Cocktail Concoctions & Connections

The Dist-Rickey of Columbia

Almost any listing of iconic cocktails originating during the late 1800s will include the Gin Rickey. It stands alongside such world-renowned greats as the Manhattan, the Old Fashioned, the Sazerac, and the Mint Julep. It should, however, be just listed as a Rickey, given that it was born as a bourbon drink. At the time of the drink’s origin, the Pittsburg Dispatch published a letter describing the creation of the first Rickey in the following manor. The bartender gently squeezed a lime so only the juice landed in the glass without one single drop of the juice of the outer rind. He added a little crushed ice on top. Then, he drizzled over that his finest bourbon of just the quantity of whisky you wish to drink. Finally, he forcefully injected a siphon of carbonated water into the mix to thoroughly wed the bourbon and the juice of the lime.

In 1907, the Los Angeles Herald ran an article titled “Limes are on Time,” and in the flowery language of that era reported:

“Now let the warm weather come and let the siphons hiss, because the limes are here ready for the gin rickeys. Three hundred cases of rickeys, or to be more explicit, 2,000,000 junior lemons—for, to be sure, they lacked the carbonic water and gin—arrived today from the West Indies on the steamship Pretoria.”

Although it had quickly gained national appeal, the original Rickey had its roots among the political denizens of the bars of our nation’s capital. Some might say that it is difficult to distinguish fact from fiction regarding anything occurring in Washington DC. Therefore, reality and fantasy, history and imagination begin to blur into a story within a story within a story from the Chronicles of Cocktail Connections…

Randolph ‘Randy’ Parker had once again come to our nation’s capital on business. He was an engineer with the gas exploration division of ConocoPhillips and was meeting with staff of the Department of Energy in the morning to discuss details of new regulations that could greatly affect Conoco’s operations. He considered himself lucky to be booked in the center of Washington activity at the downtown J.W. Marriott on Pennsylvania Avenue. After a tiring day of travel, he wandered into the hotel’s beautiful 1331 Bar and Lounge for some happy hour refreshment. As he entered the Lounge, he noticed a small wooden plaque on the wall that read, “Birthplace of the Rickey.” He took a seat at the bar, and as he perused the drink menu, he discovered that, of course, it listed a Rickey as a cocktail option.

By attentive listening to the bar chatter, he had already learned the bartender’s name, as any self-respecting sitter of a bar stool should. Thus, he was able to announce, “Hey, Colton. This thirsty traveler is in bad need of a nice tall cool cocktail. I guess all signs are pointing me in the direction of your Gin Rickey.”

“Good choice, Sir. History has definitely connected this town, this bar, and that classic drink.” Colton answered.

Randy introduced himself. He continued to describe his purpose for visiting DC as Colton blended the gin, lime juice, and carbonated soda in a tall ice-filled glass. Colton set the drink down and Randy quickly savored the first sip. “Wow! That is very refreshing! This is my first Rickey, but probably not my last. So, what’s up with that Rickey birthplace plaque on the wall? I’d like to know more about the connection.”

Colton smiled at the almost expected question he had heard many times. After looking to see that his co-bartender had the other few customers under control, he answered, “Well, I bet you didn’t know that the Rickey is Washington DC’s official drink. How that came to be and why the plaque is here is quite a lengthy story.” Colton was a superb storyteller, as many bartenders seem to be. His voice was almost mesmerizing. “Let me tell you of a young man named Ben who came to this town on business, much like yourself.” And as he weaved his tale, it was as if Randy was transported to another time…

Benjamin Caldwell was very excited; It was the year 1900 and he was in Washington DC for the first time in his 28-year life. Ben was an ambitious Ohio lawyer and lobbyist sent to the Capital on behalf of the booming steel industry in his hometown, Cleveland. He was there to promote industry issues to the members of the 56^th Congressional Congress. 

It was a typically hot and muggy July evening. His work for the day had been fruitful and he was looking for a little relaxation and refreshment. He stood on the curb of E Street, otherwise known as ‘Rum Row’ for its numerous drinking establishments. He gazed up and down the street for one particular place. Benjamin had heard that a saloon called Shoomaker’s was the place to rub elbows with the city’s politicians, journalists, and fellow lobbyists. Quickly he spied the large Shoomaker’s sign from half a block away, but he was surprised to find the simple 2-story building such a dilapidated mess. “Oh well,” he thought. “Might be nicer inside.”

He entered and immediately recognized he was wrong, as he stood in a dusty cobwebbed front room nearly filled with boxes, crates, barrels, and kegs of unknown contents and origins. Pushing through the clutter, Benjamin entered a back room. “Ah, finally,” he thought, “the room where it happens.”

