Vesper Martini (Handmade Cocktail Company)

Most kids dream of finding Scaletrix cars or G.I. Joe in their Christmas stockings.  I dream of getting bottles of ready-mixed cocktails.  Luckily, this year, my dream came true.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Vesper, courtesy of the Handmade Cocktail Company.

If you're going to be thoroughly cynical (something I am wont to be) it's effectively nothing more than a bottle of gin, vodka and vermouth mixed together, bottled and shipped out to those gullible few who ardently believe that the whole is greater than sum of the parts – and who are happy to pay a premium for that whole.  If you're being cynical.

The problem with that analysis is that the cynic really is wrong here.  Sorry, just plain wrong.  Because this is truly lovely stuff.

The Handmade Cocktail Company's Vesper is one of the best I've had – genuinely.  With great ease and simplicity, I could be back in Christopher's – or any other high end cocktail bar for that matter – sipping at what is, without a doubt, a fantastic martini.  The ease and simplicity are factors I can't, in all honesty, ignore: all you have to do is fill a pitcher with ice, add an overly generous glug of liquor, stir (or shake, if you want to go really OO7), and pour.  Add a twist if you're feeling up the task (oh the strain!) or an olive or two if you're feeling rambunctious.

If you've watched the film (or, better still, read the book – it's the first and the best) of Casino Royale you'll know how the drink came into being.  Bond turns to a waiter and orders thus:

"Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?"

Brought alive in the fantastic film adaptation…

The Vesper is therefore unique in being neither a gin martini (or just 'a martini', as I’d have it if I had my way) nor a vodka martini – it's made from both.  Here they offset each other nicely – the gin shines through, but is not overpowering; the vodka gives it that slight oily texture that (in this context) works.  From its colour, I’d say that there's plenty of vermouth in there, but fear not: this is still a dry martini, without a doubt.

I've no idea what the gin or vodka – or the vermouth, for that matter – are.  And I'm not sure I care.  Bond is quite specific, true, but mixing a modern day Vesper is impossible: Gordon's is much weaker than it was (although pick up a bottle in Duty Free next time you're wandering through the terminal – Gordon's Export Strength is reputedly what it used to be), whilst Kina Lillet has ceased to exist.  There's a lot of stuff out there on the internet saying use Lillet Blanc, Kina's supposed predecessor, but be warned: close research suggests that it's actually very different.  The point of this?  Well, I guess it doesn’t much matter anymore whether the authentic ingredients are used, all that matters is this: what the Handmade Cocktail Company have put together is magic.

The Vesper – and all Handmade Cocktail Company products - is available through Master of Malt  (who appear to be the guys who also run the Times Whiskey Club – there are just too many similarities).  It seems pretty hard to get hold of elsewhere, so I'd start there if you're keen.

I'm a total convert to the Handmade Cocktail Company and its range of drinks.  I am chomping at the bit to try their Old Fashioned – will keep you all in the loop when I do.

Until then, get yourself a bottle of Vesper.  Stir over ice and serve straight up with a twist of lemon peel.  Sit back and enjoy, Mr Bond.

- GrubsterBoy -

Rhubodka

It is most definitely forced rhubarb season.

There’s something really funny – almost dirty – about the term ‘forced rhubarb’.  But it’s effectively the luscious, sweet-sour pink stuff that we all really know and love as rhubarb.  It’s in season from December through to February, so we’re kind towards the end of this year’s run – but it’s not too late to still grab some!

For me, each year, that means one thing: Rhubodka, a glorious fusion of vodka and rhubarb, making a delicate liqueur.  It’s spectacularly easy to make, as well (like most infused alcohol drinks, like sloe gin or damson vodka / gin).

Ingredients:

500g forced rhubarb

250g granulated white sugar

1 litre vodka (Doesn’t need to be anything particularly fancy, but stay away from that Tesco’s blue & white stripe stuff, yeah?)

