I thought I knew pisco pretty well. We’re friends. I started drinking pisco sours about a decade ago, right around when the ceviche trend was up and coming. In fact, as a critic for a mid-Atlantic city magazine in the early 2000s, I was moved to call the pisco sour “infinitely more elegant” than either the caipirinhas or mojitos that most bartenders were still just learning how to make.
Pisco was a grape-based brandy, clear, not aged in oak, with a bracing and rough 80-plus-proof kick if you drank it straight, which you never did. You used it in a pisco sour or a pisco punch. The Peruvians and Chileans were always arguing over who invented it and who should control the name. Beyond all that, what else did you need to know?
Then I went to Peru recently, and now I realize that I hadn’t really known very much at all about my friend pisco. I was traveling with a handful of bartenders from San Francisco and with two fellows, Walter Moore and Carlos Romero, who plan to launch a premium pisco in the United States in the coming year. On this trip, Romero, the master distiller, and Moore, his American partner, were developing their acholado, or blended pisco.
Lima was indeed a great culinary hot spot. We rolled out of Lima on a five-hour bus ride south, and the landscape soon turned to desert.
We passed the historic port of Pisco and arrived in the viticultural center of Ica, surrounded by giant mountains of sand. There is almost no rainfall. Who knew you could grow grapes in such a place?
We stayed at the oasis of Huacachina, an old resort filled with dune buggies and backpackers, said to be haunted by a witch in the middle of the lagoon who eats men at night. At least one man goes missing every year, according to legend. At night, one traveling companion wandered alone down to the water and claimed, totally freaking out, to have seen the witch. (The jury is out on whether that sighting was pisco-related.)
Peruvian pisco, it turns out, is just as strange and surprising as the region it comes from. The country has more than 300 pisco producers, and the diversity of tastes pressed from the odd varietals of desert grapes is staggering.
Quebranta — tannic, nonaromatic and very dry — is the predominant grape, grown along with aromatic varieties such as Italia, Torontel and even Moscatel. All these grapes make pretty terrible wine. But once distilled and left to rest for a few months, they often create a white spirit that’s as complex as a white spirit can be. It’s important that pisco be produced only from the first press of grapes, and not from the skins, stems and seeds, as is grappa — and, unfortunately, many low- quality piscos.
Quebranta pisco is labeled “pisco puro”; acholado is a blend of Quebranta and other aromatic grapes and is often more expensive. The dry, nonaromatic Quebranta is the preferred grape of Peruvians; it’s used most in blending, and it’s probably what most Americans have experienced in their pisco sours. But some younger-generation distillers are experimenting with a higher ratio of the aromatic grapes in their acholados.
After dinner one night, our group tasted a single-varietal pisco made from only the Italia grape. The result was a floral digestif with subtle, fruity notes. The Peruvians among us didn’t like it. Many of the Americans, including me, liked it very much. This was a pisco you could enjoy straight, and frankly, it was a better digestif than all but the very best grappas. We suggested that Americans would prefer an acholado with a higher percentage of these aromatics.
But that spirit set off a debate that would continue for days. When producer blend for the American market, should they hold true to what a Peruvian connoisseur recognizes as a fine pisco? Or should the acholado reflect what an American palate would recognize as a fine and approachable distilled spirit? I have no idea what Romero and Moore eventually will decide to do with their acholado pisco. But we get so little good pisco in the United States, I hope they veer toward the latter.
The pisco consumed most often here is the Chilean brand Capel, which sells a mere 15,000 cases each year. After tasting dozens of piscos in Peru, I solemnly advise you to avoid Capel. There are a handful of fine Peruvian piscos on the market, including BarSol, which imports both a Quebranta and an acholado.
Macchu Pisco is produced and imported by Bethesda, Md., resident and Peruvian native Melanie Asher. Macchu Pisco’s Quebranta (about $25) is full-flavored and approachable. But its acholado La Diablada (about $35), with its floral and peppery notes, is perhaps an even better place for newbies to start.
Try either one in the accompanying pisco sour recipe I adapted from a hotel barman in Huacachina, who dared to use a blender instead of a cocktail shaker. The drink goes down easy, but don’t worry. I promise you won’t see any witches.
Pisco Sour
Adapted from a recipe by Eduardo Huaman Tito at Hotel Mossone in Huacachina, Peru, that was recently voted the best pisco sour in Peru. The blender helps achieve a nice froth; no shaking required. In Peru, the drink is made with 3 ounces of pisco, but Jason Wilson recommends 2 1/2 ounces for the American palate. Makes 1 drink.
Ingredients
2 1/2 ounces pisco
1 ounce freshly squeezed lime juice
1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar
1/2 large egg white, pasteurized if desired (see note)
Ice
Dash Angostura bitters
Directions
Combine the pisco, lime juice, sugar and egg white in a blender; process for 30 seconds until frothy. Add a handful of ice, and process for 1 minute, then pour into a highball glass. Garnish with a dash of bitters atop the foam.
Note: Raw eggs carry a risk of salmonella. If you are concerned, substitute pasteurized egg whites, available at many area grocery stores.
