An excellent Martini concocted by the fabulous foragers of Native Restaurant.
A quick one for you, today: Native. Amy and I had an excellent supper there, a couple of daysweeks months ago. I could probably spout a few hundred words on the food, but let’s keep the focus boozy, shall we? Let’s talk about the Native Martini.
Which is rather good. I’ve not had Mermaid Gin, which is what they use, but the magic here comes from the pickled samphire. Native’s schtick is foraged stuff, and the samphire makes conceptual sense as a result. It also (more importantly) makes flavour sense, adding a fabulously fresh note of the sea. The sourness of the pickle is subtle but noticeable, in some ways doubling down on vermouth’s role in a standard martini.
Judging from the texture of the drink, it’d been shaken rather than stirred — at which news, some tiresome old bugger will probably cry ‘sacrilege!’ or blather on about ‘bruising the gin’, but that’s nonsense, innit? What does happen when a martini is shaken (not stirred) is that you get lots of tiny ice shards in it and (if it is shaken long) you may also end up with more dilution.
I normally stir my martinis but shaken makes a nice change. Native’s was quite dilute, both as a result of meltage and the inclusion of the samphire pickle liquid. That meant it made for a softer, gentler version of the classic: deliciously fresh. And a lovely amuse bouche for what followed.
Today. Today is not a good day, and was never going to be a good day. Today is a day on which to find objects of gratitude rather than (as is the temptation) of rage.
So, today, I bought sardines.
Sardines, four of the buggers — whole — for under £1.50, are the kind of thing I buy whenever I see them — irrespective of weather, mood or recent national tragedy. Sardines are the polar opposite of the choice in front of me on yesterday’s ballot paper: you can’t go wrong with sardines.
Today, you want a largely hands-free dinner, don’t you? So you can concentrate on drinking. Sardines are your friend. As is roast cauliflower. This is pretty much my favourite way to eat what can be a somewhat dull vegetable. Rather than boiling it, I break it into chunks (not too small) and leaves (for Christ’s sake, don’t throw away the leaves) and chuck it onto a baking tray. Slosh over plenty of olive oil, season with your characteristic generosity, and whack into an oven at 180 degrees centigrade or so (200 for a conventional oven) for 25 minutes. The leaves crisp up and the florets brown. When it comes out of the oven, squeeze a good quarter of lemon over it and serve.
Meanwhile, the sardines. You wipe them clean of any stray scales, lay them on your grill, season and grill under a high heat. The skin blisters and blackens after a few minutes. Turn them and do the same on the other side. Then you’re done.
I had mine, today, with a glass or four of the Wine Society’s very good White Rioja. Lemony, dry, full.
Still, though, somehow — at the end of it — I still had a bitter taste in my mouth.
With Brexit slouching towards Britain to be born, a couple of jokers vying for the helm of the sinking ship that is the United Kingdom, and a low-functioning sociopath clogging up the White House’s (metaphorical?) plumbing with his (metaphorical?) shit, where the hell should you invest? A question to which, you may well believe, Old Parn devotes much thought and sage analysis. Please be aware, while reading the post that follows, that I am neither licensed nor qualified to provide investment advice, but I’m going to anyway.
These handsome jars are, I predict, one of the best investments I’ll make this year. Alongside, y’know, the emotional investment of getting married, and suchlike… But, yeah, I certainly expect the next few years’ impact on the liquid contents of these jars to be rather more benevolent than their impact on my FTSE All Share tracker fund holdings.
The trick with sloe gin is always to make more each year than you drink, allowing yourself to accumulate increasingly valuable stocks. If you’ve never tried homemade sloe gin that’s been kept for years (I mean 5, 10, perhaps longer), you won’t realise how fabulously good this drink can be. And you thought it was pretty good after one or two, didn’t you?
Best strategy of all: keep yourself going with other more short-term investments in the meanwhile, preventing you from prematurely drawing down your long-term investment. The alcoholic equivalent, I guess, of one of those fixed-term high interest savings accounts or something.
