My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I have found this a most pleasant and lucrative business, and, really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has become infested with cats — so much so of late, that a petition for relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought before the legislature at its last memorable session. The assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a premium for cat-heads, (fourpence a-piece) but the Senate succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the word “tails” for “heads.” This amendment was so obviously proper, that the house concurred in it nem. con. As soon as the Governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies…. Their tails, at the legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have the appendages cut off than otherwise.

This story does not have much of a plot, and it’s frankly one of Poe’s less entertaining efforts. But, as usual, Poe’s wordcraft is exceptional, and he does manage to come up with a couple of amusing jests. Sadly, the cat-tail scheme is not one of them. But as it is the final, successful project that rounds out the story, it will serve as the basis for our drink.

(The full story is available here.)

Thinly slice some ginger root (the more the better) and put it in a shaker. Add some fresh rosemary leaves (again, the more the better) and the vodka. Muddle it well, add ice, and shake it up. Let it steep for maybe five minutes. Give it a final shake and strain it into a Collins glass with fresh ice. Add lemonade and St. Germain, and stir. Add a fresh, cat-tail-like sprig of rosemary as a garnish. Then, in true Peter Proffit style, complain to your liquor shop/grocery store/me that the spirits/garnish/recipe is somehow faulty and demand 2x damages. Repeat as necessary.

Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose, and there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a personage nondescript, although not altogether indescribable.  His body was a wine-pipe, or a rum-puncheon, or something of that character, and had a truly Falstaffian air.  In its nether extremity were inserted two kegs, which seemed to answer all the purposes of legs.  For arms there dangled from the upper portion of the carcass two tolerably long bottles, with the necks outward for hands. All the head that I saw the monster possessed of was one of those Hessian canteens which resemble a large snuff-box with a hole in the middle of the lid.  This canteen (with a funnel on its top, like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes) was set on edge upon the puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and through this hole, which seemed puckered up like the mouth of a very precise old maid, the creature was emitting certain rumbling and grumbling noises which he evidently intended for intelligible talk.

The remainder of the story finds the narrator experiencing a convoluted series of far-fetched, outlandish coincidences involving fires and hogs and wigs and hot air balloons. In the end, the narrator falls from the sky through the chimney of his own house, and he comes to understand that the Angel of the Odd brought about these trials to convince him of “the possibility of the odd.” He ends the tale with these words: “Thus revenged himself the Angel of the Odd.”

The full story is available here.

Our formula for a cocktail seems obvious enough: We will “replenish [a] goblet (which [is] about a third full of port) with a colorless fluid,” which is, of course, Kirschenwasser. Here in the modern, English-speaking world the spirit is typically spelled “Kirschwasser,” but either way it is cherry brandy. (This means the Angel of the Odd “diluted” the narrator’s port with 80-proof alcohol, which is about twice the ABV of the port. I suppose this is one of Poe’s many satirical and/or comical touches.)

Anyway, using context clues, we can deduce that the drink created by the Angel of the Odd is one part port and two parts Kischwasser. I made myself a drink with those proportions, and found it to be far too bitter. Sticking with the cherry theme, I added a splash of maraschino liqueur, which did succeed in masking the bitterness a bit. But the drink is made more drinkable still by chilling it. (I stuck the finished drink in the fridge for a half hour.) In all honesty, this is a perfectly drinkable drink–which perhaps cannot be said for all the cocktails in this compilation.

Mix all three ingredients in a suitable “goblet.” Refrigerate for half an hour and serve.

Alternatively, you could combine them in a shaker with ice and strain into a chilled goblet. Either way, you’ll find it a serviceable alternative to your “frequent Lafitte.”

Punctually at the word “away,” my poor friend set off in a strong gallop. The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord’s — nor yet very low, like that of Mr. Lord’s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would clear it. And then what if he did not? — ah, that was the question — what if he did not? “What right,” said I, “had the old gentleman to make any other gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If he asks me to jump, I won’t do it, that’s flat, and I don’t care who the devil he is.” The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times — an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last words of my remark.

So we find the narrator and Toby Dammit approaching a covered bridge, and Toby “insisted upon leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in the air.” In response to the narrator’s scoffing, Toby bets the devil his head that he can do it. At that moment the small, old gentleman mentioned in the above excerpt coughs from the shadows and, in so many words, accepts Toby’s bet. The old gentleman gives the signal and Toby runs and jumps…and is decapitated by a horizontal metal bar above the stile that had been hidden by the gloom. The old man runs away with Toby’s head.

The full story is available here.

There are many drinks out there that take some variation of the name “demon blood” or “devil’s blood.” All of them are red, for obvious reasons. But the variant we present here has the signature touches of a devil-horn garnish and a fiery burn. 

Cut slots into the bottom of the two chili peppers and affix them to the rim of a martini glass. Put all the liquid ingredients into your cocktail shaker with ice. Shake the hell out of it (Har!). Strain into the prepared martini glass. Damn, it’s good!

(Note: The tabasco is the key to this drink. Put in as much as you can stand–I did six healthy dashes. The tabasco adds dimensionality and balances the sweet and tart flavors.)