Americans don’t like to be ordered around. We have a long and storied history of scamming the taxman, smuggling liquor, and otherwise making anti-government mischief. And that was before we were a nation. It wasn’t just the tax collector who stood to be abused: “One unhappy man, who had rented his house to a [tax] collector, was visited at the dead of night by a mob of blackened and disguised men,” wrote H.L. Peeke in a 1917 history of our bibulous past, Americana Ebrietatis. The poor landlord “was seized, carried to the woods, shorn of his hair, tarred, feathered, and bound to a tree.” Antifa has nothing on our forefathers, vigilante-wise.
They say that snitches get stitches. The tax-averse whiskey-makers of the early republic made themselves far more persuasive than that: According to Peeke, “If a farmer gave information as to where the stills could be found, his barns were burned.” I hate to think of how such men would have greeted the government factotum tasked with fining families enjoying a harvest feast.
There’s a problem with Thanksgiving — a problem aside from being told we’re not supposed to celebrate it this year. No, the problem I have in mind is not unique to the pandemic age. It is that Thanksgiving, unlike Christmas, does not have a tradition of holiday-specific drinks. Christmas is the proud possessor of eggnog, steaming bowls of bishop, bubbling and frothing Tom and Jerry, coquito, champagne punches, negus, and glogg. Thanksgiving has … hmmm.
The natural thing to do would be to look to our colonial and revolutionary past for some drink suggestions. In Philadelphia, one could enjoy a beer made of molasses “well boiled with sassafras or pine infused into it.” (Now, I’ve done it: Next week, some craft microbrewer will have a sassafras/molasses IPA on tap.)
Our forefathers didn’t skimp on the feasting, nor on the drinks that went with the feast. Here is President John Adams describing not Thanksgiving dinner but an average Thursday spread in his diary in September 1774: “Dined at Mr. Powells, with Mr. Duché, Dr. Morgan, Dr. Steptoe, Mr. Goldsborough, Mr. Johnson, and many others. A most sinfull Feast again! Every Thing which could delight the Eye, or allure the Taste, Curds and Creams, Jellies, Sweet meats of various sorts, 20 sorts of Tarts, fools, Trifles, floating Islands, whippd Sillabubs &c. &c. — Parmesan Cheese, Punch, Wine, Porter, Beer &c. &c.”
That should rather set the standard for our Thanksgivings. There was so much food crowding the table that the guests probably had to sit 6 feet apart to make room for the 13th sort of trifle and the 5th whippd sillabub. (A syllabub, by the way, is more dessert than drink — whipped cream, sugar, lemon juice, and sweet wine.)
Should we follow the example of Thursday dinner at Mr. Powell’s and have not only wine and beer but also punch? I don’t dare suggest it, as the thought of ladling a drink out of a communal bowl is surely enough to make Dr. Anthony Fauci writhe as if he were throwing a baseball.
But instead of looking to the past, I suggest we create some Thanksgiving-appropriate cocktails suited to the way we actually eat on that eminent (and imminent, for that matter) holiday.
For starters, there’s much sitting around, waiting, as the turkey isn’t quite ready and various sides haven’t even made it into the overstuffed oven. A drink suited to that moment is one that is neither heavy nor especially alcoholic, something that will keep one’s appetite on a low simmer. I’ve come up with something that fits the bill, a drink we can call Just Thirty Minutes More:
1 ½ oz apple brandy
¾ oz Dubonnet (red — avoid white Dubonnet as you would the coronavirus)
½ oz Aperol
3 dashes angostura bitters
Stir with ice until very cold, and strain into a cocktail glass. Drink in a remote corner.
The next cocktail-appropriate moment in the feast comes about two-thirds of the way through, when one’s plate is empty, one’s stomach is full, and one is preparing for seconds. You need a pause, and a light fizzy drink can buy you the time to ready for a full assault on the pickled carrots. Let’s call it Dr. Birx’s Scarf:
4 oz raspberry lambic beer (chilled)
2 oz dry French hard cider (chilled)
The juice of 1/4 lemon
Combine in a goblet or large champagne glass, and give a gentle stir. Do not share stirring spoons. Sanitize spoons in an autoclave. Dispose of spoons in a biohazard sharps container.
Lastly, the turkey is all eaten, and it’s time for football. Find somewhere you can sit that’s at least 6 feet from the TV — no, wait, I misread the guidelines. That’s 6 feet from anyone else. Settle back with a postprandial we’ll call the Food Coma:
1 oz blended scotch
1 oz B&B
Serve on the rocks in a low tumbler. Sip through a mask.
Eric Felten is the James Beard Award-winning author of How’s Your Drink?