YOU WANT METAPHOR, DON’T YOU? YOU GOT IT.
This year’s short term investments are blackberry gin, greengage gin and (Amy’s concoction, this) quince brandy. Because these are all softer fruits, without the austerity and tannin of the sloe, they’re likely to be less rewarding of years spent maturing.
I shalln’t bore you with recipes, as you can Google those and I’m no expert. I just half-fill the jar with the fruit, then add gin. The important thing (in my opinion) is not to add the sugar until you’ve finished the fruit-steeping, as it’s bloody hard to get the balance right if you can’t taste what you’re doing. Once you’ve strained the liquid, you can simply make up a sugar syrup (heating equal weights of water and sugar gently in a pan until the sugar dissolves) and add it to taste.
Anyhow, that’s it. Those jars are going back in the cupboard. I guess I’ll entertain myself watching the stockmarket while I wait.
This is important. What’s more, unlike most cocktail-improving tips, it’s incredibly bloody cheap (just like you). So there’s no excuse.
The one thing you can do, right now, for very little outlay, that will make the biggest difference to your cocktails and mixed drinks is this.
Buy a good ice tray.
If you are using whatever crappy plastic excuse for a tray came with your freezer, stop it. If you are using your freezer’s auto ice dispenser, stop it. If you are buying those bags of ice from the supermarket/off-license FOR THE LOVE OF GOD stop it.
You need good ice trays, friend. Trays where the icecubes are BIG. Not just in one dimension, but in all three.
I’ve found these silicone trays are pretty good: they deliver chunky, cuboid ice at a good size for a G&T or Negroni. You can go bigger if you wish: I have this tray which makes tremendous cubes that form a delightful centrepiece to an Old Fashioned.
I am really not joking (would I?) about the quality of ice being the most transformative factor in cocktail making.
Why? Because ice melts. If ice melts too quickly, your drink is rapidly diluted and loses its punch. Four things you can do to control the speed with which this happens:
Use big ice cubes. Because physics. A single big cube has less surface area than two smaller cubes of the same volume.
Use solid, dense cubes with minimal frost. The clearer (more transparent) ice is, the denser and therefore slower-melting it will be. Notice how a snowflake melts instantly at a touch of your fingertip? That’s what the frost on an ice cube does in your drink. This is where those supermarket ice bags fall down: they are so flimsy and frosty (generally very rough in texture and hollow) that they melt appallingly quickly. Literally as soon as the liquid hits them, you can see them diminish. And the meltwater they make is quite nasty. You are adding that meltwater to your premium gin and wanky tonic.
Make sure the liquid you pour onto your ice is already fridge cold (or colder. You keep your gin in the freezer, right?)
Neck it so fast it doesn’t touch the sides.
I have drunk TOO MANY G&Ts in which all elements but ice quality were excellent: premium gins, Fever Tree Light Tonic, appropriate garnish, good gin:tonic ratio. But the ice cubes were too small, too flimsy, too frosty. Net result? Mediocre G&T.
If you make a G&T (or negroni, or cocktail of other kind) with crappy ice, I reckon you may as well just use cheap gin too. Embrace mediocrity.
But don’t do that. A couple of decent ice trays will cost you under a tenner. They will last you years. They will also look a lot better, rattle around more sonorously in your glass, and quite probably get you more friends.
The Clover Club. A magical summer cocktail that tastes just as good as it looks (and it looks bloody great). Raspberries at the ready, please.
Ah, raspberries. Perhaps my favourite summer fruit. I’m not typically an enormous advocate of fruity cocktails (I prefer ‘em punchy and boozy) but the Clover Club is an exception. A sharp, gin-fuelled affair, it is fruity in the correct way: it is not sweet, it is not banal, and the fruit isn’t masking the complexities of the alcohol.
The Clover Club is a cocktail to wheel out when you’re sitting in the garden on a sunny evening. It’s a bloody excellent crowd-pleaser, too — more accessible than a martini, and good looking to boot.
