From time immemorial rum has been distilled as a by-product of the manufacture of sugar in all coun­tries where sugar cane is grown. As a liquor it be­came the accepted beverage practically everywhere that strong drink was in demand, and with the spread of its popularity all lusty liquors, regardless of origin, were termed "rum."

In the early days blackstrap molasses, from which rum was distilled, was shipped from Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Santo Domingo, Cuba, and the Barbados into staid New England. True rum is a spirit distilled from "dunder" and molasses. Dunder is taken from the Spanish word redundar, meaning overflow, and applied to the lees or dregs of cane juice used in the fermentation of rum. The word "rum" is an ab­breviation of rumbullion, meaning tumult or uproar —not an inappropriate application! North Amer­ican Indians had their own name for the drink—they called it "coow wooio," a sort of improvement on their customary war whoop.

Remember the ditty sung by the pirate crew in Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island?

"Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!"

Cuba holds the palm for producing the best rum, although staid old New England has made excellent rum from imported blackstrap molasses since 1680, and Louisiana's sugar plantations today contribute their share of excellent domestic brands. More than a century ago Louisiana's rum masqueraded under the name of tafia.

"There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion." Lord Byron's Don Ju-an, 1819.

Bacardi Cocktail

1 teaspoon sugar 1 lime—juice only 1 jigger rum Bacardi

Mix in a barglass. Muddle the sugar and lime juice thoroughly before adding the rum. Fill with cracked ice. Shake well and then strain into a cocktail glass.

You and I may argue a lot and get nowhere regard­ing the proper pronunciation of the word Bacardi, but after sampling this cocktail, there'll be no argu­ment as to its effect and authority. It is by far the best way to serve sugar cane rum, whether bottled in New England, Cuba, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, or Louisiana.

In making a Bacardi cocktail be sure to use lime, not lemon, and put no grenadine or other flavored sirup into the mixture. When you shake a Bacardi, frappe it long and well, for it must be served very cold to get the delicious flavor of the rumbullion.

Bacardi rum received its name from the Bacardi family of Cuba, well-known distillers and bottlers at Santiago of this particular brand. The correct pro­nunciation is bah-car-de.

Daiquiri Cocktail

I teaspoon grenadine sirup

1 lime—juice only

1 jigger rum

Like the Bacardi, the Daiquiri should be well shaken; lime juice, not lemon, should be used to furnish the tang. The grenadine sweetens the cocktail and gives it color. Shake well with ice and strain into the serving glass.

The Daiquiri, like the Bacardi, is a Cuban importa­tion and is very popular in Havana as well as in New Orleans. Again, like the Bacardi, its name is truly Cuban, Daiquiri being the name of a city in the south­eastern part of that famous island not very far from Santiago.

The two cocktails are quite similar, the difference lying in the inclusion or omission of the grenadine sirup. Both are good. Daiquiri is pronounced Dah-ke-ree.

Frozen Daiquiri

1 lime—juice only

1 teaspoon sugar

1 dash white maraschino liqueur

1 jigger rum

Place the lime juice and sugar in an electric mixing cup, dash on the white maraschino liqueur, and add the rum. Fill half full of finely crushed ice (shaved ice won't do) and place cup under the electric mixer. Let it whirr until the mixture is well frapped . . . until it is practically a sherbet. Strain in a saucer-shaped champagne glass using an ordinary kitchen wire strainer. Shake from side to side and tap rim of the strainer with spoon to force the fine icy particles through the mesh.

During the good old summertime a new sort of cocktail, with rum for its basis, has taken New Or­leans by storm—a sort of snow storm. If you have not met the Frozen Daiquiri just picture a cham­pagne glass filled with snow, cold as Christmas, and as hard as the heart of a traffic cop.

You'll have to have something beside the old reliable cocktail shaker to produce this one. It must be whirred to its icy smoothness with an electric drink-mixer—the kind used in making a malted milk.

It is also called "West Indies Cocktail."

Cuban Presidente

½ jigger rum

½ jigger French dry vermouth

1 teaspoon grenadine sirup

1 dash curacao

Rum first in the barglass, then the vermouth, Curasao, and sirup. Put in the ice. Stir (never shake). After straining into the serving glass, add a piece of orange peel.

This is the drink to toast the Cuban presidente (who ever he may at the present moment). A heady salute for a nation's head. It might be mentioned that some prefer their presidente with grenadine only and without the Curasao.

