An Old Distiller's Trick Revived in Oregon

In Hillsboro, Oregon, west of Portland, the Imbrie family erected a granary barn around 1855, a few years before Charles Darwin published The Origin of Species. With a handful of repairs here and there and a new concrete floor, it remains standing today. Inside, distiller Bart Hance makes whiskey and brandy on a still that's almost as old as the building itself.

Look closely: that's a metal can dangling in the middle.

The still is a French model, known in Cognac as an alambic Chartentais, typically used to make brandy and popular on the American west coast. This one was found in an old barn in France and shipped to Oregon where it stayed boxed for years before being installed in the granary. Other than a few brass fittings, the pot still is entirely copper and has a graceful, curving neck through which alcohol-rich vapor rises on its way to the condenser. At 160 gallons, it's not the biggest still one will find in the United States, but it is one of the more venerable. Unlike some modern stills, it has no sight glasses, no thermometers, no computerized reports indicating what's happening inside. On an old still like this, to know what's happening on the other side of the copper at any given moment, one must relies on sight, smell...and sound.

Sure, there's the sound of the gas fire. The intensity of that sound will indicate broadly how much heat is directed at the bottom of the pot. If the sound of the fire dies away unexpectedly, trouble — dangerous trouble — may be brewing. But attendees of a brandy distilling workshop sponsored by the American Distilling Institute learned from Hance to listen for another sound: the jarring clang of falling metal.

See, it takes a long time for wine or beer to heat up in the boiler of a pot still, especially if it's at the frosty room temperature of an old wooden barn. A distiller can't just sit there like a plate of biscuits waiting for the wash inside the pot to warm. There are forms to be completed, barrels to move, and a dozen other tasks involved in running a distillery. So, lacking readouts and internal thermometers common in some modern stills, Hance deploys an old French trick well-known to Cognac makers that allows him to do those other jobs while the still heats. He attaches a large, empty metal can to a string, then loosely wraps the string around the still's neck. With a dab of wax, the string stays in place.

And then the distiller walks away.

As the wash heats and vapor begins to rise, the copper (an excellent heat conductor) grows warm. Eventually, the neck grows warm enough to melt that dab of wax and — CLANG — the can drops and clatters onto the bricks below, sounds loud enough to be heard anywhere in the barn. That's the signal that Hance has perhaps ten minutes before liquids start trickling from the condenser and to wrap up whatever he's doing; there are cuts to be made.

Hats off, Hance; that right there is some old school merde.

Goes well with:

• A visit to Cornelius Pass Roadhouse and Imbrie Hall. The former Imbrie homestead is now owned by McMenimins who were instrumental in getting the property listed on the National Register of Historical Places. The whiskeys, brandies, and other spirits made at Cornelius Pass and at the company's Edgefield distillery are not for sale in liquor stores, but are entirely for internal use at the various bars, hotels, and restaurants under the McMenamins banner. Imbrie Hall, however, offers a selection of bottles for take out.

Replacing that Worn Out Still — Every Ding and Dent?

Since the nineteenth century, the Forsyth family has made stills. By some estimates, they have fabricated nearly half of Scotland’s whisky stills. Their firm, Forsyths, specializes in larger distillery systems, but builds each model to order and has made some as small as 50 liters. I recently spoke with Richard Forsyth Sr., chairman of the company, about Forsyths’ presence in the North American market. Although their footprint in the US is modest, it covers some noteworthy distilleries, including Balcones Distilling, Distillery 209, Kings County Distillery, Philadelphia Distilling, and Woodford Reserve. Building stills, however, is not the firm’s bread and butter. Repairing them is.

Old copper stills wear out. Or is that a Dalek?

Most American distilleries were founded in the last decade and are simply too new to have to contend with worn-out stills. In Scotland, however, aging equipment is an ongoing concern. “Our main business,” reports Forsyth, “is replacement of worn stills. Distilleries can run 24/7 and run down pot stills quite quickly. We check the copper’s thicknesses on an annual basis in Scotland and home in on wear areas. We write reports and then sit down with each client to agree on a replacement program.” The traditional two-still process in Scotland is particularly hard on the equipment. A preliminary run on the first still produces low wines, a relatively low-alcohol liquid. These low wines are then run through a second still, often called a spirit still, which concentrates ethanol further yielding white dog or new make which, when aged, cut, and blended (or not), becomes the Scotch whisky we know.

The wear patterns on those stills are exactly opposite. Harsh low wines, explains Forsyth, corrode the upper parts of a still within 10-12 years, while the pot may last 30-40. On the second distillation, it’s the other way around. Low wines and feints corrode the boiler, but the spirits rising through the upper parts are much more refined, so upper parts like such as the Lyne arm and swan’s neck may last 30-40 years, but the pot only 10-12 years.

Rather than replacing the entire still — an expensive proposition — Forsyths craftsman cut away worn areas and replace them with new materials. Those apocryphal stories about Scotch distillers replacing old stills with brand new ones that exactly replicate every dump and dent so that distillers can faithfully reproduce whisky that is exactly the same every single time? Turns out that’s just a good story for gullible drinkers.

 “Replacing old stills down to the last ding, bump, and patch?” chuckled the chairman. “That’s not quite true; those old stills may have a dent or two. Rather than replace the entire still, we only replace the parts that require it. If we cut out a patch or replace a part, we will replicate angles and shapes religiously, so that the contours of the boiler or Lyne arm, for example, are exact duplicates. After all, if we built it, we still have the original plans. But every ding and bump? No, we don’t do that.”

So pour that in your glass and drink it.

