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Italy’s mystery liqueur

While some companies are completely transparent about the ingredients in their products, hoping to snag customers looking for the healthiest option, in some cases the secret of a product’s makeup is not only closely guarded, but promoted as a key part of its allure. Mysteries can be a great advertising gimmick.

The proprietors of Antoine’s restaurant in New Orleans were clearly operating from this idea when they created their famous recipe for Oysters Rockefeller; although it has been widely speculated upon, this recipe has remained a secret since it was first developed in 1899. Having sampled Oysters Rockefeller at Antoine’s, I would say that I greatly enjoyed their taste, but I got more enjoyment out of trying to guess the elements of the recipe.

This same type of marketing is at work in the promotion of Dr Pepper soda. The only information given by the manufacturer is that it contains 23 flavors; it’s up to customers to draw their own conclusions about what those flavors are. Ditto for Coca Cola’s secret recipe and the “11 herbs and spices” in Kentucky Fried Chicken. In a similar vein, the makers of one of Italy’s best-known liqueurs, Fernet-Branca, prefer to keep the composition of their product top secret, but rumors about what it may contain are certainly tantalizing.

Saffron So Good

Fernet-Branca is a type of bitters, a spirit made from different herbs, plants, and roots that supposedly aids digestion and stimulates the appetite. Other types of bitters include Campari, Angostura bitters, and orange bitters. While the complete list of 40 herbs and spices that go into Fernet-Branca has never been made public, some of its ingredients are common knowledge, and include myrrh, chamomile, cardamom, aloe, and saffron, as well as its base component of grape alcohol.

Saffron in particular seems to be an important ingredient; this rare spice, harvested from the saffron crocus flower, is the world’s most expensive spice by weight. According to an article about Fernet-Branca that appeared in a San Francisco newspaper, the company that produces Fernet-Branca, Fratelli Branca, is the largest consumer of saffron in the world, claiming 75% of worldwide output.

As far as the other ingredients are concerned, there is wide speculation about what these may be. A few of the rumored mystery elements include: rhubarb, cinchona bark from South America (known for its anti-malarial properties), gentian root (a powerful medicinal herb), wormwood (used in absinthe), bay leaves, sage, peppermint oil, and the ginger-like spices galanga and zedoary.

Medicinal Compound

With all these medicinal ingredients, it is not surprising that Fernet-Branca was first developed as a health elixir. The creator of the formula, Bernardino Branca, was a self-taught apothecary in Milan, who first offered Fernet-Branca to the public in 1845. Marketing his product as a tonic to cure many kinds of illness, Branca even persuaded the director of a local hospital of its curative benefits.

Even today, Fernet-Branca is known for its ability to calm upset stomachs and soothe hangover misery. If earlier marketing pitches for the spirit are to be believed, it can also cure cholera and ease menstrual cramp pain. The health-enhancing nature of Fernet-Branca proved handy during Prohibition in the United States. Since it was considered a medicinal product, pharmacies could import and sell Fernet-Branca without interference from the government.

Where Everybody Knows Its Name

Although Fernet-Branca is made by an Italian company, Italy is not the largest consumer of this liqueur. In fact, there are two other places in the world known for their prodigious consumption of the bitter quaff. These two places are San Francisco, California, and the country of Argentina.

San Francisco is the biggest consumer of Fernet-Branca in the United States, and has the highest per capita consumption of it in the world. Its popularity in the city may be partially attributed to San Francisco’s large Italian-American community, centered around the commercial district of North Beach. Whatever the reason, San Franciscans drink Fernet-Branca in large quantities, usually followed by a chaser of ginger ale.

Argentina also has a large Italian population and a similar thirst for Fernet-Branca. There is even a popular song that celebrates the joys of “Fernet Con Coca,” or Fernet mixed with cola, the usual way it is prepared in Argentina. In fact, the only other distillery of Fernet-Branca located outside Milan is in Argentina.

