This is part of Wet February, a series about America’s increasingly muddled relationship with drinking—and how to sip your way through it wisely and well.
Back in the early spring of 2016, just before we collectively stumbled into this shitty timeline marred by “fake news” and idiot fascism, a journalist did that thing that journalism used to do: hold power to account. In this case, the power was Big Bay Leaf, and the reporter was Kelly Conaboy, writing for the Awl on a “vast bay leaf conspiracy” that—then as now—cons well-meaning home cooks into buying weird leaves that taste and smell like “nothing.” “How does a bay leaf behave?” she bravely inquired. “It behaves as a leaf would, if you took a leaf from the tree outside of your apartment building and put it into your soup.”
Conaboy’s dogged search for confirmation, “as well as freedom to ignore the bay leaf portion of future recipes I might encounter,” did not win her any friends among chefs and food personalities, who, sadly, were all willing to cravenly prevaricate about the leaves’ “earthy, bitter note” and “savory, herbal element.” But her gumption did earn the admiration of countless kitchen warriors—those of us who, after glumly fishing a bit of useless foliage out of our stew, felt in our hearts that something was amiss.
It is in this righteous, public-minded spirit that I come to you today with another uncomfortable truth: maraschino is the bay leaf of cocktails.
For those lucky enough not to have been fooled into buying a bottle, maraschino is a clear liqueur made from the fruit and pits of the marasca sour cherry. It has a cherry-almond-vanilla thing going on, but the overall effect, taken straight, is like a mouthful of Grandma’s perfume. The most prominent brands are Maraska, from Croatia, and the more iconic Luxardo, from Italy, which is recognizable at most bars by its red-topped green bottle and plaited straw cosseting. As with chefs and the bay leaf, fancy bartenders will tell you that maraschino is complex, beguiling, and even “funky,” that it is the ineffable and yet essential player in a host of classic cocktails. But at home, where we are just trying to fix a tasty drink, I’m confident in saying that you can ignore them in total bliss.
My maraschino enlightenment journey began some years ago, at New York City restaurant Frenchette, where I ordered one of those classic cocktails, the Aviation. The drink being a personal favorite, I’d had it out many times before and had made it at home quite often, always with the standard mix of gin, lemon juice, maraschino, and créme de violette (the latter of which lends the Aviation its bewitching lavender hue). This evening, though, something was different—the color was the same, but the flavors were somehow brighter and cleaner, the citrus more bracing and the floral notes more intriguing. My party and I liked this version so much that we asked if the bar wouldn’t mind sharing the recipe with us, thinking that the distinctiveness must lie in the amounts. But once it was slipped to us on a postcard, we were shocked to see another change: The maraschino had been replaced—and, moreover, by that most humble of ingredients: simple syrup.
As I mulled over this (and more Aviations) in the following weeks, I began to entertain the idea that maraschino might not be the home bar necessity I’d been led to believe it was. Sure, it’s a venerable liqueur with a rich history, and its rediscovery during the great cocktail-culture revival of the aughts made much of that delicious upwelling possible. But what is it doing in there, really? While older recipes for important drinks like the Martinez and the Last Word can call for quite a bit of it, modern tastes have trended drier, adding more of the base spirit and less of the liqueurs. Now you’re most likely to see maraschino granted ¼ ounce of real estate or less, and in those amounts, I’d argue that all it’s really up to is adding a bit of sweetness. And guess what else can do that? Sugar water. Maraschino is not required.
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Well, you might say, why not continue using it just for that, as a sweetener? The thing is, worse than the bay leaf adding zilch to a soup, maraschino (depending on the quantity and on the sensitivity of your palate) could bring in those medicinal candy-almond flavors. Some may genuinely want this, but I’ve come to view it as so much muddying of the waters. In the Aviation, I’d rather focus on the violette; likewise, the green Chartreuse in the Last Word. Even in the Martinez (a “perfect” one, if you please), it’s the vermouths and bitters that deserve our attention—add a teaspoon of syrup for viscosity if you really need it, but further complication is unnecessary.
Lest you think I’m way out on a laurel limb here, I’ve learned that within the professional mixology community, there’s quite a bit of contention about maraschino as well. In a 2019 article in Punch, Robert Simonson surveyed a range of bartenders on their relationship to the liqueur, and although most granted its importance in cocktail history, many were not shy about questioning its hegemony. One Karin Stanley was particularly cutting: “I don’t know if I’ve ever had someone say ‘you know what I love? Maraschino!’ ” she told Simonson. “But I’ve definitely heard of bartenders thinking it’s too cloying or easily overused. I had someone describe it recently as their ‘nightmare punishment shot,’ though I don’t know why you’d be shooting it.” Another, Lee Zaremba, picked up on what I imagine is a large part of maraschino’s appeal among professionals: “I know certain people absolutely love” it, he said, “and think of it as the nostalgia that binds them to the classics.”
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I can understand the appeal of nostalgia, of the sense that doing things the “authentic” way is both proper and pleasing. To be honest, despite knowing better, I still throw a (fresh) bay leaf in my pot every now and then, sometimes even three or four, realizing that they will do absolutely nothing and yet appreciating the aesthetics of the act all the same. (I’m part of the problem, Kelly—I’m sorry!) When I asked Slate drinks contributor N.C. Stevens about my maraschino trutherism, I was struck by how his reply was cast in terms of tradition. “Maraschino has a lot of historical weight as a cocktail ingredient, including in the earliest known recipe of the Aviation,” he wrote to me via email. “Really, if you sub out maraschino with simple syrup, you’ve converted the Aviation back to a Gin Sour of sorts. So, perhaps there is an argument for a better tasting drink overall, but it strips the original of its identity as well.”
I didn’t set out here to strip anyone of anything, and I appreciate Stevens’ point. Perhaps the cocktails I now mix sans maraschino should no longer be called by their classical names (… the Empty Control Tower?). But given that the omission yields what is to my taste a better cocktail and saves me a little cash, I’m fine with that. Mixology mavens and tipple historians can have their Italian potpourri juice. As for me and mine, we will march forward, without maraschino weighing us down, into a bright, boozy future.
If you’d like to follow us but have a dusty bottle still cluttering up your bar, consider disposing of it speedily with a Prohibition-era giggle, the Angel’s Tit (as given in its purest form by Lesley M.M. Blume). Simply top a full shot of maraschino with whipped cream and a precisely placed cherry. Suckle deeply, and rest assured that you are certain to be finished with the stuff for all eternity. Nightmare punishment shot, indeed.
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