And that means it's time for yet another cocktail review, courtesy of your humble bartender. Correspondent, I mean. Yes, correspondent.
Yeah, okay. I know. I haven't done a cocktail review since December. Cry your pardon. Things have been mad around here. I promise that, even if I don't keep up with the other crap, I'll put a cocktail review up every Friday, at least. Does that suit you?
And you're in luck. You've happily stumbled across the second of my rarer-than-political-accountability SHOT REVIEWS!
Today's is the Golden Apple, discovered in The Professional Bartender's Handbook, a semi-recent acquisition and a fine supplement to The Bartender's Bible. Fifteen hundred drink recipes listed in plain English. If the book has a flaw, it's that the drinks are not organized by spirit (whiskey, rum, vodka, etc.); they're alphabetical. Good luck trying to find a shot or a good tequila cocktail with TPBH. Anyway, I happened to spot this recipe in there and, captivated by the mythological reference, I decided to—
Oh, don't tell me you don't get the mythological reference.
Well, that just means I'll have to educate you bums a bit. Let the digression begin!
Atalanta was a minor figure in Greek mythology. As the story goes, her father, King Misogynist, wanted a son. When his daughter was born, he left her on a mountaintop to die. Rumor has it that a she-bear found her and nursed her, and she grew up wild and fierce and furry as most bears do. (Presumably, she ate a lot of fish and beat the shit out of any male bears she came across.)
She was independent, though. When she grew up she decided she didn't need men and took an oath of virginity to the goddess Artemis, another forest-dwelling lady who had taken the same oath. And unlike Miley Cyrus, Atalanta stuck to her vow. When two centaurs tried to rape her, she killed them. That may not have anything to do with her oath, though. I don't think even Aphrodite was into the whole centaur-rape thing. Hermes, maybe. But not Aphrodite.
After Atalanta had made a name for herself with some rousing adventures, King Misogynist finally found her again. Suddenly proud, he wanted to marry her off. Atalanta agreed to marry, but only if her suitor could outrun her, fully armed and armored. A lotta men tried, and a lotta men died (heat stroke, cardiac arrest, and jealousy being the main contributors).
One day an enterprising young man appeared on the horizon. His name was Hippomenes (or Melanion, depending on which embarrassing nickname you prefer: "Hippo" or "Melonhead"). He fell hopelessly in love with Atalanta at first sight. In desperation, he asked the love goddess Aphrodite to help him win the race. Aphrodite, already irked at Atalanta for eschewing love and sex, agreed to help Hippo despite his embarrassing moniker. She gave the kid three golden apples.
"Here, Hip," she said. "Take these. They're irresistible. Every time Atalanta draws even with you, chuck one of 'em in front of her. That'll slow her down."
"Irresistible?" asked Hippo. "Does Atalanta like apples that much?"
"No, Hippo. Girls like shiny things. Everybody knows it. Give a woman something shiny and she suddenly forgets everything. You know the song "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend"? Of course you don't, because Marilyn Monroe won't be born for another two thousand years. Never mind who she is. Bitch'll have a better body than mine. But the rule applies, and has ever since Day One. Trust me. Toss one of these babies into her path and she'll go ga-ga over it. Should buy you some time."
"Oh," Hippo said. He hesitated.
"Should I wash them first?"
"Get going, Melonhead."
So the day of the race arrived. Hippo did what Aphrodite said. Every time Atalanta was about to pull ahead of him, he rolled a golden apple in front of her. Every time, she stopped to pick it up. Soon Hippo got the idea and was throwing the golden fruit as far as he could. He won the race while Atalanta was hunting around under the bleachers for the third apple. A & H got married and had some heroic sons. Eventually Zeus turned the married couple into lions, allegedly because they'd done the dirty deed in one of his temples. (The belief at the time was that lions could not mate with their own species, only with leopards; and so Zeus believed he was biologically exiling A & H from one another. Boy, was he barking up the wrong Doric column.)
And so, this story proves beyond a shadow of a doubt, once and for all, that girls just can't resist shiny things.
But I digress. Here's the recipe for a Golden Apple shot:
- ½ ounce Goldschläger
- ½ ounce Sour Apple Pucker
As you might expect, Goldschläger being cinnamon schnapps and Sour Apple Pucker being (what else?) sour apple schnapps, this shooter tastes remarkably like...
...APPLE CINNAMON!
For real and for true. While imbibing, one is given the impression that one is sucking down an rather runny, spicy apple pie. Very spicy. It packs a punch. Goldschläger burns. And Sour Apple Pucker is pretty sour stuff, as you might expect. So, after a quick draw and a quicker gulp, one finds oneself simultaneously puckering up and coughing. The spice sticks to the back of the throat, the sourness pervades the palate, and the finish is a glorious combination of cinnamon and apple, working as much magic on the memory as it does upon the gustatory calyculi. All in all, a challenging, flavorful, and remarkably simple shooter.
Just don't let the gold flakes get stuck in your teeth.