Goes well with:

• The Purpose of Good Liquor, a tale of old Scotch whisky put to good use. 
• Ernie Button's Vanishing Single Malt Scotch, in which Mr. Button turns his eye (and camera) on unwashed whiskey tumblers.

Just Some Ice Cubes, My Good Man — White Whiskey at the '21' Club

Next week, I'll be in Northern California and, come July, be back in New Orleans for a talk on brandy with Paul Clarke at Tales of the Cocktail. But between NorCal and NOLA, there's New York City, where I haven't stepped foot in years. Of course, there won't be time to do even a quarter of what I'd like, but that's the way these things go.

I am, however, already pulling together a punch list for where to drink, where to eat, and of the distillers, bartenders, chefs, and cheesemongers with whom I want to reconnect. In all likelihood, I won't eat at '21' Club, but I did pull The '21' Cookbook from the shelf when I recalled that bar book collector Brian Rea used to work there.

Flipping through the drinks section (so nice to find drinks in their proper place at the front of a book rather than tacked on, as if in disgrace, at the end), I found an old Gene Ahern illustration. Ahern was a 20th century cartoonist whose comics at times took bizarre turns (Robert Crumb, among others, took inspiration from his work). In this undated panel, Ahern pays tribute to Mac — presumably Colonel Maxwell "Mac" Kriendler — with a little spot of unaged tabletop corn whiskey.

Unaged? Shoot, it's practically instant. Sure, the illustration is tongue-in-cheek, but who would've guessed, mid-century, that raw whiskey would one day earn enough of a mantle of respect that fancy bars across the country would carry "legal" moonshine without the slightest hint of irony?

Michael Lomonaco and Donna Forsman (1995)
The '21' Cookbook
400 pages (hardback)
Broadway
ISBN: 0385475705
$35.00

Goes well with:

• Even the Ten Dollar Whore Sneered at Me, an anecdote about just how far white whiskeys have come in a few short years. 
• Legal Moonshine? You've Been Conned. I've said it before and I'm sticking to my guns: If laws permitted the manufacture of moonshine, it would cease to exist.

Museum of the American Cocktail teeters on the cusp of opening

It is part Museum, part bar, and part Victorian bordello!

~ Museum Curator Ted "Dr. Cocktail" Haigh

Dr. Cocktail and Blake DeGroff (not at all affected by paint fumes).

The walls are painted, the cases installed, the objects are just about all set. MOTAC, the Museum of the American Cocktail, is about to open its doors. I was fortunate to spend a week last month sweating my ass off assisting curator Ted Haigh with a combination of grunt work and advising on collections management for the historical collections (that museum management degree comes in handy). I’m such a geek, I’m excited just thinking about it. Cocktails? Museums? How could I not be involved?

The New Orleans museum officially opens 10:30am on Monday July 21st, right after five days of rowdiness from the crowds visiting for Tales of the Cocktail. Me? I’m expecting the assembled cocktailians, bartenders, distillers, and cocktail laity to look a little green around the gills, but smiling nonetheless. Read the press release.

The museum’s mission

The Museum of the American Cocktail™ is a nonprofit organization founded by a group of cocktail historians and spirits experts, and dedicated to providing education in mixology and preserving the rich history of the American cocktail. Through its exhibit, educational seminars, and publishing program, the Museum advances the profession of mixology while stressing the importance of responsible drinking.

What might you see? The material culture of American cocktail history: art deco and mid century cocktail shakers, recipe books, vintage spirits in their original bottles, advertising, tiki ephemera, bartending tools, and more. Yes, there’s a moonshine section…well, prohibition, actually, but with a home-sized still diorama set up all 1920’s style.

Keep your eyes out as well for the history of the word "cocktail" itself. Competing theories abound about its origin and meaning, but so far nobody seems to have come up with an instance of the word in print before 13 May, 1806 when The Balance and Columbian Repository printed a tongue-in-cheek account balance of a politician's losing bid to gain office. The following week, the editor clarified what was meant by the word — Cock tail, then is a stimulating liquor, composed of spirits of any kind, sugar, water and bitters it is vulgarly called a bittered sling...
















So, 10:30 Monday morning. July 21st. Might need a hair of the bear that mauled me, but I'll be there. Will you?

Become a MOTAC member here. And check out Jill DeGroff's more recent pics of the build-out here.

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Salad Spinner Moonshine

So if I write about the Dutch more than is seemly for an American known for an appreciation of American foodways, it’s because the cheap, cheap flights to Amsterdam I used to be able to score when I lived in Philadelphia gave me an appreciation for Holland ($180 got me there and back one weekend). Plus—a little-known secret—though sex and drugs dominate tales of Amsterdam, it really is a great food town.

Now, say what you will about the famous Dutch reputation for being cheap (Dutch treat, anyone? And just watch a bar in Amsterdam empty three minutes after happy hour), but that concern with eking out every bit of value from something has led to some remarkable inventions.

One of my recent favorites is this video of a value-minded Hollander making 60 proof alcohol at home without a still, just using wine ("from a friend"), a freezer, and a salad spinner. It's a variation of an old technique called freeze distillation—or, if you want to get fancy, fractional crystallization. If, when you’re reading the instructions, you are stymied by the word “latish” that appears onscreen, say it with a Dutch accent…“lettuce” is what’s meant. Then check out the Austin Powers link at the bottom of this page.






Goes well with:

• The UnDutchables, an expat’s guide to living in the Netherlands and dealing with the Dutch.
• “I don’t speak freaky-deaky Dutch” — Engels/Nederlands miscommunication from Austin Powers in Goldmember.

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