I moved to Spain about a year ago and at one of my first meals in Madrid, I saw a handsome young couple drinking some sort of nondescript light brown cocktail on ice with a wedge of orange and green olives. Before noon I was stunned. I need to know what it is. Vermouth, they told me.
Before I moved to Spain, I knew two types of vermouth: white and red. So I had to try it – and it was delicious. Lighter, gentler, more healing than anything I had in America.
And it’s more than just a drink. Vermouth is to Spain what a pint is to Ireland or a wife to Argentina — a national pastime. It’s a lifestyle, as much an activity as it is a drink. There are establishments called vermuterias here. Historically, people drank vermouth on Sunday mornings after church. In fact, it’s so culturally offensive that “fer un vermut” (“make vermouth”) is an expression that you’re not even asked to order vermouth. That means we meet for drinks in the middle of the day (another culinary surprise).
If you ask enough Spaniards about vermouth, you’ll soon end up in Reus, a Catalan city just south of Barcelona with a thousand-year history, and the drink’s unofficial capital.
“Reus is the second industrialized city in Catalonia,” said Joan Tàpias Cors, the founder and owner of Museum of Vermouth, in the old town in Reus. (The first was Barcelona.) “In the 1850s a blight of bacteria killed almost all the vineyards. So the winemakers here decided to start making vermouth – it drove the grapes away.”
Mr. Tàpias Cors told me that the museum (which is also a restaurant) has more than 6,500 items related to vermouth, representing 57 countries. “We have vermouths from the United States made during Prohibition that are called ‘non-alcoholic,’ which of course is impossible,” he said.
A few weeks later, I attended the Excellence Vermouth Awards, an annual conference of vermouth makers held at the Intercontinental Hotel in Madrid, with my friend Celia Crespo, owner of Vino con Tino, a service that selects and ships wine for clients, who hope to learn more.
“Welcome to the vermouth showroom,” said Javier Fernández Piera, the organizer of the conference. All around us were men and women who owned restaurants or bottled spirits or just loved vermouth. The men wear suits, the women wear scarves, and everyone looks like they would be comfortable at a political fund-raiser.
“The history of vermouth goes back to ancient Greece and ancient Rome, when they made wine with botanicals, which changed the nature of the wine,” said Mr. Fernández Piera, gesturing to dozens of winemakers. vermouth around us. “These vermouths have such a history.”
Later I spoke to Noelia Callejo, a vermouth maker in Pedrosa de Duero, who emphasized her point: “In the 1980s, it was not that popular. Spain is a new democracy, emerging from a strong dictatorial regime, and young people want to destroy the traditions of their parents’ generation. Now people are starting to enjoy it again. This is a wonderful drink with many possibilities. And it is no longer associated with dictatorship.”
Calling something vermouth requires some pretty complicated calculus. Unlike wine, which, in its purest form, is just grapes and time, vermouth is a mixture of art and science.
“To understand vermouth, think of it like tea,” says Mr. Fernández Piera. “Instead of water, you have wine, usually white wine. Instead of a tea bag, you put in absinthe, wormwood. And instead of milk or honey or lemon, you add botanicals. These are the botanicals that gives vermouth its personality and unique taste.
A good vermouth should have a light body and offer a complex mix of five flavors – salty, sweet, bitter, sour and umami – with a good balance, especially between sweet and bitter, and should it stays in your mouth, he explained. .
That’s part of the art.
“In America, you drink Martini and Rossi more than any other vermouth,” he continued, quietly denouncing Martini, Rossi and America’s drinking population. “Very commercial and very sweet. Lacks bitterness. We wouldn’t call that traditional vermouth.
According to the European Union, for something to be called vermouth, it must be at least 75 percent alcohol, include wormwood, and be between 14.5 and 22 percent alcohol. That’s science.
Beyond that, “there are no rules,” says Ester Bachs, the author of “Guía del Vermut,” one of the most comprehensive books on the subject. “You can add gin, honey, hibiscus, rose extract, any botanical you like. There’s a lot of innovation in vermouth.”
I asked everyone I know for the best vermuteria in Madrid. Suggested by Marisa, my Spanish teacher and fourth generation Madrileña Bodegas Casas, a 100-year-old vermouth bar in the heart of Madrid but a dimension removed from any tourist map. Marisa’s father fer un vermut most days, as did her father before her, well into their 90s. I called Niki and Annalisa, two friends who live in Madrid. Time to fer un vermut for myself
On an early Tuesday afternoon in May, Bodegas Casas was in prime form.
The bar is small, a few stools and a single table by the window. The walls are lined with bottles of sherry, spirits, wine and, of course, vermouth — thickly covered in dust and history. Every stool is occupied, the bartender shuttling from end to end, pouring, serving, cleaning up. Bodegas Casas has been serving vermouth on tap since it opened: Pour, top with a splash of sparkling water, serve. It’s purist’s vermouth — no ice, no olives or orange wedges, as many other places use.
I was advised by Ms. Bachs to “put a salty next to the vermouth so all the flavor is in your mouth.” Niki ordered three glasses of vermouth along with a plate of pickled peppers and a basket of chips.
Two gentlemen, in suits and hats, one with a cane, stand side by side at the end of the bar. They looked like they were dressed from a time when people didn’t wear T-shirts and never left the house without a hat.
“I’ve been sitting in this chair every day for 50 years,” Jaime, 91, said.
“Nothing has changed here since we started coming,” said his friend Paco, 92, “except the neighborhood. Inside this bar, it’s always the same. Every day, I come here for the vermouth. But no more than two.” Then he winked at me.
Where to go Fer un Vermut in Madrid
If a drink can be a snapshot of history, vermouth is a textbook. It spans millennia, from ancient Rome to the streets of Madrid in 2023. It moves from the aristocracy to the blue-collar workers at lunchtimes. A real vermouth is never mixed; it is savored. It is a piece of craftsmanship, taking botanicals and personality on its own particular journey. And if you want the best, you have to go to a stool in a dusty old bar in Madrid and pour a glass directly from the tap.
If you’re in Madrid for a few days, there’s a decent chance you’ll see yourself Mercado de San Miguel, a well-known food hall outside the Plaza Mayor. The mercado is reliably crowded and touristy, but is also home to one of the best vermouth bars in the city, La Hora del Vermut. For a less crowded vermouth taste, the city offers plenty of options.
Bodegas Casas
For a hundred years, it’s been a vermouth bar for locals — relaxed, low-key and very friendly. The on-tap vermouth is served with a splash of soda water, and the bartender is generous with the chips (Avenida de la Ciudad de Barcelona, 23).
Tavern La Elisa
If you’re looking for a charming tapas bar with a charming, if occasionally grumpy, owner, you’re in luck. The house vermouth is served on the rocks and goes great with their patatas bravas. Afterwards, take a stroll through the Barrio de las Letras, the neighborhood called the home of Miguel del Cervantes and Lope de Vega (Calle de Santa María, 42).
La Violeta
A more modern take on a traditional vermouth bar, La Violeta has an extensive vermouth list, an impressive selection of tapas, and a staff happy to advise on both (Calle de Vallehermoso, 62).
Casa Camacho
Just off the small, pretty Plaza Juan Pujol in the Justicia neighborhood, Casa Camacho has tiled walls, vermouth on tap and very little seating. House vermouth is sweet, so it is usually served over ice with a lemon wedge (Calle de San Andrés, 4).
Ultramarines Quintin
It’s more high-end restaurant than vermouth bar, but Quintín, in Recoletas, produces its own label of vermouth. The downstairs bar and outdoor seating is less sophisticated than the dining room, but the whole place is nice (Calle de Jorge Juan, 17).
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