You’re also going to need a 2 litre mason / Kilner jar – something big, and solidly built (this last part is actually essential for this recipe).

Just a quick note on how to buy rhubarb: I could wax lyrical about this stuff all day, but I won’t (count yourself lucky).  It’s fantastic stuff (Is it a fruit? Or a vegetable? Or, even, a salad?) and should be treated well.  Just a follow a few rules: get bring, pink, healthy looking stalks, preferably from Yorkshire, which is the Mecca of rhubarb.  Also, the more spindly the stalk, the more pink there is in proportion to the rest of the fruit – which means the more of a beautiful, delicate pink colour the liqueur will end up.

Oh, one thing: Don’t eat the leaves.  They contain oxalic acid, which is toxic. 

1. First, sterilize your jars – wash them thoroughly in warm, slightly soapy water, then leave them to drip dry for half an hour in the oven at 130-140°.  Get them out (wear oven gloves) and let them cool right down.

2. Wash the rhubarb thoroughly, and then chop it into chunky chunks. 

3. Chuck the chunks into the jar and, using the end of a rolling pin or something similar, roughly crush the rhubarb chunks.  You’re not looking to totally macerate them, just mess them up a bit to release some of the juice and maximize the surface area for the vodka to interact with.

4. Add the sugar, close the jar, and shake like billy-oh.  Make sure that the sugar and the fruit are really combined.

5. Add the vodka, close the jar up tight again, and shake again. 

6. Keep shaking every day for the first week or so.  Then you can take it easy, provided that all of the sugar has dissolved into the liqueur.  Leave the mixture for about 3 months, then strain.  Fortunately, this is one of those mixtures that, because there is no seed or pith in rhubarb, leaving it too long is unlikely to cause a massive issue.  Also, it’s much, much quicker than the sloe or damson mixtures – it can be drunk immediately it’s strained, and can even be strained sooner than 3 months if you’re desperate. 

Drink straight, over ice, or with tonic water in a 3:1 ratio.  You can vary the recipe as well – it works well with a half-thumb-sized bit of peeled root ginger, sliced and mixed in.  Or, alternatively, throw a couple of sprigs of rosemary in there and see how you come out.

But, most of all, enjoy.

- GrubsterBoy -

Nikita's

Recently, GrubsterGirl and I have been celebrating some rather special news.  Not that it's particularly relevant, but it is how we managed to find ourselves out for dinner the other night with some old friends.  For weeks – literally, both friend and I are rather disorganised, could not get it together – restaurant recommendations and proposed dates went back and forth.  Then suddenly I found myself remembering that there was a place I had been dead keen on going to for a while: Nikita's.

Nikita's is a Russian-themed restaurant.  I think.  No, in fact, I'm sure.  There are a lot of giveaways – the copious amounts of vodka on offer (I counted 32, which is more types of vodka than I actually thought existed), the Russian folk music, the caviar, or the Russian Orthodox Church themed bar.  No, really, they have a Russian Orthodox Church themed bar. 

Much fussing and debating was had about drinks to start.  Eventually it was held that vodka was a requirement (it would feel churlish to go and not have vodka) and a carafe of the Krepkaya was ordered up – not realising, of course, that we had requested a pretty lethal species of the spirit.  It arrived, in all its glory, encased in a full-on block of ice, the restaurant's particular party trick. 

To accompany our food we also ordered up a bottle of Montenegrin 2007 Vranac.  Yes, actually.  But again, why wouldn’t you, in a Russian restaurant?  Well, it turns out that there are a number of reasons, actually, but the best being that we could have achieved much the same effect if we'd just ordered a bottle of Ribena – in terms of colour and taste.  It's not hard, I'm afraid, to guess from this wine why Montenegro hasn’t gone on to dominate the international wine market. 

For starters, I had pirozhki (пирожки) – little pastry pillows, some stuffed with sausage meat and others stuffed with spinach and cream.  Nice enough, if rather bland.