New Orleans Presidente

1 tablespoon grenadine sirup

1 jigger rum

1 tablespoon orange juice

Shake with ice, lots of it cracked fine, and strain into a cock­tail glass.

American Presidente

1 pony rum

1 pony French dry vermouth

1 lemon—juice only

1 dash Curasao

1 dash grenadine sirup

Proceed as with the Cuban presidente and drop a maraschino cherry into the cocktail glass before straining the mixture into it.

Today several brands of rum, made from Louisiana sugar cane molasses, are finding favor . . . even among those who have long believed that rum, to be good, must come from Cuba, Jamaica, or Puerto Rico.

Grog

2 ponies rum

water

ice

Pour the rum into an 8-ounce tumbler, add ice, and fill to the brim with water. Stir. Drink.

In the old days in Louisiana, especially in that sec­tion settled by the British, Irish, and Scottish pioneers, the tipple in high favor was called "grog." It was made of the locally distilled tafia or rum, and was dispensed by the British plantation owners of the Feliciana district as a cheap yet potent beverage to slaves who worked the cotton fields. Many refer­ences to the drink are to be found in tattered docu­ments written during the days of the Spanish domi­nation. It was set down in them as "mezcla de ar-guardiente con agua."

In 1753 the French of New Orleans knew rum as a drogue (a cheap or sorry commodity) and, while it was known as tafia, it was also called guildive (divine fermentation), and eau de vie sucre, mean­ing "sugar brandy."

The name "Grog" was derived from "grogram," a material of rough texture, ordinarily of camel's wool, used in the making of cloaks. The designation came about in this way: in 1740 Admiral Edward Vernon liberally diluted with water the rum he served the sailors aboard his frigate. It was the admiral's custom to wear a grogram cloak in foul weather, and for this reason the tars called him "Old Grog" behind his back. Forthwith his tars derisively termed the weakened drink "grog," and the name has stuck through the centuries, as witness "grog shop," like­wise "groggy," indicating the unsteady gait that follows a too-liberal sampling of spirits.

Planter's Punch

2 lumps of sugar

1 dash Peychaud bitters

1 lime—juice only

1 jigger water

2 jiggers rum

The Planter's Punch calls for a tall glass. Squeeze the lime juice on the sugar. Add the bitters, water, the two full jig­gers of rum; fill the glass with shaved or crushed ice. Frap-pe well with a long-handled barspoon. Sift a little nutmeg on top or a dash of red pepper if you don't mind the bite.

The southern planter had something there! If this man-sized drink were indeed part of a planter's life on a Southern plantation, there was more to his routine than cotton bolls, sugar cane, slaves, and off­spring. As we have all along contended, good old sugar cane molasses rum was the planter's stand-by, notwithstanding traditional tales of the huge con­sumption of Monongahela red whiskey.

Jamaican Planters' Punch

1 part lime juice

2 parts sugar

3 parts Jamaica rum

4 parts water and ice

A doggerel for this recipe runs: "One of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, and four of weak," thus making it easy to keep the proportions in mind. This is Planters' Punch as it is made in Kingston, Ja­maica, British West Indies, where the rum is manu­factured. For the regulation Planters' Punch a dash of Peychaud bitters must be added. Shake and serve very cold.

Mississippi Planter's Punch .

1 tablespoon sugar

1 lemon—juice only

½jigger rum

½ jigger Bourbon whiskey

1 jigger cognac brandy

Dissolve the sugar with a little water in a mixing glass. Add the lemon juice, then the rum, Bourbon, and brandy. Fill with fine ice, clap on the shaker, and go to work. When well frapped pour into a long thin glass. Decorate with fruit (if you want to be swanky) and serve with a straw.

If this cooler doesn't make a Mississippi cotton planter forget about the boll weevil, charbon, and high water, give up trying to make him forget. All that is lacking in the recipe is a shady gallery, a rocking chair, and a palmetto fan.

Tangipohoa Planter's Punch

1/3 pineapple juice

1/3 orange juice

1/3 lime or lemon juice

1 teaspoon grenadine sirup

2 jiggers rum

After mixing and sweetening to taste with the grenadine, add the fruit juice, the two jiggers of rum, and put plenty of ice in the tall glass. Jiggle with the barspoon until well frapped.

