How to make chrysanthemum, a sweet, herbal cocktail you’ll want to sip all spring long.

The first time I took chrysanthemum, I couldn’t stop talking about it. I made it for everyone I know. People would come into the bar and ask for the bartender’s choice — “some fruity gin with it,” they’d say, or “some scotch stirred with it” — but sooner or later I’d talk them into chrysanthemum. I was like a parent offering a new dish to a first grader. “What’s in it?” they will ask. “Just try it,” I would reply. This went on for months.

Chrysanthemum, obviously, wasn’t even close to what these bar guests were looking for, but almost everyone loved it nonetheless. Now, I’m not saying it’s the best drink in the world. There are more complex drinks, more innovative drinks and more refreshing drinks than the chrysanthemum, but to this day, I can’t think of anything more incredible, maddening, unbridled than this strange cocktail from 1916.

The reason I hesitate to reveal the ingredients is that this cocktail isn’t something you want, or at least, it’s not something you know you want. It can be sweet for one. There is no identifiable ground soul for any other. The ingredients, combined with the name, sound hopelessly primitive, as if you should serve it on a dolly. Chrysanthemum is a combination of dry vermouth, herbal French liqueur Bénédictine, and absinthe, and, as I’m sure you can tell, doesn’t fit into our neatly defined cocktail families (unless it does, more on that later). moment).

As for how much of each ingredient – well, that’s the big question, and will greatly determine the character of the final drink.

The first printed mention of the chrysanthemum comes down to us, like many classics, from Hugo Anslin in 1916, and is equal parts vermouth and Bénédictine, with a few dashes of absinthe. Anslin was definitely on to something—these ingredients absolutely love each other—but his cocktail is a crazy 50 percent alcohol and well outside the bounds of what we now consider acceptable levels of sweetness.

Fourteen years later, in 1930, the manuscript was picked up by Harry Craddock in his book. , which adjusts it to two parts dry vermouth and just one part Bénédictine, a step forward to ensure a distinct reduction in sweetness and certainty. This is the version I first encountered in 2010, and the one I converted to—herbal and seductive, with a bold but manageable, apple-juice-like sweetness.

More recently, bartenders are going even further with proportions. 2011’s Jim Meehan cut the sweetness twice by reducing the Benedictine and doubling the absinthe to a full 0.25 oz. In 2018, Death & Co. bartenders further dilute the liquor to a 5-1 ratio of vermouth and Benedictine, and then hint at the absinthe as a bitter and call it an Old Fashioned variation. More recently, in last year’s Spectacular, the legendary Brooklyn bar called for a ratio of 3:33-1 but then for about half an ounce (!) of a special brand of absinthe from Germaine Rabin. All of these serve to further refine the sweetness, making it more palatable to dry and sophisticated palates, and all of them are absolutely delicious.

For me, though, I don’t want to fight the sweetness. I also dial it back a bit from classic, but not much. For me, chrysanthemum is the perfect drink for occasions like Mother’s Day brunch, where a kiss of homely sweetness is just right, and the angle of the sun in the sky benefits the lower alcohol of a vermouth-based drink. Think vermouth like a white wine, light and mildly herbal, absinthe a light licorice note that lingers throughout, and benedictine a deep and ambrosial spice, like cinnamon, honey and mace, drowning in a heavy blanket. . Chrysanthemum, like widow’s kiss, is great as a dry cocktail but unusual as a dessert. Make one for someone you love. Ideally before they can even ask what it’s made of.

Chrysanthemum

Notes on ingredients

Dry Vermouth: As for the style, the dry vermouth is quite forgiving here. Even though you’re using a bunch of it, you’re not asking it to do the present-but-absent magic trick asked of vermouth in a martini, so there’s more latitude for acceptable brands. Use what you have. If you’re at the store and want guidance, you can’t go wrong with the all-purpose winner Dolin Dry or the noble old Noilly Prat.

Benedictine: Don’t accept any alternatives. Bénédictine is great in general and especially great with dry vermouth, and is readily available and amazing in so many drinks, so I don’t see much reason not to insist on it. Note that Bénédictine is different from B&B, the latter being a pre-bottled blend of Bénédictine and Brandy, and not what we want here.

Absinthe: If you can, grab a green (virtue) absinthe that isn’t too wild. The Butterfly Classic, in my fairly extensive experience, is the most likely to have people enjoy it on its own for running an absinthe bar for a while, so if you like making Absinthe Drips, So consider this. It’s great here. Also old Pernod, or excellent and explosive herbaceous St. George, would be great among others.

Garnish: There is some inconsistency in the online recipes for lemon vs. orange zest, probably because of the sweetness. Lemon usually comes off as tart, while orange usually comes off as sweet, so you’d think lemon would help here. It doesn’t happen. Whatever sweetness-reducing properties the lemon oil may have are offset by the strange medicinal quality it brings out of the rest of the drink. On the other hand, orange peel is a perfect match for the flavors.