The Shanghai Cocktail - A Chinese Puzzle

The Shanghai Cocktail - so good they named a city after it? Perhaps not, but it is certainly more than a forgotten classic cocktail: it is yet another window on to the Shanghai of the early 20th Century.

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    We start our journey back into that other time and place with the earliest recorded recipe for this drink, which is found in The Savoy Cocktail Book by Harry Craddock.

First published in 1930 this founding work of an earlier cocktail golden age gives us a starting date for delving into the background of the Shanghai cocktail.

    We pack our one suitcase (so as to travel light), and book the next steam-packet passage to the mystic Orient in order to engage in our search - the search for the inventor of the Shanghai cocktail.

    All we have as a clue is our starting date: 1930 - the inventor must have been in Shanghai before this point. - let's say a couple of years before that point even. This gives the drink time to become well-known enough to cross the Atlantic and be published in a book in London.
    This is, of course, supposition, but supposition and circumstantial evidence based on what we know of the era and place is all we have. Perhaps we are even reading too much into that slender evidence as it is.
Perhaps the drink was never even invented in Shanghai - perhaps it is the Shanghai cocktail in name only, maybe Harry Craddock cobbled it together himself...perhaps...
     These are not unreasonable suggestions... yet they don't ring true.
To proudly name a drink after one of the largest and most dramatic cities of its time suggests that either the drink was invented there or that the quintesential essence of the place and its people has been distilled into the drink in some way. The fact that there is nothing particularly 'Oriental' about the drink save its name would suggest the former over the latter.
While we wait for our ocean-liner to reach Shanghai so our investigation can begin in earnest we have time to examine the drink as described in the Savoy Cocktail Book.

Shanghai Cocktail

2 dashes grenadine

3/8 lemon juice

1/8 anisette

1/2 Jamaica Rum

shake well and strain into a cocktail glass

No clues there to the author one would think... save that the heavy use of Jamaica rum would suggest an English connection - Jamaica being, at that time, a part of the British Empire and the chief supplier to the English both at home and abroad of cheap rum... maybe. We scribble 'English' with a question mark in our notes.
    The other ingredient of interest is the 'anisette'.

Anisette is a French liqueur traditionally made with anise and coriander seeds - other spices may also be used such as cinnamon, vanilla, mace, clove, fennel or dill. It is similar to, but distinct from, pastis which is made from star anise - there is also a difference in strength with anisette hovering around the 20% alc./vol. mark while pastis is usually  pegged at 40% alc./vol..
    Though both anisette and pastis are based on long-standing traditional recipes of herbal infusion they only began to be mass-produced and promoted after a ban was imposed on the production of absinthe across most of Europe in 1915. Which is not to say that absinthe was unavailable, the Savoy Cocktail book makes frequent use of it suggesting a cellar stocked from before the ban.
Incidentally, this eliminates the idea that Harry Craddock had adapted the recipe to fit available products - absinthe, pastis, and anisette are all mentioned by name in the book. Also, the proportions only make sense if the anise-flavoured component is of the sweeter and less alcoholic variety - that much Pastis or absinthe in a drink would over-power any other flavour, while the quantity of lemon juice would make the drink too sour.
Now we have a lower bracket for our dates - The Shanghai cocktail, as it exists in the Savoy, most probably was invented sometime between 1915 and 1928 in a place where Jamaican rum was readily available.
As our ship steams up the Hoang-pu river that leads to the heart of the metropolis we now feel a little more confident of finding our quarry amongst the throngs in the streets.

Now begins an expedition of the mind into the mists of time. A modicum of 'suspension of disbelief' is required, but I hope you will join me in this visit to the Shanghai of the 1920s...

A scale model of the buildings along the Bund of the 1930s (not in their correct positions)

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I descend the gangway to the wharf of this "Paradise of Adventurers" on a humid day in the 1920s (or thereabouts). I notice a number of American accents - not unusual in itself for such a cosmopolitan city, save that a particular group has formed on the dock front and snatches of conversation about barwork can be heard, where to find it and how much it pays. These are bartenders from across the United States who have become unemployed after the enactment of the Volstead Act and the beginning of Prohibition in the January of 1920.
    These highly trained and experienced bartenders have been forced to disperse across the globe in search of work - many have come to Shanghai, others have wound up in Europe - such as Harry Craddock at the Savoy in London and Frank Meier at the Ritz in Paris (both of whom knew each other through having both worked at the Hoffman House Hotel in New York).
    Is there a link here to the person we seek? Is our mystery drinksmith an American bartender? It seems more than reasonable.
    The newly arrived bartenders are moving off in a group now, pushing past the street urchins that continually chant, "No mama, no papa, no whiskey soda", one hand raised supplicatory style. Picking up my one suitcase I undo my collar in the heat and set out to follow them - this is probably our best lead, and literally 'fresh off the boat'.
    I pass along the broad avenue called the Bund that runs beside the river. Across the road, with its rickshaws, trams and frequent automobiles, can be seen the various head-offices of Western businesses (Hongs in the local vernacular) that are based in the East. The river itself is crammed with craft small and large - junks, fishing boats, small skiffs passing between anchored ships and the shore, barges, and a fair number of naval vessels flying colours from across the globe.

