Nobody—not a lady, not a dude, not a rabbi, priest, or pastor—walks into a bar and orders a big ol’ frosty glass of geranium liqueur. Why? Because it would out them as total tasteless dickheads and/or alcoholic bees. Liqueurs are accessories in the distilling world—they’re sparkles on the bodices of popular full-bodied drinks: flashy, unsubstantial, and mostly incapable of standing alone. But pair the right liqueur with the proper something-else-boozy (fuck off, I’m not a mixologist) and it’ll sing. And you’ll sing. And you’ll get laid.
In the interest of science and procreation (which I’m told is currently under attack by gay marriage), the generous bartenders at Liberty set up a taste test with five locally made wild cards—including absinthe, rose-geranium liqueur, and other spirits beloved by bumblebees and geriatrics—the frills that make your fancy cocktails sing. We sniffed, we sampled, we judged. Here are the results.
Pacifique Absinthe from Pacific Distillery, Woodinville: Like absinthe or hate it, everyone at our table agreed: Pacific’s version does not pussyfoot around. “At first sip, there’s a pleasant burning sensation on your tongue, like a Good & Plenty marched into your mouth, body-checked your tongue, and screamed YOU WILL LOVE ME,” said one tester. Pacific’s absinthe also lacks both the medicinal aftertaste and the syrupy sweetness of other absinthes. Half the group declared it the evening’s best-tasting liquor.
Grappa Giallo from Soft Tail Spirits, Woodinville: Grappa is made by distilling the skins, pulp, seeds, and stems left over from winemaking—in other words, it’s the second pressing of grapes, or what I like to call “brandy scraps.” Soft Tail Spirits bills its Grappa Giallo as containing aromas of “straw and hay with soft pear and apple flavors similar to a light lowland Scotch whiskey,” but I call X-treme bullshit. No one’s tongue reported rolling around in hay or soft pear—that is the sort of journey a tongue fondly remembers. No, this grappa tastes like an afterthought: bland, bland, bland, with a faint brandy finish. If your tongue hates the rest of your mouth, I imagine this would be the drink it would crave. Or if you, as a whole person, were dead inside or a Mitt Romney fan. Mitt Romney looks like a closeted grappa drinker. Picture it: Romney, his freshly pressed Mormon underwear, a closet, a bottle of grappa, one crazy straw, and a well-worn Sears underwear catalog. As one person put it, “This tastes like vodka with a Habsburg chin,” and that chin is all raisin. YUCK.
Rhubarb Liqueur from 5 O’Clock Distillery, Cashmere: I asked the bartenders at Liberty to suss out a locally produced craft schnapps, and they pretty much nailed it. In general, the women loved this fruity liqueur (even though it wasn’t tart enough for rhubarb lovers). “It tastes like jam!” one lady announced, while the men agreed that it tasted like “the preferred date rape drug of high-school students.”
Rose Geranium Liqueur from broVo, Seattle: If rhubarb liqueur is the preferred date rape drug of high-school students, rose-geranium liqueur must be the preferred date rape drug of hummingbirds. It smells delicious, like a clean grandmother—who doesn’t love those?—but the flavor is watery and unsatisfying, like a flat bottle of Clearly Canadian. Interestingly, broVo botanical liqueurs are marketed as made by women for women. “That’s a little insulting,” said one taster. “I can imagine getting a bottle as a consolation gift for being a Washington resident—kind of like, ‘I’m proud of Washington, too, Grandma,’ but I can’t imagine buying it myself or drinking it alone.” (Fact: Newt Gingrich drinks this liquor alone because he reportedly likes to date-rape bumblebees.) Speaking of consolation prizes: When combined, the aromatic Rose Geranium complemented—and tempered—the sweet rhubarb liqueur, making both universally more drinkable.
Pepper Vodka from Oola Distillery, Seattle: Capitol Hill’s Oola Distillery impressed our judgey group of tasters. Like the grappa, the vodka starts off clean, like sipping on a classy paint thinner (I’m not a vodka drinker) but finishes strong and hot, like a pepper vodka should. “It reminds me of red pepper pizza flakes!” one taster enthused. “It makes my esophagus uncomfortable!” said another. It’s a vodka built for Bloody Marys and children’s pizza parties—”for when mama needs some medicine.”
Voyager Dry Gin from Pacific Distillery, Woodinville: We were so effusive about Pacific’s absinthe that the bartenders at Liberty trotted out their gin as a bonus round. “Voyager Gin tastes the way gin is supposed to taste,” the distillery promises on its website, “bold juniper, fresh, light citrus and mild hints of exotic spices; not like whiskey, not like vodka. And definitely not like the potpourri sitting on your grandma’s dresser.” Like the absinthe, this gin delivers: One sip and you must resist the urge to march out and heavy-pet a pine tree. “I would wear this,” gushed one taster. “This is an environmentalist’s gin,” said another.
You hear that, Seattle? Voyager gin will get you drunk while pandering to your awkward need to be incongruously environmental—much like “My Other Car Is a Bike” and “Save the Trees” bumper stickers. Raise a toast to this Renaissance gin! 
