Dean Bitterman

Bitter, sweet. Surrender.

What:
Bitters (Grapefruit Bitters in particular)

How:
ORIGINAL – VENEZUELA, 1824

MODERN – Apotheke, New York City, early winter 2008

Why:
The very first drink I ever ordered happened to be a Manhattan. Disgusting. Granted, I was just 17. Bellied up to a table at the vaunted Golden Bowl – South Quincy’s finest Chinese food restuarant, which has since turned into a condo complex – with my buddy Vinny, we proceeded to order what we felt like would come across as “veteran” drinks. He a Tequila Sunrise, I a Manhattan. Real veteran. Clearly we weren’t new to this whole drinking thing. We would have been smoother had we pretended to be a couple and shared a jumbo Suffering Bastard. But I digress.

Failed attamepts at choking back the spare Manhattan (I couldn’t even eat the Maraschino cherry) aside, I really am a bit of an alcohol purist. I’d sooner publicly self-inflict each act of torture volleyed forth and back by Rae and Meth in the opening lines of “Method Man” than drink anything the least bit Appletinian. And aside from a lime in my Tecate (I am a staunch anti-Scurvyan), I don’t believe fruit has much place in the lexicon of beer intake.

Granted, I’m no prude – I’ll gladly venture down the higher octane roads of Navy rums, real English gins, cask strength single malt, etc., but I tend to try and let more traditional ingredients be the treats, while the alcohol itself does the trick. And it’s been like that. Ever since I developed a true taste for booze – not, mind you, simply the ability to suppress the gag reflex first associated with alcoholic intake, but a true palate for adult drinks – I have skewed a bit toward old man drinks: Scotch, first with soda, then on the rocks, and now neat (and in increasingly peaty contexts) with a splash of spring water to disperse the oil. Vodka martinis (preferably on the rocks, and, if I may innovate for a bit, dirtied up with artisinal PICKLE JUICE). Maybe a Southside come the warmer weather.

Not the only thing in life re: which I tend to skew old man. If there were an emoticon for waving an admonishing fist out the window at “the young people” and their mouth-breathing, clueless, auto-tune-loving ways, suffice it to say 80% of my emails would include it in some form. But now a touch of old man is cool, thanks to the recent renaissance in cocktail making. And allelujah to that. Seems everywhere you look, a new band of ironicly-moustachioed mixologists (hate that word, but love their vocation) are rolling up their shirtsleeves to shake, swizzle, and serve what are often utterly brilliant concoctions to patrons thirsting for something other than the typical rum & coke fare.

Heavily featured in this trend, and benefitting greatly from this new dawn of drink-making, alongside moustache wax, are Bitters. Historically sold by druggists, often wrapped in tan parchment-like paper and with an average shelf-life longer than Encycolpedia Brittanica volumes prior to 1994, Bitters should by all appearances be obselete. Looking more like something your grandfather bought at the butcher shop to put on the cut your dad got on his foot when he stepped on that rusty nail sticking out of his box scooter, the farthest thing one thinks of is often “sprinkle some of that into my drink please”. But in spite of all that, or more accurately because of that, Bitters are, truly, back.

And glory be. They ooze character. I know I saw them in nearly every parents’ liquor cabinet growing up, but never really understood what they were. They can taste like anything from an air freshener to concentrated citrus oil to your great grandmother’s fail-safe croop remedy. Mostly because that’s what they once were. Invented as an herbal tonic to settle stomachs, the ingredients in bitters help break down food and promote digestion. They are easy on your constitution. They provide the type of grown-folks base to true alcoholic drinks – drinks that were drunk by men who ate cigars for breakfast and rabbit for dinner and smoked at work – that make you feel like an adult instead of some overgrown frat boy bitching about the lack of Girl Talk on the jukebox.

Real deal. And similar to how eating an oyster places one into a historical context that goes as far back as the earliest settling of this country, so too do Bitters. They are ‘Ye Olde’. In a goode waye. And thanks to modern technology and this current trend toward all things artisinal and small-batch, companies like Fee Brothers (any company that has existed continuously in Rochester, NY since 1863 is due some sort of medal of honor) can now offer several innovative, yet traditional variations on the old standard Angostura/herbal bitter to a mass audience and frankly we’re all better off for it. Grapefruit is tasty. And Rhubarb? What is more olde schoole than rhubarb?!

At a time in our country’s history when shitty untalented losers are exhalted on TV and paid $5 milly a year to effectively do little more than put gel in their hair or start cat-fights with other equally vapid wastes-of-healthy-organs, Bitters offer an old school break from the Vodka & Red Bull lifestyle in which we are currently awash. Essentially, Bitters give us a way to sample tasty drinks without feeling like an extra on Sex & the City, or someone your grandfather would want to murder. Simple yet flavorful. Innovative yet utilitarian. With a touch of historical context. I’ll drink to that.