The Collins, the Fizz, the Rickey, and the Highball

(This post is part of a series that I’m using to help write my next book, the new edition of 100 Classic Cocktails, and provide inspiration for home bartenders in these times of social distancing. Some of the recipes are ones I’m trying to workshop, and I’m asking my readers to test the recipes at home if able and send me their thoughts on the questions I have. Others are ones I think I’ve nailed that can be easily made with common household ingredients, and I’m sharing them to help my readers keep their spirits up while spending a lot more time at home than usual. I’ll always specify which is which. For more background on all of this, including the book, you can check out the first post in the series here. All posts will be tagged “(100) Classic Cocktails”.)

Or, “Long Drinks Part Two: Carbonated Boogaloo.” (It’s been a long lockdown, OK?)

It’s time for another post with a whole bunch of recipes, in the same spirit as our earlier discussion of juice-forward drinks but this time focusing on recipes lengthened with sodas. They fall into three broad categories.

Highball” is a blanket term for simple two-ingredient combination of a distilled spirit and a carbonated mixer over ice, occasionally with a citrus wedge or other garnish. The mixer is usually flavored but plain club soda is sometimes used.

Strictly speaking, the Gin and Tonic and any other drink along those lines belongs to the highball category, but if someone orders a ‘highball’ without specifying further, they’re generally expecting a glass of whiskey with ginger ale or club soda rather than, say, a Rum and Coke. Highballs are straightforward, and I find a 1:2 ratio of spirit to mixer is a pretty solid baseline. Particular recipes follow at the end of this post.

But first, let’s talk about their historically more interesting cousins: the Collins and the Fizz. Why more interesting? First, because they require a bit more technique than highballs do. And second, because they’re very tricky to tell apart. A Collins is made with a spirit base, usually gin, and lemon juice, sugar, ice and seltzer. A fizz is made with a spirit base, also usually gin, and also with lemon juice, sugar, ice, and seltzer.

They may seem like they’re the same damn thing, except that fizzes occasionally have egg whites or yolks added to them (more on this later), and people sometimes say the fizz should be smaller or that it should be served without ice for some reason. That’s pretty thin, and for this reason I was prepared to scratch the whole fizz operation out of Classic Cocktails as redundant, until I read Dave Wondrich’s notes on the traditional distinction between them in his excellent book Imbibe! Here’s how I would summarize his findings:

  • The Collins is a built drink, prepared in the glass it’s going to be served in. It uses a ton of seltzer - 6 ounces, in Wondrich’s recipe - and is served in a tall glass to accommodate all that liquid. Because the preparation process doesn’t chill the drink in any way, it is served with ice. It is expected that the ice will melt, and that it will chill and dilute the drink over time, because it is expected that a drink this large will take a while to consume.

  • The fizz is a shaken drink. All the chilling and dilution it needs comes from the ice in the shaker; it is then strained into a glass and topped with seltzer. It is served without ice, because it’s already cold and no further dilution is desired - but because there is nothing keeping it cold, it is meant to be drunk quickly, before it warms up. Consequently, the amount of seltzer is lower, more like 3-4 ounces against the Collins’s 6, and it is served in a correspondingly smaller glass.

Put another way, the Collins is oriented around being a slow sipper, while the fizz is meant to be drunk more like a shorter cocktail. Everything else about each flows from this: preparation, service on or off the rocks, glass size, even the presence or absence of egg. You can easily dress up a fizz by adding egg whites to the shaker, but you emphatically do not want to try that with a Collins, where you’ll have drippy unintegrated egg swirling around in the glass for the good long while it’ll take you to finish the drink. This is why the fizz can be doctored into other things and the Collins basically can’t. It’s also why certain cocktails come in ‘fizz’ versions, not Collins versions - most notably the Southside, a shaken combination of gin, lemon, sugar, mint, and sometimes orange bitters, which is sometimes topped with seltzer and rechristened the Southside Fizz. The lack of ice also lets the fizz’s effervescence play a starring role (and even an acrobatic one) in the drink’s presentation, as it most notably does in the Ramos Gin Fizz.

