In Defense of the Fruity Old Fashioned

I'm going to have to fight my colleague in the street, and that's a shame because I really like him and think he's great at his job. But in his recent assessment of the best whiskies to use in an Old-Fashioned, Mr. Brian Freedman referred to my preferred preparation of the drink as a "boozy fruit salad," and I don't think he meant it as a compliment. In fact, he went on to slander that incarnation of the drink as "mushed-up orange slices releasing intense pith-derived bitterness into the drink, a constellation of neon-hued cherries making the liquid itself little more than a hangover-inducing delivery system for sugar." Uh, way harsh, Bri (and also I take care to use inky, dense, thickly-syruped Amarena cherries which I buy by the kilogram can) but that's just the latest in a nearly century-long slander of the muddled Old Fashioned. 

Fans of the Old Fashioned would do well to nab a copy of writer Robert Simonson's deeply-researched and thoroughly engrossing book aptly named,The Old Fashioned, which plumbs the depths and ecstasies of the titular tipple since its creation, as well as popular incarnations in history. Simonson himself dings the turn-of-the-millennium version as a "tarted-up fruit salad … sickly sweet, imprecise concoction that, only by the most charitable stretch of imagination could be called a whiskey drink." He notes James Beard's preference, "without any refuse in the way of fruit," legendary bartender David Wondrich's "garbage free" recipe for the late and much lamented Chickenbone bar, and in a chapter called "The Fruit Wars,"  New York Sun columnist Don Marquis' pre-Prohibition sketch featuring a character named the Old Soak demanding without "too much orange and that kind of damned garbage." 

Fine, fellas. As Simonson explains, the additions may have come into play at various points in American history when the quality of available whiskey was often catch as catch can, and in need of masking, or in the '90s and early '00s nadir of the cocktail craft when bartenders found it perfectly acceptable to smash up some shock-pink maraschinos with some 7-Up and an orange slice to sully the name of the fruity Old Fashioned. But the times, they do occasionally flow forward and I swear by the drink my husband ritualizes most nights at home.

Here goes: Coat the bottom of a double old-fashioned glass with your preferred amount of sugar (a dusting for me and a flurry for him). Drench that with bitters (Angostura for him, Ango and orange or smoked cherry bitters for me). Spoon in one of those aforementioned Amarenas and utterly obliterate it with the muddler, working it into the sludgy sugar until the bulk of it is indistinguishable from the grains. Add a prime slice of the orange to the mix (a blood orange if you have it, and ideally take care to avoid a variety with a rind so thick as to be spongy) and have at it with that muddler. Work out all of your irk and angst from the day until the thing is positively pulped, and then free-hand pour your whiskey (bourbon for him, rye for me) until you are right with your personal cocktail angels, and then add the correct amount of ice cubes for your personal level of pleasure (practically the size of a human fist for him and two or three for me). Stir, enjoy, top up with whiskey as needed.

And Brian, I've changed my mind. I respect and adore you too much to fight you in the street. We're meeting up, I'm making you a fruity Old Fashioned, and if you like it you like it and if you don't, you don't — I'll just have the rest of yours. We live in fractious times and there's better fish to fry, better bottles to pop. No need to get it muddled.