yet to see one but I’ve seen photos. I liked that it was symbolic of our occasional summers here in the UK and I liked the link between South Africa and Cornwall.”

The connection between South Africa and Cornwall has just got stronger, as Shaun tells me he is now making a version of Caspyn gin at West Coast Distillers in Langebaan, South Africa. “The South African version is made with South African botanicals,” Shaun explains. “They are very similar but whereas the Cornish version has Cornish lemon verbena and bergamot (Earl Grey tea) the SA version has rooibos, honeybush and citronella pelargonium, a lemon-scented geranium.” This recipe is intended only for the South African market, though Shaun tells me that he hopes to bring the Nightshade Gin and Mutiny Bitters made at Langebaan over to the UK.

My (virtually empty) miniature of Penzance Bathtub Gin

For reasons I forget, we stepped into a deli in Penzance, and I noticed they were selling a “Penzance Bathtub Gin”. OK, I thought, I’ll bite. But for how much? Even a tiny 50ml sample bottle was £8—the equivalent of £112 for a 70cl bottle. You’ll be pleased to hear that, if you like the stuff, you can get a better deal by buying a larger bottle now from their website, though it looks as if changes have been afoot. When I got my sample last summer it was (as you can see from the photo) sold as a bathtub gin—the joke being that Penzance’s famous Art Deco lido, the Jubilee Pool, made it a town with a vast bathtub. (And since Prohibition bathtub gin dated from the same era as the Pool, all the more reason for Penzance to have its own version.) But I see that they are now selling it simply as “Penzance Gin”—the label design has the same image of the lido, but the word “bathtub” has been removed. But I will assume for now that it is made in the same way.

I wondered which distillery had made the gin, but the label simply said it had been made in association with the Cornish Hen. Which turned out to be the deli where I’d bought it. So seemingly a very local, handmade thing. The website says it was dreamed up by three friends over a few drinks at a local pub quiz.

The current label, shown on the website

As you can tell from the colour, this is an infused gin. They have clearly bought neutral grain spirit (or perhaps just vodka from the supermarket), macerated it in their own botanical blend, and sold it on. Nothing wrong with that. Would you want to pay £8 for 50ml? Well, I wouldn’t. It is very strange stuff: on the nose there is a strong orange citrus note, but combined with something wheaty that reminds me overall of orange Club biscuits from my youth. In fact the citrus is so strongly combined with notes of wheat, and even butter, that it profoundly suggests lemon drizzle cake.

The makers do not say what goes into it, other than that it features gorse. The palate seems clumsy after the Caspyn, with the same orange peel and wheat flavours in a rather thin, astringent spirit base. And, if I’m honest, I don’t feel there is much about it that reminds me of gin. But the product seems to have taken off rapidly in a way that makes it possible the current product is not quite the same as the batch I tasted.

Caspyn Cornish Dry and Caspyn Midsummer can by bought widely online for about £39. Penzance Gin can by bought from penzancegin.co.uk for £38.