I have a friend who owns restaurants. Nice restaurants. The kind where they serve craft cocktails. Which begs a question. What exactly is a craft cocktail? Behold two definitions I grabbed from a google search.
A craft cocktail is an upscale version of a classic cocktail that takes more skill, or craft, to make. These drinks feature curated ingredients, go the extra mile with garnishes, and take a few extra minutes to prepare compared to a standard cocktail.
A craft cocktail is a hand-crafted alcoholic mixed drink made with fresh ingredients and no pre-made mixes.
While I generally agree with these definitions, I would broaden them to include anything made with quality ingredients—pre-made or not—and care. For instance, is it necessary to make your own tonic water for a gin and tonic to qualify as a craft cocktail? Do you have to find and purchase cinchona bark? Or do you just have to procure a fresh bottle or can of tonic water you like—one that goes well with the gin you keep stocked in your liquor cabinet. You’ll need some clear, hard ice as well—not that inferior slush from a grocery store or gas station that melts in a few nanoseconds and waters down the boozy, bitter notes that make your drink worthwhile. That, and a fresh wedge or slice of lime. All you must do to make a craft cocktail is craft it.
My friend occasionally hires cocktail consultants to work with his bar staff. He shared some general “rules” his bartenders have learned. They are:
No more than five ingredients
Fresh ingredients whenever possible
Technique matters
Order matters sometimes
I like these rules. To me they satisfy the attributes of quality and care without being overly proscriptive. There’s space for my gin and tonic in there. And my guacamole.
It is possible that some might take offense that I use the term “my guacamole.” Clearly, I am not the founder of guacamole. Nor can I claim development, after extended experimentation in a secret, underground laboratory, of the recipe I use to make “my guacamole.” On this ownership quicksand I turn to the laws regarding the prescription of mineral rights in Louisiana.
Louisiana law holds that when a property changes hands, the mineral rights can be retained by the seller. However, if nothing is done to exploit the mineral rights over a period of ten years, they revert to the owner of the surface rights. I view my guacamole situation similarly. Sometime in the past, I found a guacamole recipe and used it to make guacamole. The recipe was simple, and after using it once I never had to reference it again—ever. Since I have not used the material of the recipe author in more than ten years, I maintain that prescription is not interrupted and the recipe is now mine to claim and share.
Avocados have been on the menu for a long, long time. The trees were domesticated by indigenous Mesoamerican people about 5,000 years ago. The timing of the first guacamole recipe is unknown, but the Spaniards were introduced to mixtures of avocado and spices in the 1500s during their early voyages to the new world. The British explorer and pirate, William Dampier, in his 1697 book, A New Voyage Round The World, documents a central American recipe of mashed avocados, lime juice, and sugar.
The name “avocado” is itself derived from the Aztec name for the fruit, “ahu?catl,” which means testicle—probably referring to the fact that the fruit hangs in pairs. When the Spanish adopted the word, it became aguacate, then avogato. English speakers used the name avogato pear, because of its shape, and then alligator pear, because of the rough, dark skin. Finally, in 1915, a group of growers in California, frustrated with their inability to market their crop, determined the name alligator pear was hurting their efforts and decided on avocado as a replacement.
With the etymology complete, the newly formed California Avocado Association was gifted a nice helping of protectionism in the form of a U.S. government ban on avocados imported from Mexico. The official reason for the ban was a fear of invasive pests, but I’m suspicious there was some backroom lobbying going on. The lack of competition from Mexico undoubtedly helped U.S. growers, but avocado marketing campaigns all through the middle part of the 20th century maintained only modest sales. The looks and taste of the fruit were different, the health benefits of avocados were unknown or not publicized, and without imports from Mexico there weren’t enough avocados to provide reliable supply to markets outside the American southwest. Growing up in Canada, I never ate an avocado until I was in my mid-20s.
In 1992, everything changed. U.S. growers hired a P.R. firm, Hill & Knowlton, to create a new avocado marketing campaign. Leveraging the marketing reach of the most watched television sport in the country, they launched the “Guacamole Bowl,” in which NFL players and their families prepared their best guacamole recipes for fans and reporters to try. It was a huge success, and that, combined with the lifting of the ban on Mexican imports, finally put the lowly alligator pear over the top. Belatedly, the health benefits of avocado consumption—avocados are rich in fiber, healthy fat, vitamins, and other nutrients—have become widely known, and the stores are full of them. Rejoice!