"Aw, nertz!" said a friend of mine who likes to furnish his inner man with certain powerful potables several times a day, "the dope you wrote on the op­posite page ain't a Planter's Punch! Leastwise," he hedged, "it ain't what we folks up in Tangipahoa call a Planter's Punch."

As a result of this criticism I cajoled from him the above recipe. Ever notice how all recipes for Plan­ter's punches call for two jiggers, and never for one, of rum? That, you'll agree, is a redeeming feature.

So don't be thrifty with the oh-be-joyful when you concoct a punch by this or any other recipe.

Vivo Villa

1 lime—juice and pulp

1 scant spoonful sugar

1 generous jigger tequila

Dissolve sugar in a little water. Squeeze on the juice of a green lime and drop in the pulp of half the lime. Next the jigger of tequila and fill to the brim with finely cracked ice. Jiggle with the spoon until well frapped. A pinch of salt brings on the flavor.

Tequila is a native Mexican liquor distilled from the Century plant, which also supplies the Mexicanos with mescal, another powerful potable. The drink gets its name from the Tequila district where the Century plants (Agave tequilana) are cultivated for the fermented juices they yield. Tequila is prac­tically colorless—but don't let that fool you.

All you need to make this drink perfect is a som­brero and a senorita. Omit the sombrero if neces­sary, but don't leave out the senorita!

Rum Runner

1 dash Peychaud bitters

1 lime—juice only

2 ponies pineapple juice (unsweetened)

1 spoon sugar

1 jigger rum

Dissolve the sugar in the unsweetened pineapple juice. Squeeze in the juice of a lime (lemon will answer but it doesn't give quite the flavor a lime does). Then the bitters and muddle well. The jigger of rum is added. You may stir this drink with several lumps of ice but shaking improves it and the white of an egg gives it added smoothness.

During the unlucky thirteeen years that Prohibi­tion darkened the land, the rum runner was the only little ray of sunshine on an otherwise sombre horizon. What more appropriate than a demon rum drink be named for this angel of mercy?

The hostess who strives to give her guests some­thing deliciously different can do no better than fix upon a Rum Runner. But she must be prepared for many repeats. They always come back for more.

If you want a Pilgrim's Progress— substitute grapefruit juice for the pineapple juice. Then you'll know why the Pilgrim fathers came over on the May­flower, landed on Plymouth Rock, and entered the business of distilling rum from molasses. It was to provide our ancestors with the Spirit of '76.

Jean Laffite Cocktail
1 teaspoon sugar

2 dashes absinthe substitute

2 dashes Curasao

1 jigger rum

1 egg yolk

Mix in a barglass. The absinthe goes on the sugar, then the Curasao. Muddle. Add the jigger of rum and drop in the egg yolk. Clap on shaker and go to it. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Let us hope that when Jean Laffite, the bold, bad, Barataria buccaneer, swaggered up and down the narrow banquettes of rue Royale he had something like the above in mind. Hardly, however, as it was years post-dating the Laffite regime before absynthe cast its greenish glow over Crescent City bars, and how it desolates us to think of Jean, brother of Pierre, Dominique You, Rene Beluche and the balance of the doughty crew of smugglers going thirsty for the lack of an Absinthe House.

Whether or not Jean Laffite ever sampled the cock­tail now bearing his name is open to violent debate.

We think he did not, but we often meditate on the possible change in Louisiana history had he done so. Drink enough Jean Laffites and you'll be all set to jump into a pirogue and paddle up the bayou all by yourself.

Legend tells us that the favorite tipple of the Laf­fites and other of their ilk was a noggin or two, or three, of a distinctive and potent beverage called le petit goyave, brewed from the fermented juice of the fruit of the aguava or century plant and toting the kick of an army mule. In Mexico the same liquor is called pulque. It was served at the Cafi des Rifu-gtes in Saint Philippe street, a tavern where was ever assembled a motley crew of swiggers—colons de Saint-Domingue, West Indian seamen, rSvolution-naires, filibusters, and Kentucky flatboatmen.

Host Jean Baptiste Thiot mixed another curious drink which he called "The Pig and Whistle." Years later, in 1835, when Thiot deserted the St. Philip street location and opened a new eating and drinking tavern in Old Levee (Decatur) street opposite the French Market, he called the new tavern after his famed mixed drink—"The Pig & Whistle."

"She ordered coffee, and afterwards chass-cafe." 1800,

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