Above and beyond its regional popularity, Fernet-Branca has made a mark on pop culture as well. When mention of Fernet-Branca comes up, fans of Christopher Nolan’s film The Dark Knight Rises will no doubt be put in mind of Alfred’s memorable references to the drink in the film. On the literary side, James Hamilton-Paterson’s novel Cooking with Fernet Branca, a humorous look at life in Tuscany, was long- listed for the prestigious Booker Prize.

A Matter of Taste

After living in San Francisco for quite some time and feeling ashamed that I had never enjoyed this quintessential San Francisco experience, years ago I tried my first shot of Fernet-Branca. Unsure of what to expect, and slightly put off by the strong pine scent I registered, I closed my eyes and gulped it down.

The intense menthol-like sensation caused me to cough, and I didn’t enjoy the bitter aftertaste the drink created, but soon after finishing it, I began to feel a bit better. I can’t say whether or not I gained any health benefits from drinking the Fernet-Branca, but the next time I experience an upset stomach I will have to try another shot of it, for purely medicinal purposes of course.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on October 16, 2006.

Image credit: Jesús Dehesa [CC BY-ND 2.0], via Flickr

Whether you opt for the quite mild Tabasco sauce, the “hey-I’m-a-trendy-hipster” Sriracha, or something considerably higher on the Scoville scale, today—National Hot Sauce Day—is the day to add a liquid capsaicin solution to your favorite foods. Pro tip: plain white rice and white milk are much, much better for soothing that “Holy frak my hair is on fire!” feeling than water. (In sufficient quantities, tequila is also reputed to work, although the side effects might not be to your liking.)

Image credit: Kaldari [CC0], from Wikimedia Commons

Heat under the street

There are a bunch of little facts that I sort of half-learned in elementary school, and only those that came with terrific mnemonics have managed to stick. I remember the terms “Dromedary” and “Bactrian,” for example, because a D has one hump (like a one-hump Dromedary camel) and a B has two (like a two-hump Bactrian camel). But I never acquired a similar method for remembering cloud types—cirrus, cumulus, nimbus—I know the names but I forget which is which. And then there’s coal. I vividly recall learning about anthracite, bituminous, and lignite coal as a child in Pennsylvania, a state legendary for its coal production. But which type had which properties or uses? It’s all a blur now. Since I did not pursue an education or profession in which this knowledge was needed, my brain apparently decided to delete those records to make space for really important information, such as Star Trek trivia.

I do remember, though, that when I was quite young my father took me to a coal mine that offered tours to the public. I thought it was absolutely the coolest thing ever. Getting to ride in that train down into the dark tunnels, seeing all that amazing machinery, and imagining the life of a miner was exciting and mysterious. I’ve always had a fondness for caverns and tunnels—maybe that’s where it all started.

As an adult living in California, I rarely think about coal mines. I do, however, think about wildfires and forest fires, especially in the dry months of late summer. Everyone understands that these things just happen—due sometimes to natural causes, sometimes human causes (accidental or intentional). And when they occur, vast firefighting resources are unleashed to contain the fires in order to minimize the risk to homes and businesses. After all, they pose an imminent threat, plain for all to see (and smell). Of course they have to be stopped.

But Pennsylvania has the distinction of being home to the largest number of underground coal fires in the United States. And further, that some of these fires have been burning continuously for upwards of 40 years; that they’ve obliterated entire towns; that they vent an unimaginable amount of carbon dioxide and other gases into the already overburdened atmosphere; and that, for the most part, very little is being done about them. All these facts astonish and disturb me, but none more than the very possibility of the fires’ existence. How can a fire rage underground for decades or even centuries? The answer: very easily.

Fire in the Hole

Picture an abandoned coal mine—there are thousands of them in Pennsylvania. Although much of the coal has been removed, plenty still remains—perhaps just not in a configuration that’s easily extractable. Miles of tunnels, their ceilings shored up with columns of unexcavated coal, lie empty. Though the entrance to the mine may have been sealed, that seal was by no means complete or airtight. And suppose some of the coal lies very close to the surface—or is even visible in an exposed seam. Now something happens to ignite the coal. It may be a natural cause—lightning, for instance, or even spontaneous combustion given the right conditions. Or maybe a forest fire, or someone burning garbage.

