You might be able to deduce from our ethos of ‘fewer, better’, that our idea of beauty is intrinsically linked to the practicality of a thing. This doctrine stretches from how we see art and its suitability within its context, through to design (of course), but into food and drink, too. For a cocktail garnish to adhere to ‘fewer, better’, it has to justify its place on top of a drink, adding more to the sensory experience than merely looking pretty. A redundant but colourful petal or goldleaf draped across a glass’ rim, for example, just won’t do.
Nothing can ruin a drink quicker than a pointless garnish. A gin and tonic with an un-squeezed lime vulgarly flopped on top offers up a lose-lose choice of either slurping around it, or engaging in the undignified process of sticking your fingers inside your drink to retrieve the lime before squeezing it yourself and dunking back in for a final stir. A garnish should make the whole experience of your drink better – if it doesn’t, it shouldn’t be there.
The UK has not long emerged from its gin boom – or ‘ginaissance’ – which saw distilleries increase over twofold. Gastropubs desperate to keep up with the times introduced their own gin menus as the populace became obsessed with botanicals and the correct garnishes to tease them out. But, without any real authority on the matter, it was like the wild west. Pre-university £10 per hour bartenders were branded as sadists for daring to offer up a Monkey 47 and Fever-Tree without embellishing it with black peppercorns and a sprig of lavender, and serving it in an uncouthly large fishbowl glass. Tragically, the peppercorns would of course sink to the bottom and shoot up the straw at a rate of knots, temporarily asphyxiating the ‘satisfied’ customer.
We’re still experiencing the hangover from this garnish free-for-all. So...
What makes a good drink?
A good drink is a considered design piece, wherein the designer has not only thought about the flavour, but also its size, the temperature it’s served at, and how the flavour develops as it warms, dilutes, or cools down. The colour, its texture, and how it fits within its context. How the first sip compares to the final one. Now, don’t get us wrong, this does not oblige an Einsteinian level of complexity behind every drink. Sometimes, an unparalleled accompaniment to a roasting, still afternoon is an ice cold beer, dripping wet, straight from an esky.
The garnish of a drink, the sometimes literal cherry on top, should add to the experience across at least one of the sensorial planes – if the plane in question is just sight, however, then it must be across two.
Garnishes: The Good
A Martini’s olive or twist – or both at the same time, as Stanley Tucci purports to enjoy. A delicately pale, translucent contents is paired with a bold green or lively yellow with just as vibrant a flavour and smell. Beautiful. The citrus oils drastically affect the flavour of the drink, emphasising the botanicals of the gin or softening the kick of the vodka. And the olive, eased onto a cocktail skewer ideally, adds a salty depth to the vermouth.
The Maraschino cherry at the bottom of a Last Word. The purple is a subtle contrast to the murky and mysterious chartreuse green. The syrupy coating adds a sweet penultimate sip before a hit of texture, crunch, and richness of the cherry stewing in the Last Word flavour. A tip: if you’re making one at home, try replacing the formula’s gin with a mezcal and enjoy the delicious mingling of herbaceous and smoky notes. If ordering in a bar, ask instead for a Final Word.
The zested – and subsequently dashed – lemon peel and absinthe rinse of a Sazerac. An invisible garnish, incredibly present from your first sip, that dances across your olfactory and gustatory senses, until your happy last.
Finally, the humble lime wedge forced into a bottle of Corona. Delightfully messy, joyously ritualistic, and somehow makes a cold beer on a hot day twice as refreshing.
Garnishes: The Bad
A slice of citrus placed on the side of the glass. It never stays on and is actively avoided by the drinker. Or in the worst case it falls off between bar and table and becomes a slipping hazard for the other patrons – serving a purpose in this situation at the very least.
Dehydrated fruit. From a purely economic perspective, businesses are pouring money away on inedible decorations that have nothing more to recommend them than storing well.
Garnishes: The Dangerous
Pineapple leaves in frozen Tiki cocktails. A needless and impractical hazard. To flog the dead horse and engage with it: are we being asked to use it as some sort of spoon? No. So, why is it there?
To conclude
Garnishes are fabulous and can certainly elevate a drink, just allow them to do so. But, if they aren’t adding anything more than ‘vibes’, they’ve got to go.