For the many facets of Tiki, it all distills down to two tropical locales that had to come together to make it happen. The Atlantic tropics, including the multicultural rum-laden islands of the Caribbean, the Yucatan peninsula, and eastern seaboard of the U.S., and the Pacific tropics, stretching all the way from Polynesia, out to South America, and up to Southeast Asia.
Donn Beach succeeded in amalgamating these dichotomies figuratively by combining the rums of the Caribbean with the cultural imagery of Polynesia, to extremely simplify it. In his masterfully eccentric way Donn managed to blur the ephemeral boundaries bisecting these proverbial paradises.
But, there’s also a more objective boundary. A literal line in the sand. A thin strip of land that officially splits in twain the physical representations of the fundamental ideas behind Tiki. For all its workarounds it wasn’t until this barrier was successfully breached that Tiki was able to realize its full potential. Today we’re going to a part of the world we haven’t explored yet. But, thanks to few brave, if not problematic, figures we have previous explorations to build on. Of which have paved the way for its own pirate haven of sorts. A place rarely endeavored upon in modern Tiki. Our journey through the history of tropical cocktails and the people behind them now takes us to a corner of the South Seas known as the Canal Zone.
Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Tony and this is Pod Tiki.
Panama is a sinew of land connecting Costa Rica to Colombia and therefore North and South America. In 1670 it was known as the Isthmus of Darién and it was then a Welsh privateer by the name of Henry Morgan landed on its Caribbean coast. Over the course of the next year Captain Morgan and his crew pillaged their way across the narrow strip of land, on foot mind you, raiding and capturing Spanish forts till finally sacking the city of Panama, which then lay on the west coast. The entire Captain and crew then loaded up their booty and, yes, made forth to drag their bounty, by foot, back across the land bridge; Which apparently was still easier than waiting for their fleet to sail all the way around Cape Horn to pick them up.
A few years later in 1679 another pira- ahem, I mean privateer, found himself retracing Morgan’s steps, and plunder. William Dampier was sailing under Buccaneer Captain Bartholomew Sharp when he accompanied a raid across the Isthmus of Darién. I say ‘accompanied’ because it is still unclear whether Dampier was truly a buccaneer or simply tagged along as a naturalist. Perhaps, even sent by the crown as a spy. You see, Dampier is most well known for his documentation and mapping. He cataloged hundreds of species of exotic flora and fauna throughout the tropics as he accompanied privateers on their raids. Surely, he had no interest in affiliating with such wanton rapscallions as he watched them hauling off chests of treasure. What’s a few gold doubloons worth to a man of science?!
In Panama he wrote of a funny little green thing, “as big as a large lemon … [with] skin [like] black bark, and pretty smooth.” He continues how this strange fruit called avocado is, “mixed with sugar and lime juice and beaten together [on] a plate.” Yes, William Dampier is credited with the first English language recipe for guacamole. But, he still had to sail all around South America to continue his piratical explorations in the Pacific.
Both Morgan and Dampier’s expeditions relay the importance of Panama to the world. Even in, and because of, the age of exploration. This one tiny strip of land bulwarked the passage from Caribbean Sea to Pacific Ocean. As east-west trade increased the need for passage became even more self-evident subsequently rendering the Isthmus of Panama a pirate haven of its own rite complete with raids, colonization, and geopolitics bedeviling the isthmus right up to our new millennium.
A few hundred years later, in 1882, the French broke ground on the Panama Canal project. And thankfully I can stop saying isthmus now. Well, construction got off to a slow start. What with all the cigarette and wine breaks. To say nothing of all the baguettes. Oh, the baguettes! I kid, but it’s not that far off. You see, the French settled the city of Colón on the Caribbean side of the isthmus, (Damn!), which quickly became an iniquitous den for the workers to spend those hard earned diggin’ dollars.
And hard earned they were, an estimated 21,000 Frenchmen died during their dig. To help quell the harsh conditions Colón offered drinking, gambling, basic thuggery, and dare I say, women of ill repute. Like I said before, a veritable pirate haven of its day. I’m sure Captain Morgan would approve and William Dampier would say, “umm, I’m not with them. Pass me the guac.” Exacerbating the savage conditions Colón had no plumbing or waste collection to speak of. Add steamy tropical rainstorms to that equation and you get a literal shithole.
While the French labored to keep operations moving the U.S. was being courted to take over the Canal Project. Negotiations were spirited at best. Colombia, which encompassed all the northern coast of South America back then and had recently won its independence, was naturally incredulous of the United States being so close. So much drama ensued previous to the U.S. taking over the canal that if this was a movie the only way to keep up would be a well placed montage. A lot of treaty back and forth, a lot of posturing between the U.S. and colombia, the Spanish-American War, some civil war, a lot of wars, the new official country of Panama, a French guy making some deals, and bam! - the Canal Zone.