There are a bunch of different recipes, some of which involve stewing raspberries and such malarkey. Don’t bother. I think it works better (and it’s certainly a whole lot simpler) using good raspberry jam. Here’s how I do it, anyway.
Clover Club Recipe
3 parts gin (a classic London gin is best: Tanqueray, Gordon’s, etc)
1 part dry vermouth (Noilly Prat or Dolin are both good)
1½ parts lemon juice (freshly squeezed, natch)
½ part raspberry jam
Raspberry or lemon twist
Chuck the above ingredients except the last into a cocktail shaker, fill it with good chunky (solid) blocks of ice, then shake for 20 seconds or so.
Strain the resulting liquor (innit pretty?) into a cocktail glass you’ve whipped from your freezer (a Nick & Nora glass is lovely). For a nice, smooth result, you can double-strain it (ie. pour from the cocktail shaker strainer through a finer sieve into the glass). But it’s by no means disastrous if you can’t be bothered to do that.
You get top marks if you have a fresh raspberry or two with which to garnish this, but in the absence thereof, a twist of lemon peel will do just fine.
It’s Thursday. You’re hungry, you’re tired, you’ve just got off a train filled with wankers, and you need fodder. This is what you cook.
So, what I’m doing here is frying courgettes. They just turned up, today, in the vegetable box and they’re perfect for the quickest of quick suppers.
I mean, I was on the way home and part of me was tempted to pick up a pizza from Waitrose. But this is barely more trouble, and fantastically nicer.
Those courgettes, then. They’re cut into fat fingers and they are lobbed into a pan with lots (I mean lots, you stingy bugger) of olive oil, on a good medium/high heat. The fingers are frying and acquiring golden-brown outlining where the flesh is starting to catch on the pan and caramelise. Perfect.
A couple of minutes back I chucked in some roughly sliced garlic (it happened to be wet garlic, since that too turned up in aforementioned box, but dry garlic would be fine), and this too is benefiting from the pan’s Midas touch.
Next, tomatoes. Don’t faff around skinning them. Hell, don’t even bother de-seeding them. Just quarter them and chuck them in. Four or five? However many you want. Turn the heat down to a simmer. I didn’t, but if you’re feeling fancy, you could dosh in a bit of vermouth or sherry or white wine at this point. DESPAIR NOT if you have none open, or (indeed) if you’d rather save it for your parched Thursday evening gob.
Speaking of parched — you have a drink, right? I mean, I just assumed… Mine’s a Negroni Manzanilla, since you asked.
Our courgettes and tomatoes are simmering nicely and we have our negroni. At this point, we see what herbs present themselves for duty. Since I’m a smug wanker who recently planted a bloody herb garden, I’m spoilt for choice, so I’ve picked out some oregano (not too much) and quite a lot of mint. You, though, might prefer basil or parsley or chives or thyme…
Grab a good old bunch of whatever herb(s) you favour and get them washed and ready.
Now, what you’re waiting for is for your tomatoes to start to collapse and release their juices and to commingle milkily with the oil. You don’t want this to go to pulp; you still want those tomato quarters to retain some structure. Have a taste and if it seems a bit sweet, squeeze over some lemon.
Season the crap out of it (don’t hold back with the salt). Scatter on your herbs. And you’re done.
Scoop this out of a bowl with some good bread. Or just eat it with a spoon, you animal.
‘How about this one?’ he says, at length, with the barest modicum of enthusiasm.
We look at the fish. Potato looks at the fish. The fish looks glassily at the ceiling. Portsmouth Fish Market falls silent once more.
It is a beautiful (if somewhat blustery) Spring morning, and we are outside Portsmouth Fish Market. For the past year or so, Amy and I have repeatedly vowed to make this peregrination — this piscine pilgrimage — but despite living half an hour or so down the road, we’ve failed to enact our vows.