GrubsterGirl ordered herself pelmeni (пельмень), which is described on the menu as "traditional dough parcels filled with fresh herbs and minced meat, served with sour cream and buillon soup".  In fact, I was on the cusp of ordering the same for myself, until I had vivid flashbacks to a 2001 trip to Moscow during which, at the equivalent of a cream tea, I bit into an attractive looking donut that turned out to be filled with watery, stewed cabbage.  Trust me, that sort of thing puts one off experimenting with any Russian foods described as "traditional dough parcels filled with…"
What arrived was far from a cabbage donut, and appeared (as you can see) more like tortellini.  Still, again nice but bland.

For mains, GG attempted the govjazhij farsh s komponentami.  Try saying that clearly after a couple of slugs of overproof vodka and Montenegrin wine.  Don’t worry, she didn’t try to: it's basically steak tartare, which is how she ordered it.  Not the most Russian of dishes, I hear you cry?  No, but it was Anna Pavlova's favourite – not, in fact, the eponymous pudding.

Establishing a general theme of the food, the tartare was nice enough without being anything special.  And, as the picture shows, it was served with Hovis – no speciality bread or carefully sourced loaf here.   I felt slightly disappointed – an attempt to source some Russian black bread or sculpt a blini might have been a nice tough.  But, then again, perhaps there's something rather (stereotypically) Russian about that – all the luxury (steak, caviar, vodka) in a rough and ready style, without the finishing touches. 

What's more, my own main, I'm pleased to say, departed from the norm to which I was becoming accustomed.  I recalled visiting Novosibirsk (capital of Siberia, no less) a few years back for a conference, during which time my fellow delegates and I were whisked around town in a motorcade, taken to expensive restaurants, fed and watered almost endlessly, and generally fussed over.  At one meal, about three quarters of the way through the week, I tried to refuse food.  VERY BAD FORM, it turned out, and so I tried to order the lightest thing on the menu: a pancake filled with chicken livers with a cream sauce.  (It speaks volumes, I think, about the style of food we were eating that that was the lightest option).

The result was pure heaven, and still one of the best dishes I have ever eaten.  So when I saw something vaguely approaching that on the menu – described as "best fillet steak, wrapped in a light pancake, served with a mushroom, onion, and red pepper vodka sauce" (I just love that it's described as "best fillet steak'"  Say it in a Russian accent and you'll get what I mean.) I simply could not resist.  And it was fantastic.  Soft, tender fillet, doused in a rich, mushroomy sauce topped with its pancake.  You'd think the pancake wouldn't work, or might be an unnecessary addition.  You’d be wrong; it adds a certain je ne sais quoi that shouldn’t be missed.  Govjazhij stejk v souse (meaning, I think, fillet steak and sauce, which is a pretty accurate description as these things go) it had to be.

Pudding, however, was a reversion to form, or even a slip.  For me it was apple strudel, really as plain as plain can be.

GG's pudding was that famous pavlova.  Now, I'm not actually a kitchen tyrant that demands making everything from scratch – in fact, I have a great pavlova ice cream recipe that frankly insists on pre-made meringues.  But, seriously, in a restaurant such blatant piling of Asda's finest is cutting it a little high.

All round, I liked Nikita's it's kind of hard not to – it's not about the food, which is pretty average, to be honest, it's about the atmosphere.  It's about the fun, the booze, the down-at-heel luxury, the Russian staff who can’t understand a word you say, the faded majesty, the over-the-top setting, and the crazy, drunken accordionist, Roman Yuchenko who's the spitting image of Teddy Heath and who serenades you throughout dinner. 

Would I change anything?  Yes, one thing: I'd go with a huge gang of friends.  More vodka, more noise, singalong accordion-ing, the works. 

Tucked away in a residential backstreet in Brompton, on a street that a young Tony Blair used to live, no less, is a proper gem.  But it's more a party gem than a dinner for two gem.

 - GrubsterBoy -