Preface

When I penned the first edition of Vintage Spirits & Forgotten Cocktails in the early 2000s, we were on the cusp of something … something that I encouraged, but still could not fully intuit. To jump back a bit, I initially focused on the cocktail recipes in vintage books, in the late 1980s. Then it was like listening to a crackling 78 rpm record—dim voices from another time. To say classically styled cocktails were a rarity then was (and is) an understatement. Bar stemware typically consisted of three variations of wineglasses, and martinis were usually vodka, served on the rocks with no hint of vermouth. As the 1990s dawned, a veritable worship of cocktail culture emerged. Every drink served in a stemmed cocktail glass became a “martini.” The Rat Pack, swanky lounge music, and the decor of the late 1950s defined the drink in your hand, and the liquor companies defined what was in the drink. I saw New York City moving beyond this theater with a few miragelike hideaways where my dreams of cocktail paradise were reflected in drinks that weren’t simulated, artificially colored, or preserved. In a word, they were real. I noted, with certain glad wonderment, the same thing happening in Seattle.

Yet, in Los Angeles, getting anything other than a sweet non-Martini-martini of one sort or another remained elusive. Oh, there was the rare venue, like Duplex, or Cinnabar, or Watergrill, that did everything right and had a great vintage cocktail list, but some of these enthusiastic pioneers could not retain the imaginations of their bartenders after the first blush of interest. Some places simply closed, and others relinquished their cocktail aspirations, moving back into more familiar territory. It just seemed like the timing wasn’t right. The interests I had and had seen reflected in the many devotees with whom I corresponded across the country had not achieved the critical mass required to explode on the scene in a way the broader public recognized or embraced.

Some of us quietly wondered whether the cocktail resurgence was a passing fancy already at its zenith. My book, the first edition of this book, was born, optimistically, exactly then. In it, I spoke with an utter sincerity that I still have now. I said my piece, railing at immature tastes and fixed ideas … vermouth is bad, liquor should be disguised, good equals sweet, and a good deal meant large, larger, largest. I argued for the past as a foundation for the future. I was firmly committed to what that book would be and very clear about the stance it would take. My beloved editor, Mary Ann Hall (then and now), advocated for my vision and my voice. I had to say a number of things that simply needed to be said. Oh yes, I was passionate.

Yet when journalists or cocktail royalty visited LA, I blanched. “Sorry, if you want a decent cocktail here, you’d better be willing to drink during the day because the best bartenders are in their seventies or eighties and don’t like to drive at night because of macular degeneration.” The great Tiki bartender Tony Ramos mixed Mojitos and alcoholic bebidas one or two day shifts a week at Ciudad. That restaurant, with its wonderfully creative chef/owners, never grasped exactly what (and who) they had behind the bar. They never stopped to consider that pressing this historic statesman of the bar into the mold of what they wanted their restaurant to be like could do a disservice to both Ramos and the drink magic he might’ve continued to do unfettered. Had they recognized the bar as half of the creativity and pleasure of their menu, Ciudad might’ve presented some of the finest mixed drinks inSouthern California—and beyond.

Jason McDonald of Cinnabar embraced the classic cocktail, but when he moved to New York, no one with such facility replaced him. Eventually they closed. When it came to bartending, it wasn’t always an owner’s lack of respect for the craft; without a continuum—a professional/creative support system—sadly it was often a lack of self-respect. LA still had some great old places … Musso & Frank’s, the Tiki Ti, the Polo Lounge, the great Fernando at Les Freres Taix, but they made only the classic standards, if expertly, and unless you were willing or able to guide them through the lost wonders of drink history with an antique bar guide and a bottle of orange bitters, even there you were out of luck. My house was the best drink in town.

Little did I realize before this book came out in 2004 that the cocktail scene was not at its zenith; it was simply at a crest … like the top of a roller coaster just before all hell breaks loose. And that is when Vintage Spirits & Forgotten Cocktails saw print. It is hardly possible to grasp all the changes that we’ve seen since. My formerly private passion is now reflected in the faces of earnest and accomplished bartenders all over the world, young and old, male and female, professional and avocational. The Internet forums and fledgling blogs amplified this renaissance with rousing fanfares. In fact, they changed everything.

I now find myself in the entirely comfortable position of being less sage and more student—from lone voice to all ears. As I hoped (but hardly anticipated), these chroniclers, mixographers, and artisans used Vintage Spirits & Forgotten Cocktails as a foundation upon which to explore lost drinks and the arcane chemistries behind them. Then, off like rockets they went. Learning, instructing, finding, unearthing … now I learn from them.

In a previously revised edit of this book, I added an appendix (“Pioneers of the Forgotten Cocktail,” shown here) profiling the people that changed history: the architects of the lively discussion forums and weblogs. Their voices and those of their readerships influenced recipes, bartending, and even the spirits industry, which, in rare form, embraced the new paradigm and began making decisions based on the uncommonly thoughtful buzz they were receiving. It’s time the world got to know these voices.

We’ve reached critical mass. Let’s enjoy it and see where it takes us.

– Ted Haigh, 2019