Hold a molecular cocktail party
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Version 0 of 1. We are eight human guinea pigs sitting around a kitchen table, waiting for shots to be administered. Cocktails were promised, I am sure, but all I can see around the room are beakers, pipettes and conical flasks. It’s bringing on some heavy GCSE flashbacks, though any knowledge that once went with them seems to have been misplaced. Not to worry, we’re in good hands. Rachel Edwards-Stuart doesn’t need us to know anything. The food scientist, lecturer and one-time Heston Blumenthal protege tailors her events on the science of flavour and gastronomy according to the group – in this case a set of keen and enquiring drinkers. This approach to food and drink often gets filed under “molecular gastronomy”, the style pioneered by chefs such as Heston and El Bulli’s Ferran Adrià. But many chefs and scientists are trying to move away from the phrase, including Rachel. “It’s gimmicky,” she says. “There’s a bad association where people think it’s just about chefs making gels and foams.” Her classes provide knowledge rather than tricks: the science of why you like certain flavours, why certain things work together. You leave with a more scientific approach to making cocktails. That might sound impractical in your kitchen at home, but you don’t require a laboratory to do it. “You don’t need to have all the scientific ingredients and equipment if you have the understanding,” she says. “The fundamentals are understanding your palate and how to construct flavours.” We start with five solutions. “I’m not promising these will all be delicious,” she warns. A hand goes up. “Can we use the pipette at this moment?” asks Tim Pritchard, a brand manager. “Just wait,” says Rachel. “Your pipette moment will come.” The sampling begins with a palate screening. Five liquids are lined up in shot glasses, and some of the guinea pigs are in visible distress as we take a sip. Interestingly though, none of us can agree exactly on what tastes good or bad, strong or weak. I don’t like shots D and E; others have no problem with them. Some people think solution C tastes strong; it seems like water to me. The shots, Rachel explains, represent the five tastes: salty, sweet, acidic, bitter and umami (the savoury note in parmesan, mushrooms, meat stock). Solution C was salt water, which explains why I, a salt fiend, was so happy quaffing it. “It’s all to do with your genetics,” Rachel adds. “Every person has a unique taste profile that will affect their food preferences, their likes, their dislikes.” A selection of acids in solution follows (I know this cocktail primer doesn’t sound too tasty, but bear with it). While bitterness and saltiness can be important in cocktails, Rachel tells us, the balance between sweetness and acidity is paramount. The discerning taster should know their malic acid (the sharpness in a green apple) from their tartaric (an acid found in wine). Next is a shot of “electric vodka” made with Szechuan buttons (the buds of the Szechuan flower), a rare ingredient Rachel is developing into a cocktail bitters in collaboration with the Nightjar bar in Shoreditch, London. “It smells of electricity!” says Angus Murray, a teacher. Sure enough the drink has a sweetish, ozone scent, like a photocopier. If it tingles like crazy – and it does for me – that’s the trigeminal nerve, which responds to spice. Seeing everyone’s different reactions to these tests has heightened the social dynamic of the evening: the experience remains shared, but we are all thinking about what our fellow drinkers are tasting, where our experiences meet and where they diverge. Perfect seasoning seems impossible when taste is so subjective, but universals still exist. Everyone there loves a “tomato water” Rachel has made by blitzing and sieving the fruit. Tomato is one of the few foods that contains all five tastes, she informs us. Here she pauses, frowning. “Are you just pipetting for fun, Tim?” she asks. “Er, yes,” Tim replies sheepishly. It’s a fantastic Bloody Mary: briny with caper juice, the vodka pressure-infused with horseradish in a cream whipper using nitrous oxide. “Laughing gas as a pestle and mortar,” Laura Mitchison, an oral historian, murmurs with wonder. The third cocktail, a Sauternes, is a play on the flavours of dessert wine. Sweetness and acidity are needed to offset the saltiness of the cheese usually eaten with it. Rachel is using pineapple juice. It’s not as sweet as sauternes, so it’s mixed with maple syrup, which contains the sotolon flavour molecule, the same aged note in sauternes. Cloves in the accompanying dark rum give the euginol notes reminiscent of sweet wines. The concoctions keep coming. By now, any apprehensions have been overcome, and our responses are growing more effusive. “This is the best ever!” Angus exclaims of a popcorn liqueur. The guinea pigs are nearing the end of their contributions to science. Just time to revisit an earlier experiment: vodka and sesame oil shaken together in a jar. Now the two are separated, the vodka should have the oil’s flavour without its fats. For one last time this evening, we stand (or sway) on the brink of discovery. “This is where you can pipette, Tim,” says Rachel. “Yes!” everyone cries. |