C&C 53: Green Around the Gills

A new history of Malört, plus assorted recommendations and links

Where to begin talking about Jeppson’s Malört? You could start with geography. Until recently, if you were talking about Malört, it meant you were in, near, or from Chicago, the only place it was readily available. There’s its appearance, summarized in Josh Noel’s new book Malört: The Redemption of a Revered & Reviled Spirit (2024) thusly: “an otherworldly shade of pale yellow-green.” You could reduce it to a spare list of ingredients. As Noel writes, “Jeppson’s Malört was a simple product: grain neutral spirit—vodka, essentially—aged on wormwood, a fragrant herb native to Europe, Asia, and North Africa.”

But who are we kidding? What we talk about when we talk about Malört is its taste, its one-of-a-kind—and thank God for that—flavor. Noel’s history works best as a repository of vivid, borderline-poetic descriptions of its palate-pulverizing power. A partial sampling from its pages:

• Stomach bile and dirt

• Pepper, then basement

• Baby aspirin wrapped in grapefruit, bound with rubber bands, and soaked in cheap gin

• Like a hobo’s Band-Aid

• Furniture polish on a dusty dresser—though in a good way

“Bitter” comes up a lot. So does “off-putting.” And “undrinkable.” In an online contest to concoct a slogan, the winner was Malört: Kick Your Mouth in the Balls.

For the record, yes, I have sampled Jeppson’s Malört. More than once. And, yes, the first time I tried it was, as with most people, a dare, a bartender pouring a shot to see my reaction.

I don’t like it. But I don’t dislike it, either. By the time of my initial close encounter of the Malört kind, I was already familiar with the herbaceous liqueur chartreuse and bitter amari like Cynar (flavored with artichokes) and Sfumato (rhubarb). Malört is a turbocharged version, stripped of nuance. To put it in terms of the talk show Hot Ones—which has a Chicago connection, thanks to host Sean Evans, so maybe being dared to ingest things is a rite of passage there—it’s a sauce that’s all heat and no texture.

What’s astounding about Malört is that it’s still around. It’s gone from regional ethnic staple to punchline to quirky standard bearer as it became caught up in the craft cocktail revolution. Acclaimed bartender Charles Joly was an early adopter, admiring its piquant taste “which came to seem earthy, akin to bitter grapefruit pith” and using it in an original cocktail fittingly dubbed the Bukowski. Fellow bartender Sam Mechling, who would become Malört’s ambassador, loved that “no one ever tasted it, shrugged, and got on with their day.” It may not warrant inclusion alongside once-exotic foodstuffs that became commonplace like hummus and sriracha, as Noel argues, but its staying power demands respect.

Credit for its longevity goes to attorney George Brode, who bought the brand in 1945 and kept it afloat as a hobby, and his legal secretary Patricia Gabelick, who inherited it after Brode’s death. Noel writes that “Jeppson’s Malört was a story of Swedish immigration as much as it was a piece of Chicago history,” but he focuses almost exclusively on the latter part. There’s not much on the liqueur’s Scandinavian origins or its similarity to other wormwood-infused products like Poland’s piolunówka, which allowed Malört to hang on as Chicago’s cultural makeup evolved. As for information on its creator Carl Jeppson, who originally sold Malört door-to-door to fellow Swedes as a medicine during Prohibition, Noel is content to recapitulate what the company’s staff has unearthed. The book is more interested in the Malört business than Malört itself, recounting decades of personality clashes and fiscal decisions. It’s a breezy history that left me wanting more, something that has never happened with Malört.

The stuff’s not going anywhere. Punch reported on a bartender’s efforts to make “Evil Malört,” pushing the spirit to the very limits of drinkability by adding, among other elements, high-octane chili peppers and Newport cigarettes to its already pungent flavor mix—and turning it black in the process. The verdict: it tastes like “Grandma’s furniture (when she still smoked),” which may be my favorite Malört description yet. And again, for the record, yes, if I am ever in Northampton, Massachusetts, I will order it.