And then there is the Rickey, a sort of half-sibling to both the Collins and the fizz. It is fizz-sized, but it is built in the glass and served with ice like a Collins. Its main distinguishing feature is a lack of sugar, followed by its preference for lime rather than lemon juice. It is necessarily the sourest-tasting of the bunch, and it assumes a certain amount of lingering ice-melt to offset its limeyness. The original Rickey was made with whiskey, according to the tastes of its creator and namesake Col. Joe Rickey; but the Gin Rickey has been the more popular sibling for most of their history, heightening the apparent similarity with the Collins and the fizz.

Got all that? OK, let’s do some recipes. These are all super easy quarantine cocktails, but I have the same mild Question for My Tasters about each of them: are you happy with these proportions? As always, drink as many or as few as you like, just let me know which drinks you tried and which spirit(s) you used when providing your feedback!

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Tom Collins (pictured)
2 oz. Old Tom Gin (traditionally) or London Dry Gin
1 tsp. Sugar
Juice of 1/2 a Lemon (~3/4 oz. Lemon Juice)
6 oz. Seltzer

Combine gin, sugar, and lemon juice in a Collin glass or other tall glass (if you have a 12- to 16-oz. beer glass lying around, that’ll do nicely) and stir until sugar is dissolved. Add seltzer and plenty of ice, and stir to mix. Enjoy slowly over the course of an afternoon.

For a John Collins, substitute whiskey for the gin; for a Ron Collins, substitute rum.

Gin Fizz
2 oz. Old Tom Gin (traditionally) or London Dry Gin
1/4 oz. Sugar
Juice of 1/2 a Lemon (~3/4 oz. Lemon Juice)

Shake with ice. Strain into an 8ish-oz. highball or juice glass without ice and fill with 3-4 oz. of seltzer. Drink quickly, while it’s still laughing at you. Rum, whiskey, or brandy may be substituted for the gin if preferred.

For a Silver Fizz, add an egg white to the shaker and shake once without ice to unfold the egg proteins before shaking with ice. For a Golden Fizz, add an egg yolk instead.

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Southside (pictured)
2 oz. London Dry Gin
3/4 oz. Lemon Juice
3/4 oz. Simple Syrup
~8 Mint Leaves
1 dash Orange Bitters

Shake all but the bitters. Strain into a chilled rocks glass and dash bitters on top. Garnish with a smacked sprig of mint.

For the Southside Fizz, strain instead into a 6- to 8-oz. highball or juice glass and dash bitters on top. Then fill with 3-4 oz. of seltzer and garnish with a smacked sprig of mint.

Gin Rickey
1 1/2 oz. Old Tom Gin (traditionally) or London Dry Gin
Juice of 1/2 a Lime (~1/2 oz. Lime Juice)
3 oz. Seltzer

Juice half a lime into a 6- to 8-oz. highball or juice glass. Add ice, gin, and club soda, and stir. Garnish with the spent lime shell. For a traditional Rickey, substitute whiskey for the gin.

Bourbon Highball
2 oz. Bourbon
4 oz. Ginger Ale or Club Soda

Combine in an 8ish-oz. highball or juice glass with ice and stir.

Gin and Tonic
2 oz. Gin
4 oz. Tonic Water

Combine in an 8ish-oz. highball or juice glass with ice and stir. Optionally, garnish with a wedge of lime.

Cuba Libre
2 oz. Aged Rum
4 oz. Coca-Cola (or similar)

Combine in an 8ish-oz. highball or juice glass with ice and stir. Garnish with a wedge of lime (essential here - both for flavor and because without it, this is simply a Rum and Coke).

How to Invent a Cocktail, Part III of VI

(Recently, my friend Luke quietly published a book of poetry. It's called Abacus, and you can buy or download it here. I created a signature cocktail for the launch party, and because I sometimes get asked how I go about inventing a new cocktail, I thought you might like to see my thought process for this one. It's a longish story, so I've broken it up into six pieces, each of which will be a separate post and conclude with a recipe. Last week's chapter, "What goes into this artist's cocktail?" can be found here.)