IJN Izumo on the Huangpo River, Shanghai

    Our group of American bartenders is crossing the first all steel bridge in China - the 'camelback truss' style Garden Bridge (Waibaidu) across Suzhou Creek, a smaller river which feeds into the larger river to our right. They're heading to the American Consulate to register, get their bearings and perhaps get some advice.
I cross the bridge as well.

The Garden Bridge at the junction of the Huang-po and Suzhou Creek

This bridge, which still exists today, will be the scene of machine gun battles during the Battle of Shanghai in 1937, but at this stage (the imagined early to mid 1920s) things are calm. A group of Marines from the Fourth Corps lounge against the rails watching the small boats in the Creek, a Russian prostitute solicites their attention but is ignored ("walking the Garden Bridge" is the lowest stage in the courtesan trade). A Sikh policeman directs traffic.
    I cross over into the northern section of the International Settlement and head for the American consulate. When I catch up our group of bartenders is beginning to break up - some are heading for the American YMCA back across the bridge, others are comparing a list of 'approved barbers' against a map, others are hovering in the cool shadow of the interior before venturing back out into the heat.

    I approach the information desk but draw only a blank look regarding the Shanghai cocktail - instead I'm directed to a newsstand by the entrance where one can get information regarding the night-life of Shanghai. I pick up a guide to the city and a map, and after some thought ask the way to the Astor House Hotel. The newsvendor gives me a speculative look then indicates across the road and along. The four stories of the Hotel can be clearly seen. As I cross the road, dodging a tram, I see a couple of our American bartenders heading in the same direction.

The Astor House Hotel, established in 1846 and the first Western hotel in China. It was the first building in China with electric lights and the first to receive mains water supply to each room. The first motion pictures in Shanghai were shown here (both silent and 'talkie'), and the first telephone call in Shanghai was received here also. A land mark in many ways this grand hotel occupies an entire city block and was an inevitable destination for every western visitor to the Shanghai of the 1920s. I consult my 1920 guide book: "Astor House Hotel: 250 rooms all with attached baths, the most commodious ballroom in Shanghai, renowned for its lobby, special dinner-parties, and balls. Banquets a special feature, and a French chef employed. Up-to-date hairdressing salon and beauty parlour. Strictly under foreign supervision."

     When we first visit the building it is still trading on a grand refurbishment just over a decade before (completed in 1911). A major feature of the reconstruction was the creation of the Peacock Hall - the ballroom referred to above.

    I enter the heart of the Astor House Hotel, it's 'ornate but old-fashioned' lobby. Considered by many the hub of social activity in 1920s Shanghai it is a sprawling space broken into several areas with abundant heavy, mahogany chairs set around low coffee tables. There is a steady hum of conversation and the occasional furtive glance over a shoulder at other tables. It has an atmosphere that lead one commentator to describe it as, "that amusing whispering gallery of Shanghai".
    A circle of aristocratic Russians looks out at the Russian Consulate (where the Romanov eagle has been replaced by the hammer and sickle of the workers' party). A Japanese gent in a morning suit with a briefcase on his knees is a gentle presence in the midst of their heated debate - 'how to align the displaced White Russians with other powers in a bid to overthrow the revolutionary government of the fledgling Soviet Union?' Perhaps Britain can be convinced to try again? Even after that pathetic fiasco at Archangel, perhaps in co-ordination with the Empire of Japan, attacking from the East....?
     A man waves a Chinese imitation of a Mauser C96 machine pistol around in one corner of the lobby while on the table are spread the schematics for a US made light machine gun (soon to be adopted by Hitler's Sturmabteilung or 'Brown Shirts'). An arms deal is in progress - a result of China signing the International Arms Embargo Agreement of 1919 and the ambiguous status of the International Settlement. The staff of the hotel keep a wary eye on the gun waver but otherwise carry on nonplussed.
    I feel a hand on my sleeve and looking over see that it belongs to our old friend Charles H. Baker Jr. In one hand he holds a tall glass of cocktail, while the other arm is entwined with that of a fetching American woman. This is just what we need - a bit of local knowledge...

