No Garnish Required

In today's WSJ, the paper's noted mixologist Eric Felten reminds readers to Consider the Trimmings (sub req):

Garnish in cocktails is something of a mystery. After all, no one feels the need to dress a glass of Château Lafite Rothschild with stray crudités. And aside from the lime-in-one's-Corona affectation, beer is also free from the garniture imperative. But from the first days of cocktails, the mythology of the drink has involved frou-frou. One of the earliest (though no doubt apocryphal) tales of the invention of this distinctively American drink has a patriotic Revolutionary barmaid named Betty Flanagan plucking the tail-feathers from a Tory's prize roosters and using them to adorn drinks in her tavern -- thus the name "cock-tail."

Calling the use of a lime in bottle of Corona an affectation is a bit unfair. While it certainly is in some cases, there are serious beer drinkers (myself included) who believe that the lime is a noticeable flavor enhancer for Corona as well as number of other Mexican beers. I also enjoy adding a slice of lemon to the glass when quaffing a hefeweizen or other wheat beer, although I'm still agnostic on oranges in beer (popular with Blue Moon).

When the cocktail came into its own, in the mid-to-late 19th century, ornament was all the rage. Gilded Age drinks were often fancy things, luxuriously draped with boughs of mint and piled high with fruit. But such excesses were stripped away in the 1920s, when two forces intersected. The first was practical -- Prohibition made bartending a more utilitarian affair. The second was philosophical -- the style of the modern age called for streamlining.

Given those forces, it's a wonder that garnish didn't disappear altogether. I suspect it would have, long ago, if the odd bit of foliage didn't serve some fundamental purpose. Good garnish does accentuate the positives in a glass. But by the same token, bad ornamentation is the death of one's drink. Bar guru Dale DeGroff despairs of the long black, segmented plastic tray with the clear plastic lid that sits behind most bars, containing a room-temperature selection of wizened olives, shriveled lime wedges, and leathery lemon twists. "How many of my icy Martinis have been ruined by a heedless bartender skewering three huge heat-bombs of olives and thrusting them into my drink?" he laments.

A lament I well understand. I like my Martinis dry, chilled, and neat, meaning free of anything other than gin and a hint of vermouth. No olives, no way.

I used to work with a sales guy who liked to modify his gin and tonic orders by adding "NFL." In his parlance, the acronym meant "No F***ing Lime." I can handle a small lime corner in a G&T, but I've grown to dislike the large wedge that you often get at a bar. Besides displacing valuable glass space, the huge limes add too much flavor and water down the rich ginny goodness.

When it comes to garnishing your drinks, less is usually more.

Atomizer Sez:
The Elder is right, of course, but an exception must be made for Bloody Marys. This morning I had one with a pickle, an olive and a spicy beef stick. Now that's what I call breakfast.