Enough history. On with the recipe. To begin, please review the photograph below. It contains everything you need, except for salt and pepper. When I go to the grocery store for guacamole provisions I just think, five things. Avocados, limes, jalapeno, white onion, cilantro.
Mince the jalapeno (remove the seeds) and a quarter to a half of the white onion. You can do this with a food processor, and I do if I’m making a big batch, but I usually just use a knife.
Put the minced pepper and onion in a bowl and drench with the juice of one or two limes. Stir and set aside.
Grab a handful of cilantro—leaves and tender stems—and chop fairly fine. You don’t want a big, green cilantro leaf getting stuck between your teeth. Add it to the bowl with the peppers and onion.
The choice of avocados is crucial. I like mine ripe, but still firm. They should yield to the pressure of a finger or thumb, but only just. When you split them, as in the photo below, I remove the pit by holding the half-avocado in the palm of one hand and tapping the blade of a knife into the pit. Twist the knife once the blade is in the pit. CAREFUL! When the avocados are just right the pit should resist a bit before twisting out. For this recipe I use three or four avocados, and the fruit should be a smooth, vibrant green—darker at the edges, buttery yellow in the center. No dark spots.
I scoop the flesh into the bowl in complete halves, then hack the halves into small pieces with a small, sharp knife. When you’re done hacking, it should look like this.
Add salt and pepper. I start with a teaspoon of salt and a few grinds of fresh, black pepper. Now you mash, and mix. I use a sturdy fork so I can mash the avocado chunks against the side and bottom of the bowl. The secret here is to not mash too much. You do not want the kind of disgusting, smooth paste that constitutes commercially made guacamole from a grocery store. You want small, visible chunks of avocado to remain intact. In geological terms, you want the result to be a conglomerate (many different grain sizes) as opposed to a siltstone or mudstone (consistent, tiny grains).
Taste it when you’re about 80 percent finished with mashing and mixing. The lime and the salt should be noticeable. Not overpowering, but prominent. If they’re not, add whatever is missing—a little more salt, the juice from another lime (maybe start with a half). Finish the mash; don’t overdo it, and if you care, smooth the top for presentation. You can add one of the pits in the center for decoration.
When I’m finished making the guacamole, I like to cover it tightly with plastic wrap or a fitted lid and put it in the refrigerator for an hour or two before serving. The chill firms the texture and mellows the bite of the salt and lime. A sealed lid maintains the beautiful, green color. Then, a quality tortilla chip, a beer, a late summer party, a football game—perfection.
This is a classic recipe. It contains everything you need, and nothing you don’t need. My eldest son is a talented cook and opines that this recipe is elevated with small additions of cumin, chili powder, and white pepper. He is mistaken but forgive him. He’s young. If, from a feeling of adventure or curiosity, you feel inspired to embellish or alter this recipe, I refer you once more to the world of cocktails.
I have a book, 12 Cocktails, Good and True, written by Nigel Bob Collins. It’s available at the publisher’s website, AuthorHouse. Chapter one of the book is titled, “The Reason.” In it the author outlines his inspiration and motivation for writing the book. At the end of the chapter, after declaring that all the recipes in the book are time-tested, being near to or more than 100 years old, he writes this:
Finally, I ask that you bear in mind that much effort has been made to hack away the permutations, variations and perversions that have encrusted themselves over time onto many of these drinks and to rediscover the original recipes that made these cocktails classics. Accordingly, the reader is encouraged to think of this manual not as a collection of favorite drink recipes that can be modified and embellished at the reader’s whim, but rather as a code of ironclad laws that permit no deviation.
So, if you’re tempted to add chopped tomatoes, or a teaspoon of mayonnaise, or garlic (fresh or powdered), check yourself. Remember the cocktail consultant’s first commandment. No more than five ingredients.
This was a fantastic read, Trevor! I particularly like the "no more than five ingredients" rule. Do you think a similar rule should apply to homemade salsa?