Amy’s famously large and expressive eyes are sparkling with excitement (or perhaps they’re just watering; it’s hard to be sure. As I say, it’s somewhat blustery). She’s been murmuring and crooning excitedly to herself, these past weeks, about the anticipated joys of the fish market. The hubbub of the bartering crowds! The riot of colour and excitement as today’s catch is roughly thrown down upon the stalls! The thrill of the jostle for a place in the unruly throng of punters!
Well, the wait is over at last. In we go, Amy! Into Portsmouth Fish Market!
(We go in.)
Portsmouth Fish Market is … smaller than anticipated. To be precise, Portsmouth Fish Market is Amy, myself, Potato the Labrador, and one impatient man behind a table of fish.
To be fair, it’s a fairly large table. But I can tell without looking that Amy is very disappointed.
The fish market vendor casts an appraising eye at Potato. Potato casts an appraising eye at the fish table.
We stand a while, the four of us, in silence.
‘So what you want?’
We have no idea what we want, it emerges. I think we’d expected to, y’know, browse a little. To take in the atmosphere.
We take in the atmosphere.
‘Um… What do you recommend?’ Amy asks, bravely.
Fish Man fixes Amy with a look that implies his recommendation is that she piss off. Then he looks down at his table.
‘How about this one?’ he says, at length, with the barest modicum of enthusiasm.
We look at the fish. Potato looks at the fish. The fish looks glassily at the ceiling. Portsmouth Fish Market falls silent once more.
Amy steps forward.
Potato steps forward.
‘Hey, will you get the dog away?’
Ah! Portsmouth Fish Market!
I came away with a bag stuffed with fish and seafood, including (yes!) some squid. Amy came away with a small bundle of shattered dreams. Potato came away with nothing.
Anyhow. Let’s talk about the squid, shall we? Specifically, how to cook the buggers.
The Spanish squid stew I concocted is the kind of thing my dear father is excellent at throwing together, and I’ve loved squid from an early age as a result of meals like this. As with the Irish stew I burbled on about a few weeks back, this is a pretty thrifty supper: squid are very cheap, you know. So long as you’ve half a bottle of leftover wine kicking about (or a full bottle you don’t mind sharing with the pot) the rest of the ingredients are mostly storecupboard stuff. Assuming you’re the kind of wanker who has two different types of paprika in his storecupboard.
When you’re cooking it, there’s really only one thing you need to know about squid: cook it incredibly slowly or bloody quickly. This recipe opts for the former. Your end result is meltingly soft rings, purpled by the long dark simmer in wine which, by the end, has simmered down to a rich, glossy mahogany.
Spanish Squid Stew Recipe
2 good-sized squid, or 3 babies (yes, I am still talking about squid), cut into moderately thick rings.
Start with the onions. Using a large pan with highish sides (make sure you have a lid for it; you’ll need that later), fry them over a medium heat with a proper few glugs of olive oil (be generous). While the onion is softening, slice the garlic and chuck that in too.
Now the tomatoes. Some people might tell you to faff around skinning them. I honestly don’t think it makes much difference in this context, so advise you not to bother. They should be quartered and de-seeded. Dice each quarter into pieces around a cm or so square. No need to fuss too much, they’ll cook down. Lob them in.
Now add the two types of paprika and give the lot a good stir. Turn up the heat, slosh in the wine, and add the squid rings. If you have tentacles too (or, rather, if your squid did), by all means chuck those in as well.
Bring it all to the boil, then turn the heat down really low, so it’s at as gentle a simmer as you can manage, and cover — leaving the lid slightly ajar.
Leave that pan to simmer gently for a good long while. A couple of hours, I’d say. Stir it every so often to check it’s not sticking or drying out.
I suggest you also crack open the bottle of Manzanilla Sherry you bought at the same time (Waitrose Manzanilla Fina, £7.69). This is squarely a Parn Essential, and I should write about it separately at some stage, I suppose, with its full-on gob-punch of lemon and sea and sunshine.
