THERE WAS, PERHAPS, no one in the world more interesting than the Count of St. Germain.
Born sometime in the late 17th century, the bewigged maybe-aristocrat was an alchemist, an adventurer, possibly a jewel thief, a spy and/or a prince of Transylvania, and less possibly (but still rumored to be) immortal. If the man still lived (which he might; see previous note re: immortality), he truly would be the most interesting man in the world, and he is who I think of when sipping a drink containing St. Germain liqueur, with its floral, honey-scented flavor profile that tastes like a ghost of the Old World swirling around in my co*cktail glass.
This experience is not at all diminished by the fact that the Count has nothing at all to do with the liqueur. Despite its evocative Art Deco label and air of vintage esoterica, St. Germain liqueur (pronounced San-ZherMAN) isn’t even old. It was first bottled commercially in 2007 by Rob Cooper, an American liquor innovator born to a family steeped in generations of the liquor business.
Elderflower liqueur, at first blush, sounds like a niche product, something that might make an appearance in a top-shelf co*cktail at a bar with a secret knock. But the liqueur took off in popularity almost immediately, becoming so pervasive, it was referred to as “bartender’s ketchup,” and, according to Cooper’s obituary in The New York Times, the liqueur was ubiquitous in bars by 2008, an amazing uptake for a flavor that many probably associated with their grandmothers.
Elderflowers themselves are tiny, white and delicate as Irish lace; they are the reproductive bits of the elderberry bush (Sambucus nigra), an herbal medicine superstar native to the British Isles and found all over Europe. Elderberry bushes are hardy and often grow like weeds along riverbanks or roadsides; their dark purple berries long have been utilized as medicine for colds and sore throats. These days, lozenges or syrups made with elderberry and zinc are still popular, if not exactly proved effective by any reliable study.
Various ancient folk beliefs of the British Isles claimed that the bush is protective against evil spirits (similarly unproved), that burning the wood is unlucky and invites disaster, that the wood is ideal for the creation of magic wands, and that any given bush might really be a witch in disguise. This conflicted but reverential attitude is, in a way, appropriate, because despite being popular ingredients as both food and medicine when cooked, elderberry leaves and elderberries are poisonous if consumed raw. (There is also a related American species, Sambucus canadensis.)
Recipes for elderberry teas and squashes go back at least to the Tudor era, and possibly even back to the Romano-British. The Victorians were fanatically fond of elderflower cordial (aka elderflower pressé), a flower-flavored nonalcoholic cooler made with elderflower, sugar, water and any combination of complementary fruits, and also favored a fizzy elderflower Champagne made from an infusion of dried elderflowers, sugar, vinegar and wine yeast. With its sophisticated and subtle flavor profile, elderflower also is increasingly used as a flavoring in craft sodas and nonalcoholic co*cktails.
Cooper supposedly based the recipe for what he branded St. Germain on elderflower liqueurs he sampled at bars in London, though St. Germain’s version is produced in France. The name does not refer to the infamous Count, but rather to the Saint-Germain-des-Prés quarter in Paris, a cultural and intellectual haven that nurtured such luminaries as Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, inspiring the romantic label and lending the brand a turn-of-the-century cachet that is as much ’20s speak-easy as English grandmum. And though the brand itself might not be ancient, elderflower itself is easily as enigmatic, historic and intriguing as the storied Count, and, man of the world that he was, he surely would have enjoyed it.
Tantri Wija is a Seattle-based freelance writer. Reach her at scratchtheblog.com.