Men in all manner of attire and obviously of varied social stature and income were either crowded along the large bar stretching the length of one wall or sitting at the several wooden tables situated around a central stove. Being July, the stove was only used as a flat surface on which to rest several drinks. Several large fans were doing their best to cool down the stifling, smoke-filled atmosphere. Since the first order of business was seeing to his thirst, Benjamin muscled his way to the bar. The longtime fixture behind the bar at Shoomaker’s was the master of mix and manager of the establishment, George Williamson, who greeted him saying, “Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”

Benjamin replied, “I’m fine. Thank you, sir. It’s such a hot evening, that I think a simple gin and tonic is in order.”

“As you wish,” said George and he was already heading for the gin bottles directly behind him.

After receiving his drink, Benjamin turned to take in the crowd. Although new in town, he saw several familiar faces as his eyes swept the room. At the end of the bar was Senator Thomas Platt from New York holding court with several distinguished-looking gentlemen, including Henry MacFarland, the newly appointed President of the Washington DC Board of Commissioners. And, not unexpectedly, at one table sat Beriah Wilkins, a former Ohio congressman and current owner of the Washington Post newspaper located just down the street. Then his gaze fell upon a corner table occupied by one lone older gentleman. As their eyes met, the man beckoned him over to his table.

As Benjamin approached, the man said, “Have a seat, son. I see that you are newly arrived in town.”

Benjamin replied, “Why, yes, you are absolutely correct on that fact. May I ask how you have deduced this, sir?”

The man smiled. “I am not the Sherlock Holmes of which Arthur Conan Doyle has written, but nevertheless, it is elementary. For one, every regular knows that when you are at Shoo’s in the summer, you order a Rickey, not a gin and tonic.” He held up his tall glass as evidence. “And, for two, I am the owner of this den of iniquity, and I know everyone. Colonel Joe Rickey at your service!”

Benjamin roared with laughter. “I am honored to meet you, Colonel. My name is Benjamin Caldwell, a lobbyist newly arrived, as you have already astutely pointed out, from the Great State of Ohio. We, in Ohio, are not so backward as to be unfamiliar with the refreshing Rickey cocktail, but I had no clue how it acquired its name. I assume that there is a story behind the fact that this drink bears your name.”

Colonel Joe had been laughing right along with Benjamin, but as their laughter died, he more soberly replied, “If you have the time, let me tell you a tale that some may say is quite sad.”

“Please, sir. I am all ears.”

“After a short military career, I too came to this town on a mission similar to your own. I spent many years here as a well-known respected lobbyist and even worked closely with Grover Cleveland on his successful campaign for the presidency. Throughout all these years of Washington political battles, Shoo’s has been my refuge, my home away from home. I was so grateful that Charlie Hertzog and William Shoomaker had the initiative to open this saloon after the Civil War, that when they passed, I purchased the property some seventeen years ago.”

“From the very beginning, George Williamson has been my manager and chief bartender. One hot summer day, not unlike this one, I was sitting upon my usual after-work barstool sipping on my favorite beverage, a whiskey and carbonated water highball. I turned to George and asked him to squeeze some lemon juice into my glass for healthful reasons. That became my regular refreshment and soon other customers were asking for ‘one of those drinks that Rickey drinks.’ When the bar began purchasing more Caribbean limes than lemons, the lime juice replaced the lemon. But, the ‘Rickey’ cocktail lived on.”

The Colonel looked at Benjamin with sad eyes, and said, “Only a few years ago, I was Colonel Rickey, of Missouri, the friend of senators, judges, and statesmen and something of an authority on political matters. But, am I ever spoken of for those reasons? No, I am known to fame only as the author of the ‘Rickey.’ I guess I just have to be satisfied with that.”

And with a tear in his eye, the Colonel called for George to bring them a couple more Rickeys, both with bourbon, for he loathed that his name was ever associated with the modified gin version. 

Randy slowly returned to the reality of the 21^st century as Colton neared the end of his story. “And so,” he concluded, “sadly, poor Colonel Joe took his own life in 1903. However, the fame of the Rickey cocktail continued to spread and develop into a family of drinks. That Rickey with gin became nationally more popular than the original bourbon drink. The bourbon version had become known as a Joe Rickey in honor of the Colonel.”

“Although Shoo’s continued as a successful saloon for 14 more years, it served its last drop of liquor on the eve of November 1, 1917, when Prohibition went into effect in Washington. Over time, urban progress tore down all the bars along Rum Row. And eventually, Marriott erected this hotel on the very ground on which Shoomaker’s stood.”

“In 2011, a celebration was held in this lounge to unveil that plaque commemorating the Rickey’s birthplace. Authorities in attendance proclaimed the Rickey the official drink of Washington DC. Since 2009, the District celebrates every July as Rickey Month. Many local bartenders provide their own distinctive Rickey Riffs. Since this is July, our way of celebrating here at 1331 is to tell you your second Rickey is on the house.”

“Why thank you very much, Colton,” Randy said on hearing this unexpected good news. As he sat in contented thought, he smiled with the satisfaction of newfound knowledge, and the pleasure of another tasty Rickey on his lips.