Deconstructing Amaro, Part 2

Quite a lot can happen in two months time, I've come to find out. This past April I settled on a fairly complex recipe for housemade amaro after a few weeks of tweaking proportions and ratios of ingredients and differing lengths of time for steeping processes. The "green" amaro was packed full of distinct layers of flavor with rows of exclamation points following them. They were choppy layers, though, with transitions like a wrecking ball pummeling through the brick walls of a dilapidated building. It was young, not necessarily raw, but reeking of promise. The solution to rounding out those flavors was to let the spirits rest in a used whiskey barrel from a local distillery. There was however, great risk in deciding when to drain the barrel, since too little time wouldn't refine those rough edges enough and too much time would overwhelm the subtler herbs and spices. My nerve-racking anticipation of the final product was being fed by two shaky hands: hedonist excitement on the left, and the rather considerable investment my boss put into this little experiment on the right.

Once in a while I'd offer a sample to one of the more intrepid customers who came into the bar, a crew of masochist guinea pigs who enjoy being tested. After, I'd let them know how many weeks in oak it had spent so far the usual response was, "Well... how long does it take?" To which I would bluntly respond, "I have no idea." I pulled samples and tasted the amaro every Saturday night toward the end of my shift, trying to analyze the flavor profile objectively and not get clouded by what I thought I should be tasting. It's sometimes difficult to avoid those sensory mirages; when you're tasting wine with someone who suggests, "I get a lot of apple up front with a little grass in the back" and suddenly that's all you can taste. Over the course of the first four weeks, hesitation grew into confidence that the barrel was working its magic. It's uncanny how dramatic the effects of charred oak from a used barrel can have on freshly macerated spirits. That "Goldilocks" period I referred to before occurred between week eight and nine, and I emptied out the barrel, strained and filtered the amaro, and began bottling in stripped down 375's that once held our house muscat.

The first thing you notice is the color; what was a light straw yellow is now a deep amber brown, a few shades darker than your average bourbon. When the cork is removed, woodsy aromatics linger in a 3-foot radius from the bottle. It has decent legs, clinging to the side of a double old-fashioned glass when you pour in an ounce or two. When you bring it up to your nose, the smell is undeniably amaro; bitter gentian and mossy oak raise their hands first, followed by the token medicinal aroma that makes many newcomers shy away. You can pick up quite a few lighter citrus and mild floral notes swimming in the ether, foreshadowing what's about to happen next. When you take the first sip, the spirits sink in immediately and not so subtly warn you that this stuff is heated. Not such a bad thing though when it's countered by a pleasant sweetness and full-flavored cinnamon, orange, cloves, and galanga that start ringing their bells. This mildy fruity, spicy opening act sets the stage for the next two layers, the headliners that everyone came to see in the first place: herbaceous and bitter. Mint, fennel, and heather start striking your tongue with a softened eucalyptus-like effect. As for the finish, comfortably bitter and dry. Not quite the throat-swelling, allergic reaction kind of bitter that accompanies many of the other Italian-style potable bitters. Something more like the light grip a good friend puts around your neck when they're pretending to choke you. There's a slight numbing effect on your lips as well, which doesn't let you forget what you're drinking. All in all, I'd say there are certainly worse things to sip on the rocks with an orange peel when you're relaxing after a long day or big meal.

Ultimately, true satisfaction came to me unexpectedly after I stopped by the bar I sometimes go to after work, where I always ask for a short pour of "something funny" and I try to guess what it is.

Last Saturday night, the bartender asked me what I thought I was drinking, laughing as he usually does, and I said something like "amaro maybe?" grazing over the back bar. "Not sweet enough for Ramazzotti, but not dry enough for Fernet... I don't know, am I close at least?"

"Yeah, it's your amaro you dropped off last week."

So it's been a fun ride so far and you're welcome to try it out and decide for yourself when Saul opens up his new Southern Italian restaurant, Red Gravy this October. By that time you'll also be able to try out the next challenge we discussed a couple weeks ago — a limoncello that's not cloyingly sweet and has a heartier body than what's out there on the market for the most part. For the truly brave, you can swing by Botanica in Red Hook and try one of the more risky experiments — tepache (raw, fermented pineapple rinds sweetened with cane sugar and tropical spices). The only way to describe that one, for better or worse, is "interesting," definitely an experience.

Restaurant Saul is located at 140 Smith Street at Bergen Street, Red Gravy is located at 151 Atlantic Avenue at Clinton Street, and Botanica is located at 220 Conover Street at Coffey; all in the strong borough of Brooklyn.

This is the second section of a two-part story, the first of which appeared this past April. Dan Carlson works at Saul in Boerum Hill and Botanica in Red Hook and was recently featured in Gaz Regan's 101 Best New Cocktails 2012.