When you’re ready to eat your stew, season with plenty of salt and pepper and lemon juice to taste. You can serve it with bread or rice, and perhaps a green salad of some kind. And it’s pretty much guaranteed to cheer up anyone who’s been to Portsmouth Fish Market.
I mean, when a cocktail is already called a Hanky Panky, what else is there to say? This was my first go at incorporating Asterley Bros Britannica Fernet into a drink that doesn’t make my friends hate me. I think it worked.
Oh relax. It’s just a bloody cocktail, you prude.
A bottle of Asterley Bros Britannica Fernet (£32.95 from The Whisky Exchange) showed up in my latest booze delivery. As you may have gathered, I’m intrigued by the alcoholic antics of the Asterleys. I’m also a Fernet novice. That’s one reason why I’m not going to attempt a ‘review’ of this critter: for once, I’m sufficiently conscious of my own ignorance to be deterred.
I did, though, have the pleasure of passing a glass of the stuff round at a gathering of chums, the other night — and hearing one after the other give some variation of the theme of, ‘Whhheeeuooargh!’ as the tastebrains of each scrambled to process their first mouthful.
I enjoy a little light libationary sadism.
Which is by way of saying: Britannica Fernet (in common with Fernet in general, I believe) is not the easiest of beverages.
I’m pretty sure that neat, over ice, it’ll be a grower. But I’m going to have to work at it.
Meanwhile, though, I have a more accessible means by which to unlock its charms:
English Hanky Panky Recipe
A fantastic cocktail with a stupid name but which is really, I suppose, simply a negroni variation: Fernet hoofs Campari out of its usual place in the mix. I’m calling this one the English Hanky Panky because, well, all the ingredients (except the orange twist, I guess) are from this screwed up, snarling little brat of a country. Here’s how to make one.
1 part London Gin (something like Tanqueray, Sipsmith or Gordon’s)
½ part Fernet (I’m using Asterley Bros Britannica Fernet)
Add gin, vermouth and fernet to a mixing glass/shaker filled with ice. Stir (gently yet firmly, y’know) for a good 20-30 seconds, so that everything gets good and chilly. Then strain into a cocktail glass (ideally one that’s been lingering deep in the recesses of your freezer for just such a purpose). Twist a length of orange peel over the surface of the drink so that the oils squeeze out, then drop the twist into the drink.
You can vary the amount of Fernet according to the amount of bitterness that lingers within your soul. I find the above ratio is bracing without allowing the Fernet to overpower the rest.
It’s a bloody delicious alternative to the Negroni and I love the fact that the Britannica Fernet’s bitterness, whilst brutal, isn’t confected or sugary.
Right, listen. This is important. You either make a perfect martini or you don’t make one at all. Read on for Old Parn’s rhapsody on the innumerable savage charms of this noble drink — and, natch, the recipe for the aforementioned perfect martini…
Your first gobful of martini should brace you even as it slams you. You should gasp. Your mouth should thrill, your blood should pump, your heart should sing.
Not an ounce of this liquid should be in any goddamn way a compromise. It must be utterly intense. It should not quench your thirst; it should quench your desire.
The disinterested, thuggish punch of the gin. Wrapped in the shimmering gossamer of the botanicals, mitigated (but so slightly, so slightly) by the sweet yield of the vermouth. The lingering scent on the boxer’s glove.
And — just when you think you’ve got your tastebrain around it all — the savage perfume of the lemon or the oily, dirty smear of the olive.
That. That, my friends, is a martini.
Let it never be less.
Essential rules for making the Perfect Gin Martini
Right. In many respects, I am open-minded. But open-mindedness stops here. Because there are three rules — no, scratch that, there are three commandments. Disobey them and you will not have a perfect martini; you’ll have a shit drink unworthy of the name. With them, you’re well on your way to the promised land.
Everything must be as cold as you can humanly get it. I mean everything. Possibly including your soul.