Charles H. Baker Jr. (left) with E. Hemingway

"Local?! Dear boy! I've been in transit for weeks now - missed the boat, literally, several times over. I blame these." he declares, holding up his glass - which reminds him to take a sip. "Astor House Special." he looks distantly out the front door and says, half to himself, "God knows where my luggage is now. Hong Kong, I think." A ship's siren wail from the direction of the river mournfully punctuates this reflection.
    Baker Jr. snaps back to the present company. "So you've come from the outside world. How goes Chicago? Capone still riding rough-shod?" Mr Baker's companion rolls her eyes and pulls a cigarette case out of her purse. Tapping a new cigarette on it's cover she sashays away abruptly, heals clicking on the marble floor, leaving only a whiff of Mitsouko perfume. She is heading towards the stairs and the women's sitting room above. Somewhere a band begins to play a tune from the new style known as Jass or Jazz.
     Baker Jr. winks.
    "Only mentioned Capone as a gentle provocation to Madame. She's from Chicago - guess she likes the more endangering climates of the world, which is probably why she's in Shanghai. I may ask her to marry me - probably be rejected, but there you go.These are interesting times, my boy. Was just up on the gallery of the restaurant watching them go by. Come join me, and ask one of the 'boys' for a drink on my account - the stockmarket has been kind. They make damn fine drinks here - have done ever since that old prison bird Ludlow, back in 1903."
   I am agreeable so we head for the stairs - as we make our way to the restaurant that runs along the front of the building we discuss the quest for the inventor of the Shanghai cocktail. The rattan chairs squeak as we settle in and I order a drink from one of the Chinese staff in a blue jacket over a long white gown .

Astor House Hotel, Dining Saloon

The Astor Hotel Special

1 1/2 ounces cognac

1 tsp maraschino liqueur 

2 tsp egg white

3/4 ounce absinthe 

1/2 tsp lemon juice 

club soda 

Dry shake all ingredients save club soda. 

Add ice and shake hard. Strain into a large wine goblet and add soda. 

Baker Jr. looks reflectively towards the glittering river out the window, partially obscured by the white bulk of the Russian consulate opposite.
    "Of course there is another clue. The name might refer to something else.
     Maybe it is a reference to the Shanghai Club which has re-opened only fairly recently and is the most exclusive in town. If you want to stake your claim to anything in this town you'll need membership of that place. It's where all the English meet, from the Taipans to the Griffins. Oh sure, it doesn't have a long tradition of cocktail service like this place - but it does have the most impressive bar in town - the Long Bar. It's also closer to the French concession shops that sell not only Madame's fancy perfumes but also the anisette that features in your cocktail."
    Baker's mind, ever agile and hummingbird-like moves on suddenly after this moment of great insight. He suggests ordering some opium on room service or even (as his female companion climbs the steps towards us) a boy or girl companion, raising his voice so she can hear.
She doesn't respond to his baiting, merely seats herself and lights another cigarette before looking out at the view. As the silence begins to stretch I excuse myself saying that my quest obliges me to visit the Shanghai Club, and I take my leave.

The Bund, Shanghai

Rejoining the throngs out along the road leading to the Garden Bridge and the Bund I decide to catch a tram - there's no room to sit inside so I stand on the running board, one hand holding on, the other gripping my suitcase while I keep a wary eye out for hat thieves - a not uncommon happenstance. After a short ride I drop off the tram at a jog outside the imposing five-storey facade of the Shanghai Club, next door to the Asiatic Petroleum company, and also, beginning with the next block, the French Concession - just as Baker Jr. said.

Shanghai Club, now the Waldorf-Astoria

     A Union Jack hangs limply from the roof line. Beneath a glass canopy stretching out from the entrance and across the pavement stands a uniformed Sikh doorman. I raise my hat and push through into the interior. The doorman watches me with detached suspicion. Inside a man in a rather out-dated formal suit rises from behind a desk to greet me. The black and white Sicilian marble interior recedes into a grotto-like obscuirty of Ionic columns and potted plants.

    Am I a member? No. A friend of a member? No. A Britisher? No again. Then they are sorry but they cannot allow me to enter the Club.
    The Sikh doorman has now followed me inside and stands at the ready to eject me if necessary.
    I am reminded of the time, still a little ways into the future, in 1941, when a passing Englishman sought shelter inside the entrance during a bombardment of the Bund. As the explosions resounded he was told that as he was not a member he would have to go back outside. That is until a quick conference of the club members present voted him to be a temporary member until after the bombardment.

    A man crossing the foyer with the help of two walking sticks, perhaps sensing a moment's diversion of sorts, altered his course towards us.
   "Good Afternoon, is there some sort of bone of contention that is being chewed upon here? May I be of assistance?"
"Ah, Sir Sassoon - I was just explaining to this gentleman our members only policy..."