Obligatory Self-Promotion

Rosemarie and I, in Renee Patrick mode, have a post at Shepherd naming our five favorite books that recount the making of a single film. The titles span seven decades, and there are more trainwrecks than triumphs.

What I’m Watching

Bad Monkey (Apple TV+). I am loath to recommend a show mid-run. What if, after a slew of entertaining episodes, it botches the landing? (Looking at you, Sugar, for reasons that have nothing to do with the series’ supposedly shocking twist.) But this adaptation of Carl Hiaasen’s comic caper is going down easy. It’s perfect end-of-summer entertainment, loose and charming. Much of the credit goes to Vince Vaughn, who has found his métier as a gabby Key West detective busted down to food inspector who can’t help getting involved in what might be a murder case. Vaughn’s trademark loquaciousness is the motor that keeps the show tooling along. (Picking up the Hot Ones thread from earlier, Vaughn appeared on the show to promote Bad Monkey and, as he did in a recent New York Times Q&A, turned the tables on his interviewer to intriguing effect. Plus the lanky bastard barely broke a sweat as he chowed down on those wings.) He’s abetted by a strong supporting cast that includes Rob Delaney, Meredith Hagner from Search Party, Michelle Monaghan, and the always-welcome John Ortiz. Additional points for the crotchety voiceover by cast member Tom Nowicki, serving up grief even during the “Previously on …” segments. (“Really? You’re watching the recap after one episode?”)

It’s a mystery why Hiaasen’s antic crime novels haven’t found success on the screen before now. I had hopes for Striptease (1996) because it was written and directed by Andrew Bergman, whose scripts for The In-Laws (1979) and Fletch (1985) indicated a simpatico sensibility. The movie ended up being more about Demi Moore’s physical appearance than comedy or crime, but at least Bergman had the sense to cast ur-Florida Man Burt Reynolds in a key role. Too bad the proposed Mike Nichols/Elaine May version of Hiaasen’s Skinny Dip (2004) never came to fruition.

The Instigators (2024, Apple TV+). I enjoyed this scruffy anti-Ocean’s 11 featuring two of that remake’s stars. But then I’m a sucker for a heist movie where everything goes sideways immediately. A Boston crime boss recruits a team of strangers to knock over a political function, among them a perpetual screw-up (Casey Affleck, who co-wrote the script) and an ex-Marine (Matt Damon) trying to get his life back on track. Before long, they’re on the run from every law-enforcement officer in New England, with Damon’s character’s shrink (Hong Chau) in tow. It ain’t Rififi. It ain’t even either version of Ocean’s 11. It’s still ramshackle fun.

What (Else) I’m Reading

Max Read’s Washington Post story on the rise of the “explainer” movie, among many other things, explains why I’ve opted out of so many films lately. As friend and colleague Ray Banks regularly observes, original screenplays are IP. Star Wars, Alien, Raiders of the Lost Ark, all of those now-exhaustively built-out universes began as scripts. To tie off the Hot Ones thread that has run through this edition, Vince Vaughn talked about how Hollywood’s current IP fixation killed the R-rated comedies on which he built his career and cited the films of fellow Chicagoland product John Hughes, where the IP was a common real-life situation, like a girl’s sixteenth birthday or a kid deciding to cut school.

In the New York Times, Pete Wells on how the wet martini is having a moment. About damn time. The recipe from Eel Bar goes fifty/fifty on gin and vermouth, which I don’t quite do, but I definitely use both dry and blanc varieties as well as bitters. If I make you a martini, you’re getting vermouth. You may not like it, but you will respect it.

Some writing links: a bracingly honest essay by Rob Hart about failure, perceived success, and moving forward that jibes with my own experience of publishing. And a Wall Street Journal profile of Slow Horses author Mick Herron that includes the best two words of advice a writer can receive: “Be lucky.”