One of the conditions of the U.S. taking over the project in 1904 was the creation of the Canal Zone. Panama issued the U.S. a ten mile wide strip of land, five miles on either side of the canal, cutting right across the country from sea to shining sea, in return for annual payments, of course. The Canal Zone was in essence sovereign U.S. land. Thus began U.S. occupation of Panama. Over the next few decades Colón calmed down a bit but kept its reputation as the happening place for off-duty debauchery. A famous bar called The Stranger’s Club initially brought high cocktailing to Colón, but that’s for a different episode.
In the midst of WW2, the Japanese having just bombed Pearl Harbor, kicking off the Pacific theater of conflict, as the U.S. joined the Allied efforts cruise ships previously bound for the Caribbean were resigned to naval service as troop transports. And with the Panama Canal having been completed in 1914 they now had that easy passage to the Pacific that so harangued Morgan and Dampier. But, it took time to get all those ships through. So, during their wait where do you think all those rowdy servicemen went to unwind? That’s right, Colón. As war raged on the Canal Zone became an obvious point of defense which meant U.S. military was now permanently stationed there much to the providence of local bar owners, but the chagrin of Panamanians.
Over time the Americans overstayed their welcome and, fearing annexation the likes of what happened to Hawaii, Panamanian revolts against the American interlopers began to spring up. Finally, as geopolitics verged on the edge of another war, the U.S. ceded control and in 1979 the Canal Zone was abolished. However, a decade later, in 1989, while a nine year old little Tony was probably watching ninja turtle cartoons and drinking Crystal Pepsi,, the U.S. invaded Panama and held joint control over the canal till 1999 when total operations were transferred solely to Panama. As far as Colón today? Well, in the words of the Canadian government’s travel advisory website for, “Colón and some areas of Panama City - Exercise a high degree of caution.”
To dial in on today’s story we actually need to back up a bit to the gilded age of Gatsby. In 1920 people living in the Canal Zone were given a rude awakening. As a U.S. territory the Canal Zone was subject to the dreaded Volstead Act. Many bartenders and saloon keepers from the U.S. made their way through the Panama Canal to find work in the South Seas islands or Asia. In 1921, as Jeff Berry puts it in his wonderful book Potions of the Caribbean, Max Bilgray’s ship stopped in Colón where he stepped off to have a look and never got back on. Max Bilgray was one of the aforementioned saloon keepers fleeing prohibition. Outside of the Canal Zone, and therefore still very much in the drink, Colón was the perfect place for Max to set up shop and in 1924 he opened Bilgray’s Tropical Bar.
Bilgray’s quickly became the place to be. Portraits of half-naked women hung from dark wooden walls while the restaurant next door serviced patrons from all nations and walks of life. Politicians and high ranking officials drank beside canal workers and military men. There was even a barber so no one would have to stop drinking to get a shave. Max was sort of a Panamanian precursor to Donn Beach. He played the part in a trademark white suit, white shoes, and of course, a wide Panama hat. He would sit at a corner table nightly entertaining his personal guests, which grew to encompass some patrons, which over time grew to the point that waiters would have to drag over multiple tables to service the large party over which Max Bilgray held court. He was also known for his cool temperament, even as barroom brawls broke out around him, which they frequently did. He’s reported to have commented on the aftermath pointing to the cash register saying, “I don’t care as long as that typewriter keeps clicking.”
As an officer at the Canal Zone guard, a young Dwight D. Eisenhower used to cash his checks at Bilgray’s. Max was also known for lending money to patrons, but he was no pushover. He would tac IOU’s to wall and adamantly shame borrowers into paying their debts if he had to ask too many times.
Even after prohibition’s repeal Max’s reputation kept people spending their money at Bilgray’s. Including a now General Eisenhower. At the end of its 32 year run Bilgray’s Tropical Bar’s outstanding IOU’s amounted to $40,000. On the day Max sold the place he burned them all.
Another thing Max Bilgray and his bar was known for in his day were the drinks. Max took pride in his cocktails and took measures to separate them from the watered down rot-gut being tossed around in some seedier establishments. One of his creations just so happens to fit perfectly for this month of May. As I write this the Kentucky Derby was but a week ago and today, here in Nashville, TN, the Iroquois Steeplechase is being run. So, today we’re going to make Max Bilgray’s Derby Cocktail Tropicál. Let’s make a drink.
The Derby Cocktail Tropicál was created circa 1950 and is basically a Mint Julep with fruit juice. No, not basically, it is a Mint Julep with fruit juice. I know it's weird that we’re covering a riff before the actual real Mint Julep, but I wanted to keep it tropical since we’ve already covered a few non-Tiki drinks this year. But, don’t let the fact that it’s a spin-off deter you. The Derby is a very pleasant well balanced cocktail that shouldn’t be glanced over.