Your gin and your vermouth should be of good quality — because they are literally all you are tasting, here.
You do not make the perfect martini in a hurry.
So, first up, let’s talk temperature. You’re making martinis? You’d better have lots of ice. Big solid chunks of ice, please; none of your crushed rubbish. And every single ingredient of the drink should, at bare minimum, be fresh from the fridge. I keep my gin in the freezer. I also keep my martini glasses in there, so long as Amy hasn’t filled it up with goddamn peas (three bags, people, three bags.). Were it not for discomfort and physical impossibility, I’d keep the hands that are ultimately going to hold the martini in there. You understand?
Now, ingredients. Our perfect martini is not the place for your bargain basement, paint-stripper gin. Because gin is the sodding main ingredient, here. It is front and centre. If you only have mediocre gin, wise up and make a different drink. And much the same goes for vermouth. It’s relatively inexpensive, in the scheme of things, and you can keep a bottle of it in the fridge for a few weeks (usefully, it doubles up as an excellent cooking wine).
I’m not going to tell you which gins and vermouths to use. There are bloody hundreds of ’em out there, and trying new combinations is pretty interesting. But if you’re looking for a starting point, I suggest you could do a lot worse than a classic unpretentious and juniper-led gin like Plymouth (which is the house choice at the marvellous Dukes Hotel bar) or Tanqueray. For vermouth I typically use Noilly Prat (£12, Ocado), which is splendid stuff, but the Wine Society’s Chambery (£8.95, The Wine Society) is a fine alternative.
And, finally, speed. This is where I used to go wrong, making martinis. I went at it like a madman. But, no. Making a perfect martini requires patience. You actually want (you see) a very little of that ice to melt — a little water to bind together your gin and vermouth. Just enough to smoodge them together a bit. And you get this by taking your time.
How to Make the Perfect Martini
Get your cocktail mixer (or a jug/large mixing glass, if you don’t have one) and fill it full of ice. A lot of ice, in big cubes.
Pour your vermouth over the ice and stir gently. I’d suggest a ratio of 1 part vermouth to 4-5 parts gin — which is dry but not show-offy (my own view is that the vermouth is there for a reason, and once you get to 1:15 ratios and the like, you’re really not getting the benefit of it). However, this is for you to toy around with.
Take your gin from the freezer (don’t hurry, don’t hurry) and pour that in, too. Stir once again, gently but firmly — you want to move the ice and liquid around thoroughly, but you don’t want to smash up the ice cubes and add shards of ice to the liquid. When you’ve given it a decent long stir, leave it to settle.
Put away your gin. Put away your vermouth. Refill the ice tray(s) you emptied and put them in the freezer for tomorrow evening. Take out your (refrigerated) olives, and thread a couple of them onto a cocktail stick. Or (if you’re of a citric persuasion) take a slice of rind from your lemon, trying — if you can manage it with your hands shaking like that, old boy — not to cut off too much pith. And this all should be conducted at the leisurely pace befitting a suave martini-drinker such as yourself.
Thirsty yet? Too bad. Stir again. Go for a little walk to the sitting room and back, why don’t you? Entertain your guests with an offhand fragment of your debonair wit (or just mutter to yourself, you massive, booze-dependent loner). Then come back.
Take your martini glasses out of the freezer. If you’ve taken the lemon route, you should give the rind a good squeeze-twist, holding it over the glass for which it is destined, before you add it to the glass. The objective is to release those delicious citric oils. Or if you’re having olives instead of lemon, chuck ’em in.
Stir the gin & vermouth one last time, then strain the precious liquid into the glass. You are now in possession of the perfect martini.
Serve. Immediately. This is the only time at which you actually should hurry.
Bask in the admiration of your peers. Get working on the second one.
As if a normal negroni weren’t good enough… Thanks to Poco Tapas, Old Parn discovers the majesty of the Negroni Manzanilla and Sacred’s Rosehip Cup.
