Curaçao Doesn't Have The Blues

Every bar has a bottle of it somewhere. This eerily cobalt liquid stands alone in the lineup of amber and caramel-colored liquors on the shelf above the cash register, and no one would likely notice if it disappeared.

It floats on the top of skinny shot glasses, served on plastic trays in the wee hours at sticky-floored sports bars, and stains the pineapple wedge on the rim of tacky tiki drinks.

Yet the most cocktail-savvy booze enthusiast would be challenged to discern a cheap brand from the top shelf variety, and few bargoers could tell you what this stuff is made from. Or why it so closely resembles window cleaner. Or what it would taste like on its own, as anything more than food coloring for a fruity rum drink.

But surprisingly, this ill-acknowledged little liqueur has an illustrious story, and has contributed to the success of another famous liqueur to which fame has been much more friendly.

Curaçao, or as it's known in its most common variety, Blue Curaçao, has fully avoided the recent passing limelight of interest that has seen revivals of rye whisky, pre-prohibition cocktail recipes, flavored bitters, and even more mundane ingredients like tonic water and ice. It's no wonder, though - the glowing blue hue that invoked warm Caribbean waters and gave it a marketing boost in the mid 20th century has severely limited its upward reputational mobility in this age of appreciation for authenticity, craft and heritage. We consumers would be just as likely to get excited about Sharkleberry Fin Kool-Aid.

A very old Curaçao label

But a couple of months ago, I visited Curaçao, about 30 miles north of Venezuela, and I tracked down the deeper story of this citrus liqueur. The tale of its descent from regional hand-crafted specialty into mass market commodity comes with a glimmer of hope for a future revival, as I discovered at a distillery in Chobolobo Mansion on the tiny island in the Netherlands Antilles.

A little background first - it's all the fault of the Dutch. More specifically, the Dutch company Bols, a respectable producer (at least in the European market) of genever gins and other specialty liqueurs, can be credited both for the worldwide popularity of the Curaçao liqueur and for its cheapened reputation. In the late 19th century, Dutch consumers became aware of a certain bitter orange liqueur being made on their colonial possession of Curaçao. Seizing upon the opportunity to leverage pre-existing consumer awareness, Bols decided to craft their own domestic Dutch version. The name Curaçao went on its label, the resources of a large distiller went into its production and distribution, and, in an attempt to recapture memories of the deep blue Leeward Antilles waters, the clear citrus copycat was given a dark bolt of blue food dye.

Their marketing acumen proved to be insightful, and popularity of Bols' version of Curaçao spread throughout the world. Dutch De Kuypers also got into the game, and in 1934 opened a licensed distillery in New Jersey to supply the American market with countless flavored liqueurs.

By the time of the 1950s obsession with all things Polynesian, Curaçao's vaguely island image was close enough, and a perfect candidate to add color to midcentury cocktail recipes. Trader Vic and countless trendsetting American socialites embraced the stuff, counting it among their shiny new Hamilton Beach blender, paper umbrellas and bamboo torches as an essential asset for a swingin' tiki bash.

All the while, though, on the island of Curaçao, the relatively hapless originators of the liqueur were still trickling out small quantities of the real stuff, in the same way since the mid 1800s. Behind the mustard-yellow stucco walls of Chobolobo Mansion, owned and operated by the Senior family, is a battered copper still and an entirely manual production line, where corks are hammered into bottles by hand, fifteen feet from the cashier in the gift shop. I visited on a hot August day, when the warm West Indies air permeated the old building, and a friendly grove of laraha trees shaded the courtyard.

Filling and corking by hand

It's no surprise that the Senior brand is little-known, because business is conducted without any of the vigorous marketing zeal so well known among other makers of distilled products. I was kindly informed a few minutes into my first visit, just before noon, that I would need to leave, and to return after 1pm after the staff had eaten their lunch. The heavy wooden doors were bolted shut after I left, and I had to return later to finish my tour of the grounds. This curious customer experience gave me a good indication of the laid-back priorities at Senior that have ensured their product has remained obscure.

But the product is legitimate. Those laraha trees are the essence of Curaçao, and two large plantations on the eastern side of the island supply the distillery with dried peels for making the extract from which Curaçao is made.

A bucket of larahas on Curaçao

In pre-Dutch days, when the Spanish ruled the island in the early 1500s, several prized Valencia orange trees were transported to the colony, in hopes that a New World citrus crop could be cultivated. The Spaniards were disappointed to discover that Curaçao's dry climate and unsuitable soil produced shriveled, bitter fruit, and the project was quickly abandoned. The trees, called laraha to distinguish them from their Valencia predecessors, remained on the island, and the trees grew wild, proving useless as food for anyone but the island's many goats.

By the 19th century, industrious residents of Curaçao had begun experimenting, as people have done with almost every sugar-bearing fruit on earth, with making an alcoholic beverage from these peculiar fruits. Eduoard Cointreau came to Curaçao during this time, and returned to France to experiment with the essential oils as he was perfecting a little thing called Cointreau.

The Senior family got into the Curaçao game in 1896, and retains the oldest existing claim on the true heritage of Curaçao liqueur. Today, in an uncharacteristic nod to public demand, they'll sell you genuine Senior Curaçao of Curaçao in a rainbow of colors, from blue to red, green and orange, although they're quick to assure that the colorings used are naturally-derived.

The island's other big industry is petroleum, which provides useful equipment for the distillation operation

The flavor is sweet and bright, with a faint twinge of bitterness. I saw several cocktails being served on Curaçao featuring the liqueur as the main ingredient, but its character is still best appreciated as an accompaniment to a rum base. Sadly, many of Curaçao's bars are staffed by itinerant Dutch teenagers, with far more passion for drinking Amstel Bright on the beach during their off-hours than for crafting a well-made cocktail. As a result, many bars on the island use cheap Bols Curaçao and American-market fruit mixers in aseptic boxes for their placeless mixed drinks, when just a few cobblestoned streets away in Willemstad, the real thing is being made.

A vintage advertisement for Curaçao in the on-site museum, with the Willemstad moving bridge in the background

Even in its birthplace, Curaçao of Curaçao is waiting, perhaps a little too patiently, for its comeuppance in the global consciousness. In the meantime, I'm happy to have my bottle, in the original clear variety, and am pleased to discover that just a couple of years ago, real Curaçao of Curaçao finally became available as an import to the United States. Personally, I find it works just as well as Cointreau in a top-shelf margarita, but the possibilities for showcasing this unique spirit are broad. With luck, we'll soon see the mixological limelight fall upon Curaçao, and enjoy a renewed appreciation for this authentic spirit.