Genuine maraschino cherries at Cask

As I've discovered previously about Curaçao, there are often deep and fascinating stories behind ingredients that we could easily take for granted. And the modern world of food production has made it very easy to live and enjoy food without ever knowing that a complex, mysterious and often superior product, long forgotten by all but connoisseurs, is still being made someplace in the world.

I discovered the latest example of this phenomenon during a trip to Cask in San Francisco, where I found the original maraschino cherry. To call Cask a liquor store would be a great understatement, and would ignore the passion for mixology that compelled the owners to open the place. The owners also operate Bourbon and Branch, a mixological chapel just a few blocks away. Cask has an encyclopedic collection of booze, all displayed on rough-hewn wood shelves and dimly lit to give it a Jules Verne steampunk feel. Bourbon, gin, super-obscure liqueurs and amaro, antique cocktail recipe books behind glass, and all of the equipment needed to recreate Alembic or Bourbon and Branch in your own home. Somehow, in this place, a waxed mustache and a cocktail thickened with egg whites both seem like perfectly sensible ideas.

It was in the back, near the collection of strainers and mixing tools, that I spotted the jar. Luxardo Marasche candied cherries from Italy, with a little cloth covering on the lid and an antique-style label. These delicious and fragrant little gems were formerly only available in this form, and were treasured by cocktail and dessert aficionados around the world in the 19th century. Enterprising Americans in the 20th century figured out a way to approximate the flavor using Washington cherries and questionably bright red sugar syrup, and suddenly, the formerly expensive luxury was suitably affordable to adorn ice cream sundaes, Shirley Temples, and Jello-mold desserts.

I had never tasted the real deal until yesterday. The cherries are absolutely black, and without the thick fruit aroma to give away the secret, I'd have mistaken them for kalamata olives. Their syrup is purply-red, and almost opaque. It's immediately clear that my previous notions of maraschino cherries were based on a cartoon-colored facsimile of this original.

At $16 a jar, these will remain the luxury item that they were a couple of centuries ago. But it's fascinating to taste them, because they're so much more complex than the 'standard' variety. It's like switching from a tinny AM radio to a live concert - the basic idea is the same, but the soul is in the real thing.