I love a negroni. And before I went to Poco Tapas Bar during a visit to Bristol last summer, I believed I made a pretty damn good one.
Poco Tapas Bar’s Negroni Manzanilla took that belief of mine to one side and gave it a bloody good shoeing.
Because Poco’s Negroni Manzanilla is a work of exquisite dipsomaniacal genius.
The classic Negroni (come on, you know this) consists of gin, Campari and red vermouth in a 1:1:1 ratio, stirred over plenty of (chunky) ice cubes and lifted by a twist or wedge of orange.
Poco’s version changes this in two main ways. The first you’ll have guessed (unless your deductive reasoning is extraordinarily weak): the addition of Manzanilla sherry. The second is subtler but equally revolutionary: Campari is replaced with a fabulous liquid called Rosehip Cup, made by Sacred, and I guess this is the one Poco uses. It’s a good deal more expensive than Campari and a bit of a pain to get hold of offline (I ordered mine from the Whisky Exchange for £27.95), but — trust me, dear reader — absolutely worth your while and your dosh.
Why is this take on the negroni is so bloody good? It addresses the most significant drawback (in my view) of the classic: the fact that Campari’s bitterness is (to my taste — and it’s perhaps worth mentioning I am somewhat intolerant of bitter flavours…) slightly harsh and one-dimensional. The Rosehip Cup is smoother, fruitier, gentler. The crucial bitterness remains, but rather than the melodramatic bitterness of a romantically spurned adolescent, it’s the nuanced bitterness of a twice-divorced deputy headteacher who needs to keep things civil for the kids’ sake.
You can quote that in your marketing if you like, Sacred.
The better balance of a negroni with Rosehip Cup transforms it from a drink of which one is generally enough (before moving onto other fare, natch) into one of which the prospect of a second is spectacularly enticing.
And the Manzanilla. Let’s talk about the Manzanilla.
Now, you could comfortably change up your negroni game simply by swapping out the Campari for Rosehip Cup and leaving it at that. Indeed, if you’re anything like me, once you’ve tasted the Rosehip version, you’ll struggle to return to Campari. The addition of a splash of bone-dry sherry, by contrast, remains an optional flourish (the Negroni equivalent of a Dirty Martini, perhaps). The Manzanilla variant has a fabulous aromatic openness. While a classic negroni is a tightly coiled fist of a drink, the addition of Manzanilla loosens it a little, relaxes that tight grip. It hardly makes it into a long drink, but it’s definitely less short. I don’t think it replaces the classic, but it’s a bloody lovely alternative. I now buy EVEN MORE sherry (buy more sherry!) so that I can make these critters whenever the fancy takes me. Which is frequently. Try it and you’ll thank me.
Except you won’t thank me, you rude bugger. You’ll be too busy drinking negronis.
Pour over 1 part gin (Tanqueray is a classic choice but there are hundreds of other possibilities)
Add 1 part Sacred Rosehip Cup
Then add 1 part red vermouth (Martini Rosso is the widely available one, but try others as and when you find them: Cocchi is currently stocked in my local Waitrose and works superbly. The choice of vermouth makes a massive difference to the drink, y’know… But that’s a topic for another post, methinks)
Finally, add 1 part Manzanilla sherry
Finish with a twist of orange (use a paring knife or peeler to slice off a strip of orange peel, fashion it into a twist in your big clammy hands, making sure to give it a good squeeze to release the oils)
Because the Rosehip Cup is less bitter than Campari, you might want to experiment with a heftier vermouth. I recently tried Asterley Brothers’ fabulous English Estate Vermouth (£23.25), which deepened the drink (and also the colour) considerably. This offset the breeziness of the Manzanilla/Rosehip combo in a way that felt appropriate for winter.
You might want to experiment with the ratios of ingredients. For instance, a half-measure of Manzanilla still imparts some aromatic openness, but preserves more of the negroni’s punch. Depends what you fancy.
Poco Tapas Bar is well worth a visit for more than just its negronis.