    Ultimately I outline the quest in broad strokes and Mr. Sassoon's interest is piqued.
   "I'll vouchsafe him a visit to the Long Bar, Berty." Berty looks like he might protest then finally nods and takes my hat and case.
    We cross the ground floor lobby to the elevators, staircases in yet more marble rise on either side.
     "A good incentive for me to join the club was these elevators." Mr. Sassoon remarks as I draw the elevator gates closed.
    "Staircases and walking sticks do not go so well. Do you like horse-racing?" he asks abruptly, changing the subject...

 The Long Bar runs the length of the room in the shape of an 'L' with one end terminating at the windows. It's total length is 110-feet and is a heavy piece of un-varnished mahogany with a black and white granite top, reminiscent of American hotel and saloon bars. At the time of our visit, the mid-1920s it is said to be the longest bar in the world. A forest of ceiling fans spin and whir overhead.

    Early afternoon drinkers are spread around the leather armchairs in front of the bar, or are leaning on the bar itself. Everyone glances up as we enter, assessing us. Various heads nod in greeting, Sassoon waves a walking stick in salute to a man at the far end near the windows and we begin to make our way along the bar.
    As we progress we move along the hierarchy of the bar - from the greenest griffins at one end, yet to make their mark in the world, towards their social superiors, the taipans, at the other end. Sir Victor Sassoon is, of course, one of this later group so we get to position ourselves at the window end.
    A chair is brought up for Sir Victor to sit in, which he does gratefully, hanging his walking sticks on the edge of the bar top. Strangely I also notice a table pointedly turn their backs on our group. The 'Baghdad Jew' Sir Victor pretends not to notice.
    As I consider the view of the river I am struck by the similarity of this bar's arrangement to that of another bar: the Savoy in London. Though the Savoy is not so large a bar the relationship of the bar to a view of another great river, the Thames is the same. Similarly, a seat at the end of the bar that looks towards the river is considered prime real estate.

    As I ponder this similarity Sassoon outlines my quest to the other drinkers gathered at the Long Bar for liquid tiffin and maybe a sandwich from under the dome-covered plates at intervals along the counter.
Bartenders in white jacketed uniforms stand at intervals along the bar or pass between the seated members. A shaker rattles in staccato rhythm. Is one of these bartenders the one we seek? Sassoon asks on our behalf to talk to the head bartender.
An older man comes over and after a brief consultation there is a nod followed by a shrug. The drink is known here, but who invented it they cannot say. The staff change so frequently these days, even the membership changes with increasing rapidity - things are in a state of flux. Even the head bartender has been here only a short while. He offers to make me the cocktail in question. I acquiess. Perhaps new insight or another lead will present itself.
    I watch as the bartender composes the drink. Marie Brizzard annisette and fresh made grenadine syrup, freshly squeezed lemon juice and a healthy measure of the house rum from a bottle marked simply "Finest old Jamaica rum, 70 proof - produce of the British Empire."
    After a brief shake and strain a opaque drink in a shade of pastel pink is revealed in a small cocktail glass. It seems to glow with an internal luminescene as the immiscable oil droplets from the annisette defract the light streaming through the window.  The gentle spiciness of the anise is balanced by the tartness of the lemon juice and the dried fruit character of the rum.

Shanghai Cocktail (different anisette shown)

As I sip speculatively Sassoon outlines to his audience of Shanghai elite his plans to build a grand hotel in the new Art Deco style - the Cathay Hotel, a short distance from the Astor House Hotel. It will be the tallest building in Shanghai built on a mass of Douglas fir piles driven into the mud of the riverside.
    Combined with the opening of the Majestic this will challenge the Astor's claim to be the most luxurious hotel is Shanghai.
    Change is inevitable of course, but in Shanghai it seems to be precipitous. People, buildings, events, the march of history seems to be conducted at a steady run here. Then, in the mid 1920's, as now, in the early 21st Century.
I wish Mr. Sassoon all the best with his ambitious ventures as I take my leave. He offers to walk me out but I decline and he gratefully remains seated, resting his legs shattered in WWI.
    I make my way out of the Long Bar and down to the entrance where Berty presents my hat and small suitcase and thereafter once again find myself on the steps of the entrance. The Sikh doorman looks out at the passing ebb and flow of people, but watches me out of the corner of his eye.

I put on my hat, pull the brim down against the sun and step down to join the gentle melle.

    We have come close, one feels, to locating the elusive cocktail-maker. Perhaps he is even still working in this town - perhaps at one of the many less than salubrious cabarets. Perhaps we will pass him in the street and not even know.
    If we do make his acquaintance we shall have to thank him for the excuse he has provided to tour the town in our quest - experiencing along the way some of the places and people who have since left their mark on this town.