Pink Gin

With all its bourgeoisie baggage, the Pink Gin is the English equivalent of the Yank's Martini. Bold and biting, it takes the banal - gin and bitters - and makes it distinctive. But unlike the Martini, this classic cocktail suffers from a pathetically prosaic name that occasionally opens it up to disparaging remarks. Fortunately, the Pink Gin's taste rises above its name, though its past is a different matter.

The Pink Gin has the Royal Navy to thank for its well-dispersed recipe, and as proof that anything can be justified, these fine imperialists sipped bitters. Well-documented legend has it that Dr. Johann Gottlieb Benjamin Siegert, a surgeon for the Prussian army at the battle of Waterloo, invented the bitters in 1824 for a military hospital at Angostura in Venezuela. When added to gin, these lurid orange-colored bitters - now made in Trinidad, by appointment to Her Majesty - blend into a soothing salmon hue.

But the Pink Gin wasn't for everyone. Those of the Royal Navy's lower decks drank establishments until Ian Fleming started sipping it between interviews about a particular secret agent. In no way, however, are we implying that Mr. Fleming did not frequent these bars. We're just certain that most of his readers did not. But either way, the Pink Gin began to be sipped by those without blue blood. Soon enough, even typical Englishmen could be spotted imbibing Pink Gins while harrumphing about the French. They toted the drink's ingredients, along with their Bird's custard, on extended holidays and permanent moves off the island, and as with the Pimm's Cup, they became accustomed to drinking the Pink Gin while watching their former colonies beat them in cricket.

True devotees of the Pink Gin mix the cocktail with Plymouth, not London, gin. According to John Ayto, the lexicographer who scribed The Diner's Dictionary, the Royal Navy may have preferred Plymouth "since it is fuller in flavor" than London's dry gin. Regrettably, we've never been able to verify this critique. For a fact, it's impossible to buy a bottle of Plymouth in the States, and we've heard reports that attaining it elsewhere isn't much easier. Our liquor-distributor friend told us he hasn't seen a bottle here in at least five years, and he's certain there's only one place where we'd definitely find it: Black Friars Distillery, in the quaint harbor town of Plymouth, where the maritime ties are still well-anchored. A gentler, smoother spirit, Plymouth smacks less of juniper and more of orris (the pestled roots of irises) and crushed angelica root. Spanish lemon and the sweet sting of orange peels, coriander, and cardamom only slightly hide in the mix. Of course, that last bit is speculation, based on the babbles of an experienced Pink Gin imbiber forced to take the tipple with London dry. But we are certain that imbibing more than one or two Pink Gins mixed without Plymouth makes drinkers belligerent at best. "Plymouth gin differs from its peers (described, in most cases meaninglessly, as London gins) in that it is softer, less assertive, less pepper-pungent, with an earthier, more gently spicy style," wrote Andrew Jefford, for the Evening Standard back in 1993. "In some ways it seems restrained and decorously naval, tasted alongside flamboyant wide-boy London rivals." If ever in the mood for a fight, we order a London Pink Gin and ask a few Englishmen how many dashes of Angostura should go into it, knowing there'll be no agreement. Or we just ask an Irishman to drink it.

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