The ingredient list is pretty simple. We’ll need fresh lemon juice and unsweetened pineapple juice. As much as I prefer everything fresh squeezed, juicing pineapple is a pain in the ass without expensive kitchen equipment. The industry standard is those little cans of Dole. There are some cocktails where the cost/benefit analysis works in favor of fresh pineapple juice, like a good Pina Colada, but in this case, mixed with bourbon, Dole is quite good. Next we’ll need some raw cane sugar and of course - bourbon.
I like all kinds of bourbon for all different reasons, but, personally, Derby time and Mint Juleps are synonymous with Woodford Reserve. My wife turned me on to Woodford a few years ago and it’s quickly become a favorite. I find it to have a nice mellow oakiness without too much bite and a really good rich traditional bourbon flavor.
Besides the addition of fruit another area in which the Derby differs from a julep is in the Derby the mint is not muddled into the drink but expressed and bunched copiously as a utilitarian garnish. Also, as much as I love a metal julep cup this is a prodigious libation that requires a double rocks glass. Take heed on the quantity of bourbon. Here we go:
2 ½ oz Kentucky Bourbon
1 oz Unsweetened Pineapple Juice
¾ oz Fresh Lemon Juice
½ tsp Raw Cane Sugar
In a shaker dissolve sugar in lemon juice first. Add the other ingredients and shake with plenty of ice then strain into a double rocks glass filled with crushed ice. Pack that glass nice and full of ice. This adds to the julep feel and also helps in mollifying the effects of 2 ½ ounces of bourbon. Finally, take a large helping of mint like to cover the surface of the drink like tree canopy covers a forest floor, and express the oils by slapping the bushel in the palm of your hand. Slap it good, we really want to bring the scent of the mint oil out. Then, stick it in the drink. If there’s enough ice and enough stem on the sprigs it should stand up pretty good.
As the glass comes close to your face that cool minty freshness hits the olfactory senses preparing your palate for the first sip. A sip that comes with a unique amalgamation of tropical bourbon. It’s like Kentucky put on a Hawaiian shirt. The tropical hit first for me, with bourbon in the distance. Then it begins to catch up like that horse you should’ve bet on and create this new flavor that doesn’t sound like it’s supposed to work, but it fucking does. (Pardon my Panamanian.) The pineapple is subdued just so as not to be overpowering, which pineapple can do. The little bit of sugar and sour keep it together but the star here is really how nice bourbon and pineapple play together. Oaky, grainy, earthiness - vs - sweet, peppery, tang. The Derby Cocktail Tropicál is really well balanced and a quite wonderful drink. Regarding the 2 ½ oz of bourbon, let’s just say that after a few you might be riding a horse of a different color.
This cocktail will certainly add some tropical flavor to your next Derby party. In a way Derby parties share a sartorial link with Tiki. Both genres are partial to tawdry dress, big hats, and florid colors. Both are a form of escapism in a way. Unless you wear pastel searsucker suits and straw skimmer hats all the time. Actually, now that I think about it I do wear Hawaiian shirts and Panama hats all the time. So, it’s not out of the question. Lastly, both have their own signature cocktail cultures.
This unlikely coupling of Kentucky with the tropics comes together to make something great. Sometimes these mash-ups work. Sometimes, in the words of Offspring “you gotta keep ‘em separated!” Sort of like how the Panama Canal keeps the Caribbean and South Seas from smashing together and opening up the cosmic portal to paradise where Jimmy Buffett and Braddah IZ are hanging out with Captain Morgan, and Max Bilgray is giving Dampier a proper guacamole recipe.
The Canal Zone may not be a place we think of for Tropical excursions, but as the convergence of the two most prevalent sources of Tiki culture it is the liminal space where the Venn diagram of Caribbean and Polynesian overlap. A physical representation to support the notion. Max Bilgray went to Panama in 1921 to escape Prohibition. A decade later, the day after Prohibition was repealed, another young saloon keeper would use this notion of Caribbean and Polynesian converging to create a cultural phenomenon of his own. But in order to get Don the Beachcomber’s we first needed Bilgray’s Tropical Bar.
Sources: Potions of the Caribbean by Jeff ‘Beachbum’ Berry, wikipedia, Classicimages.com - 1719 Chatelain Antique Map of Panama, Flora & Fauna of Australia by William Dampier, Britannica.com, atlasobscura.com
Berry goes on to much more depth on the canal zone and its bar scene. Please read his book for much more on the subject.
My name is Tony, this is Pod Tiki. Keepi Tiki!