Between the solemn porticoes
Column and column the lady goes;
Between the proud and painted stalks,
Plucked from Corinth, Miranda walks…
– “Miranda’s Supper, Virginia, 1866,” by Elinor Wylie
We all have our own special short list of first experiences—first date, first car, first whatever—all those memories we especially cherish, the memories that will warm our bones even on our deathbeds. One of mine is of my first mint julep.
My father’s best friend had a magnificent farm on a bluff overlooking the Potomac River, and we gathered there one long ago first Saturday in May to watch the running of the Kentucky Derby on television.
There are few places in this world or the next as intoxicatingly beautiful as Virginia in the lushness of spring: a riot of colors against a canvas of infinite shades and tones of green; the sweet smells of lilac and apple blossom, jasmine and nicotiana; and the imperious magic of the land waking and busying itself after its long winter nap, sheep and cattle gorging themselves on young grass, and the merry bickering of birds getting their summer homes ready for expected children.
We were standing in the living room, chatting and laughing, when my father’s friend thrust an icy silver beaker in my hand and I took my first sip of the famed drink that, as my father once observed, has ruined as many young ladies as it has handicappers.
The sensation of that first sip was extraordinary, but to be honest, the importance of the memory comes from the beloved parents and friends, the beautiful girl at my side, the dogs drumming their tails against our legs, the lovely sense of being in the right place at the right time, all the joyous memories of those vanished ghosts who enriched my life in that far off springtime of my journey.
But the memory of that first sip also remains. First, there was only the impression of cold, followed by sweetness, followed by fire, followed by the rather pleasant sensation of the top of my head lifting off its moorings. And that’s the danger of the mint julep: it is so pleasant and so varied in its effects that the temptation is to happily prolong and continue the effects with another. But you must never forget that while one mint julep is fine, two will make you lucky, three will make you rich, and four will make you good-looking, and those are dangerous illusions to hold in the company of horses, money, and beautiful young ladies.
It is not by coincidence that in 1634 John Milton used a julep as a symbol of sexual passion and license in his masque, Comus, where the villain (the title character) duplicitously offers the exhausted but always virtuous heroine something he says will revive and warm her:
And first behold this cordial Julep here
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds,
With spirits of balm and fragrant Syrops mixt.
Change crystal to silver and that’s still a pretty good description of the drink once accurately described by British Royal Navy Captain and novelist Frederick Marryat as being as irresistible as American ladies.
The julep is much older than Milton. There is a reference back in 1400 to a julep, which in those days meant simply any sweetened liquid used as a vehicle to get medicine down, and specifically described in that early reference as being made of water and sugar. However, back in the Middle Ages, when sanitation was somewhat more lax than it is today, water was a suspect beverage, and beer, wine, and cider were the common substitutes among all classes, so we can safely assume the preferred liquid referred to in 1400 was usually alcoholic. (According to historians Will and Ariel Durant, writing about the dangers of water in that era: “Monasteries and hospitals north of the Alps were normally allowed a gallon of ale or beer per person per day,” proof that life in the Middle Ages was far more civilized than most people believe.) And the word julep is much older still than 1400, coming from an Arabic word which in turn came from an even older Persian word meaning “rose-water.”
The mint julep, however is an exclusively American drink, historically the most elegant, the most typically and traditionally Southern of all alcoholic beverages, a symbol of the vanished South of gray and golden rebels eulogized and romanticized in books and movies and poems like Elinor Wylie’s. And more (says this Virginia native proudly), it is the oldest American drink mentioned by name—in 1803—and was at that time specifically referred to as, “an alcoholic drink with mint that is drunk in the morning in Virginia.”
Ah, those were the good old days.
As a mere julep—used either to get medicine down or as a pick-me-up in other countries—any old alcohol was and may be used (gin and brandy and various wines are most frequently mentioned), but for a real mint julep, it’s bourbon, baby, and nothing but bourbon. As a nineteenth century Kentucky judge and Confederate War veteran, Soule Smith, once wisely proclaimed, “Bourbon and mint are lovers.” He went on to say about the mint julep that, “. . . no maiden’s kiss is more tender or more refreshing.” Unfortunately, the good judge then destroyed the effect by adding that the mint must be crushed because, “Like a woman’s heart, mint gives its sweetest aroma when bruised.” We shall pass on to more enlightened times.
Duels have been fought—verbal duels, primarily—over the proper way to make a true mint julep, but using broad strokes it is a combination of fresh mint, sugar, and bourbon. It’s after that that the swords are drawn, the pistols uncased.
“Mint” in the South means spearmint, while other areas use other mints (wild or peppermint) but everyone agrees that it must always be fresh and the first step is to crush the leaves in the frozen beaker, which is a good reason for using silver instead of crystal. Sugar—usually one to two teaspoons worth—is sometimes added in the form of cubes to help in the crushing of the mint leaves, unless the preference is to discard the leaves; most people do, but some don’t. The ice too is always crushed. Then the bourbon is poured over the whole. Some ladies or weak and effeminate types add water, but if you have a first class bourbon, why insult it with water? Garnish with a sprig of the fresh mint and prepare to get a glimpse of paradise.
This is, in broad strokes, my favorite way of making a mint julep, but there are purists who would consider me a weak and effeminate barbarian; they are the ones who advocate mixing the sugar and mint and ice together first, and then throwing them out and drinking the whiskey straight. That too is a fine and justifiable way of making a mint julep.
Which bourbon to use can also cause the seconds to negotiate the hour of honorable conflict at thirty paces in the wood, and I have no intention of telling you your taste buds are inferior to mine simply because you like A while I like B, but I will say that in that long ago Virginia springtime, the bourbon of choice in my family and amongst all our friends was the renowned Virginia Gentleman.
Virginia Gentleman was renowned back in that day—it still is—primarily because it is excellent bourbon, but also because it is made by the Smith Bowman family in northern Virginia, and the Bowmans were friends or acquaintances of my family and just about everybody we knew. In theory, the Bowmans first started distilling whiskey after the repeal of the eighteenth amendment, but rumor has it they were producing a fine product long before that. They had a farm in Fairfax County (it has since succumbed to the urban metastasizing of Washington, DC, caused by the even more virulent metastasizing of the Federal government, and has moved down to my mother’s home town of Fredericksburg, in Spotsylvania County) and their product was greatly prized, in part out of loyalty, but mainly because it is a fine product that stands on its own.
There is a temptation when making a sweet mixed drink, such as a julep or eggnog, to save money by using a less expensive (read inferior) brand of bourbon. Do not succumb, especially not when making the most elegant, the most quintessentially Southern of all mixed drinks. And if you should go to watch the running of the Kentucky Derby in person, at Churchill Downs, for God’s sake don’t make the mistake of drinking any of the premixed rubbish served in volume to the kinds of people eager to get their foolish faces and foolish hats on television. Make the real thing yourself to your own tastes and dream of a more civilized time, a more civilized place:
Every broken crust and crumb
Savours of your coming home,
And the berries she has gathered
By divinity are fathered.
Eat the bread she is adoring,
Drink the water she is pouring;
Now approach, both man and ghost;
Nothing is lost! Nothing is lost!
This article originally appeared in the 2016 Lifestyle issue of Sporting Classics magazine.