"Red-Eye"

Years ago, when I was new to the northern plains, I had business with the priest of a small-town parish in south-central North Dakota. We talked through the matters before us, and it got to be about ten in the morning as we sipped coffee. At which point the good father, having concluded I was harmless, leaned over the coffee table and said, “Have you ever tried any of our red-eye?” And we did.

I’m not advocating drinking here, I’m talking about culture. Red-eye is a traditional, sweet, anise-flavored drink of the Black Sea Germans (and other eastern Europeans, it seems) of the northern plains.

The main use for red-eye was as a Hochzeit (wedding celebration) drink. Commonly a couple of fellows would be stationed at the entrance to the hall. Adult male celebrants would not be allowed to enter until they had taken shots of the stuff.

The bottle of red-eye on my desk at home was mixed up according to a recipe given me by a distinguished academic administrator–well, I might as well say it was Jim Ozbun, former president of North Dakota State University–who got it from one of his West River buddies, a guy named Bill Jablonski. It goes like this.

First you burn (caramelize) 2 _ cups of sugar in a big, heavy skillet or pot. To this you add 4 cups of water, dissolving the caramel. (You’ll have to stir and crush it; I use a wooden spoon.) Then add 2 more cups of sugar, 9 more cups of water, and bring it all to a boil.

Let the mixture cool, and pour in a liter of Everclear. (Now some of you will be able to understand that obscure reference, in my published list of You-Must-Be-from-North-Dakota sayings, to friends in Seattle asking kin from back home to bring out a bottle of Everclear when they come.) Throw in a handful of stars of anise.

I let the red-eye season in a crock for a month or so before drawing it off into bottles; otherwise it tastes too much like rubbing alcohol. The color of the finished drink is reddish brown. It is heavily sweet. Some people drip in a little of the juice of maraschino cherries to redden the fluid up, but I’m not that ecumenical. Young folks these days don’t like red-eye because it tastes of anise. Nordic Europeans who themselves put a bottle of aquavit into a snowbank for special occasions, though, will understand the appeal.

Now here’s a serendipitous piece of good fortune that helps to take the edge off a hard winter. Having spent a good deal of time in Australasia, I have developed a taste for tea, especially on bitter days, drunk with sugar and milk. One winter night I was sitting down with a pot of tea by the fireplace, and there was the bottle of red-eye on my desk, and you can guess what happened. Great inventions often are spontaneous.

The previous summer I had invented the rhubarb-tequila cocktail that now goes by two fine names, “Lena Margarita” and “Tequila Borealis.” We need more signature items of regional taste, and it’s important that this new drink, too–hot tea with milk and a shot of red-eye in it--acquire a good name, but I haven’t come up with one.

It’s about the color of the Little Missouri in spring rise. It’s wonderfully warming when you come in with your skis or skates, and gentle on the palate, the anise complementing the tea perfectly. It makes you nod off in front of the fire with a feeling of well-being.

And it needs a name. Maybe someone can help me out with that.

 

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