Picon Punch

This article was published at the Wall Street Journal:

The Basques' Beverage

Eric Felten

ELKO, Nev. -- A few friends of mine have driven through this town, a way station on the lonely highway between Reno and Salt Lake City. Each made the mistake of stopping to eat at one of the grim, dim casinos on the main drag (one of which, the Commercial Casino, features the stuffed carcass of a giant polar bear, a towering old fellow who looks positively perplexed -- and slightly embarrassed -- at having ended up in a dusty glass case in Nevada). Settling for casino grub is a profound mistake, because just a couple of blocks over is a string of venerable Basque restaurant/bars where the hungry traveler would be fêted with heaping plates of steak piled with sautéed garlic, and where a desert-crossing thirst is satisfied with the traditional "basco" drink, Picon Punch.

One of those welcoming spots is called The Star, where I found myself surrounded by cheerful men speaking Basque -- a language unto itself, and decidedly unlike either Spanish or French. When my Picon Punch arrived, Andy Lejardi and Anastasio Arriaga switched to English to ask what I thought of the favorite drink of Basque-Americans -- and to offer a warning that the Picon Punch can sneak up on you.

Mr. Lejardi left the Spanish Basque country in 1969 after an obligatory stint in Francisco Franco's army. Like young Basque men for a century before him, he came to Nevada to herd sheep. Now retired, he lives across the border in Idaho, one of some 50,000 Old World Basques and their descendants who, according to William Douglass, author of "Amerikanuak: Basques in the New World," live in the Western states. Mr. Lejardi noted that the Picon Punch isn't much known in the Old World Basque country, where the most distinctive local drinks are a sloe-berry liqueur called patxaran and the sweet herbal izarra.

Mr. Arriaga pointed out a couple of small wiry men at the end of the bar. "They're from California. Very tough," he said with admiration. "Woodchoppers." Toughness is a singular Basque quality and is reflected in their sports -- feats of strength and sheer exertion. Chopping wood is a staple with Basques, but the signature basco sport is the hefting and schlepping of crushingly heavy weights. The woodchoppers were in town to compete at the National Basque Festival, much of which took place in Elko's streets and parks last weekend. But before the tough guys got to take their whacks, there was dancing.

Taking to the street were boys dressed in white shirts and pants with red sashes around their waists and jingling bells strapped to their shins; the girls were in green skirts, red aprons and white blouses and scarves, their legs cross-gartered. They danced with garlanded hoops to the skirring of an electrified accordion; the steps looked like a distant cousin of the Highland Fling. From the sidelines, mothers of the dancers tossed back their heads and let loose a ululating yell that got its start as a Basque war cry: "Ley-ley-ley-ley-ley-ley-ley-ley-ley-ley-ha-ha-ha-ha-hooooooooooo!"

There were more berets being worn than on New York's 52nd Street during the height of bebop.

The next day I went back to The Star to see how its Picon Punch is made.

The drink takes its name from the brand of the central ingredient, Amer Picon. "Amer" is the French word for "bitter." Gaston Picon concocted his own aperitif of bitter orange peel, herbs and alcohol as a tonic, and started bottling it commercially in 1830. But Amer Picon hadn't been doing boffo business in the States of late, and the brand abandoned the New World. Fortunately, there is a worthy substitute, Torani Amer, now the staple for Picon Punches.

The Star's bartender, Miguel Leonis, puts a stemmed goblet on the bar and fills it with ice. After putting in a healthy dash of grenadine, he fills the glass with Torani Amer, leaving just enough room on top for a float of brandy. He takes a twist of lemon and rubs it around the rim of the glass before tossing it in. "Some people add club soda to water it down a little," says Mr. Leonis. "But we don't. This is the real deal." The result is a delicious cocktail with a subtle orange flavor that isn't so much bittersweet as perfectly balanced between bitter and sweet.

The real deal is still possible because, shortly after Prohibition, R. Torre & Co., a California firm making flavored syrups and liqueurs, came up with its own version of Amer Picon to sell to the many Basque restaurants in San Francisco. Torani Amer is now the only liquor marketed by the company, which focuses instead on its Torani syrups for baking and flavoring coffees. Amer isn't a big business line, but it is a steady one -- especially since Amer Picon took a powder. Ask for Amer Picon at your local liquor store, and you're almost sure to come up emptyhanded -- unless you're lucky enough to find a dusty old bottle languishing on a back shelf. Unfortunately, ask for Torani Amer and you will likely be just as frustrated.

Some California liquor stores, such as BevMo and Wally's, regularly stock the liqueur, and shops in northern Nevada have naturally heard of the stuff. But otherwise your chances of finding a store that sells Torani Amer are slim. That doesn't necessarily mean it can't be acquired. Anybody can push a bottle of Grey Goose or Smirnoff across the counter at you, but the store worth giving your everyday business to is the one that will make every effort to acquire rarities when you need them.

Better yet, if you ever find yourself between Salt Lake City and Reno, stop in at The Star or the nearby Biltoki Restaurant and enjoy a Picon Punch in its natural habitat -- a treat as rare as the Basque language you will hear spoken all around you. Should you want to join in the conversation, raise your glass and say, "To your health": Zure Osagarriari.

Picon Punch

2½ oz Torani Amer (or Amer Picon)
½ oz grenadine
¾ oz brandy

Pour grenadine and Amer over ice in a stemmed goblet and stir. Top with a float of brandy. Rub a twist of lemon around the rim of the glass, and then toss it in.

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