The flood of popular instructional guides within the cocktail culture bifurcates into two noticeably asymmetrical streams. The first, substantially dominant, is characterized by an almost tiresomely uniform pattern: brief mentions of tools (typically without detailed usage instructions), concise descriptions of key ingredients, a few words on cocktail optics, and then a list of recipes supplemented by images, often leaving readers perplexed as they struggle to replicate the drinks depicted. The second stream, in a nutshell, introduces “guides differently.” ‘The Art of the Cocktail’ adorned with a brief introduction by Salvatore Calabrese is a prime example.
At first glance, it seems clear who this book is for: the home enthusiast. Immediately following Salvatore’s emotive depiction of a bartender using a glass as a canvas and ingredients as paints to create a “liquid image of a cocktail,” the reader navigates through the specification of volumes used (spotting the difference between a jigger in the UK and the US and learning how many “mls” fit into a spoon) and, notably, gets a chance to embrace ‘The Ideal Order,’ an eight-step process of creating a mixed drink starting from chilling the glass and culminating in its service.
The enumeration of mixing techniques, glasses, and a concise list of bar jargon precedes the pivotal section of the publication, which contradicts its title. In my opinion, it’s not a book about the “art of the cocktail” but rather about the “art and cocktail.” Charlotte Trounce, the illustrator and designer, whose name curiously doesn’t grace the handbook’s cover explicitly, contributes by defining the peculiarities of a specific artist’s creations and reflecting them through impressive illustrations. Her effort also inspires the creation of a recipe for a mixed drink, which, interestingly, is also left unnamed, mirroring these peculiarities. And at this moment, the amateur handbook morphs into a valuable information source for professionals.
Take, for instance, the Dalí Wallbanger. The story of a fictional surfer and a vodka-based cocktail named after him is widely known. However, by adding a pinch of cayenne pepper, the recipe ventures into the orbit of one of surrealism’s fathers; Salvador Dalí formulated the Casanova Cocktail in his book Les Dîners de Gala, where this very pepper plays a significant role. Seizing the opportunity to share this tidbit while serving a standard drink to a guest is a conversation I wouldn’t miss.
The Pablo Pisco Sour would be a classic sour based on Peruvian brandy if the recipe didn’t include a dash of absinthe. Its connection to Pablo Picasso is entirely plausible. The Spanish artist and his circle celebrated the “green fairy,” and he painted several pictures of absinthe drinkers. In 1914, he even cast and hand-colored six cubist bronze objects named Absinthe Glasses, just before the French government banned absinthe. We might never know if Picasso’s sculptures were an act of artistic rebellion or bohemian farewell.
The construction of recipe names deserves special attention, employing a bartender’s twist on basic formulas. Consider the Duchampagne 75, which is essentially a twist on the excellent French 75 cocktail, finishing with pink champagne and named after Marcel Duchamp, the French painter and chess player who spent a significant portion of his life in the United States. Similarly, the Wassail Kandinski cleverly merges a relatively complex warm mixed drink (wassail bowl) with the name of Wassily Kandinsky, the prominent Russian-born abstractionist painter. Of course, there’s the Bellini; in this case, the author refrains from any twist because the cocktail, based on mashed white peaches complemented with Prosecco, is an artwork itself, deriving its radiant pink hue from paintings by a 15th-century Italian artist.
The Negrona Lisa is, in fact, a classic Negroni; the book’s contribution is a reminder that the cocktail was born in Leonardo da Vinci’s homeland, a fact a bartender might not immediately realize (but would certainly appreciate), just like the Same Again, Andy? representing the standard Bloody Mary, served in a Campbell’s Soup can immortalized by Andy Warhol. The name, actually a question, is what bartenders use when inviting a guest to “repeat” an order, circling the book back to its track. The can is readily available in American souvenir shops, and I can envision a Bloody Mary served in it quite vividly.
Some connections between art and cocktails are subtle, and the image of the cocktail somewhat sidelines the recipe. This is the case with Piña Pissarro, where the typical subtle brown color and ochre associated with a painter are at play, or the Swiss & Sour, served unusually in a cocktail glass, yet the stem has a surface-deformed style reminiscent of Alberto Giacometti.
For many, the pinnacle of the book’s experience will be the Perfect Composition, which is, in fact, nothing but a Martini. Here, the drawing inspired by Piet Mondrian and his linear minimalism takes center stage. If this review’s reader seeks confirmation of the book’s usefulness, just turn to page 79. Certainly, it’s not a publication for everyone. But for someone accustomed to being a gracious host, it’s likely to be appreciated as it expands conversation topics and broadens horizons.
