How to Make a Pink Lady, a Springtime Gin Cocktail That’s Tart and Frothy
Look, it’s not like I don’t get it. I do. Everyone gets it.
Even for us enlightened paragons of modernity, a cocktail called the Pink Lady is a heavy lift. The whole “girl drinks” and “boy drinks” division has always been stupid, and has mostly disappeared; as a bartender, you’ll still get some noise from a specific kind of man if you serve him something pink or red in a stemmed glass, but in 2023 these interactions are at an all-time low. But still—the “Pink Lady?” Just look at it. It’s like drinking a ballet.
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What’s more, this has always been a problem. The Pink Lady was first published in 1913, in Jacques Straub’s Manual of Mixed Drinks, named almost certainly for an Edwardian musical comedy of same name, and in Straub’s book was made of gin, apple brandy, lime juice, and grenadine. It was by all reports terrifically popular from Prohibition through the ‘50s, and you can find so-called serious cocktail people judging it by its name and appearance that whole time.
Here’s Esquire Magazine, in 1934, dismissing the Pink Lady as one of the “pansies” and lumping it among the 10 worst cocktails of the year. Here’s the Middletown Times Herald, in 1938, joking that the Pink Lady is made of “shaving lotion, buttermilk, and strawberry extract.” And then here’s Jack Townsend, president of the Bartender’s Union of New York, in his 1951 Bartender’s Book, condescending not to the Pink Lady, but to the kind of person who he thinks drinks it:
“Why, surely you know her. She’s that nice little girl who works in files, who’s always so courteous but always seems so timid. She’s the one who sort of reminds you of your aunt, the quiet one. Naturally, you never expected to see her at a bar. She gets into one about twice a year, at Christmas time or some other high old time. Just why she picks the Pink Lady for these occasions—since the Lady packs quite a wallop—remains a mystery, even to her perhaps. It’s quite possible she has seen the decorative and innocuous-appearing pink-and-white amalgamation passing on a waiter’s tray and decided, “Hmmm, that couldn’t do me any harm.”’
I quote this in its entirety to underline the point: This drink has been maligned its entire life.
Two things here. First, there’s no telling which version of the Pink Lady they are condemning—Prohibition scrambled the formula, so while our current recipe is settled and more or less the original (plus an egg white), various versions over the years would lose the citrus or apple brandy, and add things like cream, orange juice, nutmeg, or all three, and certainly some of those are worth condemnation.
Second, did you notice how none of the critics actually mentions how it tastes? That’s because if they could get over themselves, they’d discover the Pink Lady is a fantastic drink, a masterclass in cocktail balance. The piercing intensity of the gin is softened by the broad oak of the apple brandy. The tart edge of the pomegranate is absorbed by the creamy froth of the egg white. It’s like a Clover Club but punchier, a Jack Rose but less fragile, and take even a small amount of care in its creation (which here just means “don’t use garbage grenadine”) and the Pink Lady is a wonderful cocktail, and well worth your time.
What to do about the name? We could try to do what Ted Haigh did in his 2004 book Vintage Spirits and Forgotten Cocktails and rebrand it “The Secret Cocktail” (Haigh refused to even say the name until he explained it and gave the recipe). Or, we can just “man up,” so to speak, and order a Pink Lady. Have one because it’s pretty and pastel and good for springtime. Have one because it’s delicious and you’ve never had one before. Have one to tell that “she’s a nice little girl who works in files” guy to go fuck himself. Have one for whatever reason you like. No apologies.
Pink Lady
1.5 oz. gin
0.5 oz. apple brandy
0.75 oz lemon juice
0.75 oz. grenadine
1 egg white
Add all ingredients to a cocktail shaker without ice and “dry” shake for five to eight seconds to whip the egg, making sure to hold the shaker tight so it doesn’t come apart. Then add ice and shake hard for 10 to 12 seconds. Strain into a stemmed glass and garnish with a cherry or lemon peel.
NOTES ON INGREDIENTS
Gin: Choice of gin is less important than you might think. This is an ensemble cast; with the apple brandy and the egg white, the gin provides a clean bright balance, but this was great with literally every gin I tried it with. Use whatever you want.
Apple Brandy: I liked Calvados (French apple brandy) here, but I think I liked American apple brandy more. It’s less rustic and a bit punchier. The historical flagship is Laird’s, from New Jersey: They make a blended Applejack, which is 65 percent neutral spirits and 35 percent apple brandy, but they also make an array of 100 percent apple brandies. Insist on the latter, which now comes in both 86 and 100 proofs. You could also reach for the respected Clear Creek’s Apple Brandy or the relatively new Chicago brand Rhine Hall.
Lemon Juice: This was equally good with lime juice, I just didn’t want to equivocate.
Grenadine: Grenadine is a pomegranate syrup and is as easy as mixing an equal amount of pomegranate juice and sugar together, then stirring until the sugar dissolves (POM Wonderful is the standard brand). In the Jack Rose cocktail, I found grenadine with freshly juiced pomegranates to be a revelation—here, while it’s still great, I didn’t think it was worth the effort, because bottled, pasteurized juice still made a terrific version. You can also buy grenadine, just make sure the label says “pomegranate” somewhere (i.e., don’t use Rose’s or Torani). My favorite brands are Small Hand Foods, Liber & Co., and Liquid Alchemist, but that’s just what I know. Grenadine is easy, I’m sure others are good.
Egg White: Admittedly, Straub’s 1913 recipe didn’t have it, but an egg white is necessary to soften the texture and integrate all the ingredients. It’s super easy to work with and by and large very safe (see our discussion of Eggnog for more on this). The vegans can use aquafaba to a similar effect. If you don’t want to use either, maybe you should make something else—this cocktail needs it.
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