Chapter 3: What's in a name?
Cocktail names are fascinating. They evoke the exotic, the powerful, the hazy and bygone, the impossible-to-place, and the strange. Even something as mundane as a left hand acquires a sense of ominousness or ethereality when it becomes a cocktail name. Whose left hand is this? What will it do to me? (And why is it liquid?)

The fact that alcohol's effects on us are at once so familiar and so inscrutable is probably responsible for this. We talk about distilled spirits the way that our ancestors talked about actual spirits: a grandparent might have a long and close relationship with one, or a friend might not get along with another, and we talk about the capricious and distinct effects each one has on us when they take over our bodies, and the fact that none of the details are consistent from person to person doesn't affect our certainty in the slightest. Of course we name our drinks to offer meaning without understanding. 

I have always found it easier to fit a recipe to an existing name than vice-versa. Like my poet friend, I find constraints to be creatively useful, and the puzzle of creating a drink that's relevant to its title is often more fun than trying to create something ex nihilo. Fortunately, poetry shares the tendency of cocktail nomenclature to connote without denoting, which makes a book of poems a good place to start when naming a drink.

A few of the titles jumped out at me, particularly "Magnetic North" and "Nightglow," and the partial title "Trackless Trailhead." And there were individual lines tempted me, too: "Slowly Turning Galaxy," "Roiling Gray Haze," "Breaststroke Kirschwasser Wavelengths."

Kirschwasser being a favorite accent ingredient of mine and actually mentioned by name, I decided it had to be incorporated, and considered naming the drink either the Kirschwasser Wavelength or the Nightglow, after the poem in which it appeared.

There are certain cocktail ingredients that manage to feel like they're supposed to be part of one's bar without having many (or any) classic recipes that call for them specifically. Dubonnet is one, a fortified wine that you rarely need in practice unless the Dubonnet Cocktail is your thing. Kirschwasser is another - an unfortunate thing, given what a wonderful ingredient it is, but even the best drinks that call for it have faded into relative obscurity over time.

Like me, David Wondrich is a fan of kirsch, and particularly of the Rose, a 1920s cocktail known to us today almost entirely because of him. It's delicious, it's low-proof, and has a lovely soft pink color. If you're observing Lent, you might want to keep it in mind for Laetare Sunday (and if you're not, you might want to keep it in mind for breakfast).

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Rose
2 oz. Dry Vermouth
1 oz. Kirschwasser
1 tsp. Raspberry Syrup or Raspberry Liqueur
Stir with ice and strain into a cocktail glass.
Optionally, garnish with a maraschino cherry.

Stay tuned for next week's post, "Chapter 4: Taking stock. Now what have we got?"

Paloma

Paloma

2 oz 1800 Silver Tequila
Juice of 1/2 lime
Pinch of coarse salt
Fill with San Pellegrino pompelmo (grapefruit) soda
Plop rind of juiced lime into cocktail as garnish

Followers of the blog may remember the Paloma (Spanish for “dove”) from an ingredient challenge a while back. That time, you got a few informational links about the Paloma as a vehicle for Fresca. This time, we had San Pellegrino’s grapefruit soda on hand, and decided to make some ourselves.

The drink is very refreshing and ridiculously easy to make, accounting for its alleged popularity in Mexico. After one whiff of the tequila and grapefruit, I knew Wondrich had been right about the salt (see below). It balances out the tequila-citrus palate, just like it does in the Margarita and the familiar ritual of the tequila shot. Wondrich does call the drink “salty,” among other things, but if the salt flavor is particularly obvious, you’ve probably used too much.

Grapefruit affects the way things get absorbed by your body, meaning Palomas are more powerful than you might expect at first. They’ve also got a pretty high acid content to take on an empty stomach. In short, they’re not really brunch drinks. They’re siesta drinks.

Here’s the Wondrich write-up from Esquire, previously referred to:
http://www.esquire.com/drinks/la-paloma-drink-recipe#wondrich