Once the coal begins burning, it feeds off the air in the tunnels and the ventilation shafts that were used to supply air to the miners. Still more air seeps through natural cracks in the rock. Coal burns easily, requiring only a tiny amount of oxygen—and with millions of tons of fuel handy, it soon spreads beyond the existing tunnels and into the thick strata of coal that lie under immense tracts of land. When enough of the coal burns through, the ground above it collapses—an effect known as subsidence. The newly formed cracks or pits allow more air in, accelerating the fire’s spread. Meanwhile, carbon dioxide, smoke, and steam escape, killing plants and making the area’s air unsafe for humans and wildlife.

Our State Insect: The Firefly (no kidding)

No one can say for sure how many such fires currently rage in Pennsylvania, but the number is unquestionably in the dozens. The number is hard to pin down because coal fires that seem to be out can smolder at low temperatures for years and then flare up again; the process of checking to see whether they’re still going carries with it the risk of making matters worse by adding more air.

The largest and most infamous of Pennsylvania’s coal fires is under the town of Centralia. It started in 1962, apparently due to someone burning garbage in the town dump. For decades, a combination of bureaucratic delays, funding shortages, and ineffective containment efforts permitted the fire to grow to the point that the entire town (formerly home to 1,100 people) was condemned and basically shut down. A handful of residents remain, despite repeated government orders to evacuate. They enjoy peace and quiet for the most part, but worry about the ongoing threats of subsidence, toxic fumes, and careless tourists injuring themselves.

Down and Out

Underground coal fires are notoriously difficult to extinguish. If it were a simple matter of pumping water (or some other substance) into the old mine tunnels to suffocate the fire, they would have been out long ago. Part of the problem is simply getting to the spots that are on fire; another part is pushing out all the oxygen, given the porous nature of the coal and the rock in which it’s embedded. And then there’s the scale: the volume of underground space affected by the fire is immense (and growing all the time). Conservative estimates put the cost of containing (not extinguishing) the Centralia fire alone at well over half a billion dollars. And, of course, that’s just one fire—there’s always another. Since that sort of money is nowhere to be found, officials throw up their hands and say, “We’ll just let it burn out.” How long will that take? Experts think there’s enough coal to keep it going for another 250 years.

Pennsylvania is by no means the only place with unquenchable underground coal fires. Similar fires burn in other parts of the United States, as well as China, India, Indonesia, and elsewhere around the world. Under Australia’s Burning Mountain Nature Preserve is a coal fire that has been burning for at least 2,000 years, and possibly as long as 5,500 years. In all, there may be hundreds of thousands of active coal fires, and only in rare cases are any serious efforts being made to stop them.

By some estimates, coal fires are a bigger contributor to global warming than cars—a truly staggering thought. Although fighting them is difficult and expensive, very little money has been spent looking for technological solutions. And one of the biggest reasons is simply that the fires are, for the most part, invisible. While a California wildfire may be an obvious threat requiring immediate action, it’s hard to convince governments to put money into solving a problem that can’t be seen—especially when it’s relatively cheap simply to relocate residents and put up fences and warning signs.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on October 23, 2004.

Image credit: James St. John [CC BY 2.0], via Flickr

As everyone knows, a chowder is a thick, cream-or milk-based soup, often containing potatoes along with other vegetables and, usually, some type of seafood. I’ve made some delicious corn chowder, but clam chowder has always been my favorite. Except…one time I ordered the thing called “clam chowder” and got a bowl of red liquid with tomato chunks, some vegetables and a few pieces of clam. That was what people call “Manhattan clam chowder” which is right up there with Welsh rabbit in the list of foods whose names contradict their ingredients (or vice versa). Although I personally find “Manhattan clam chowder” inedible, anyone who wants to consume that particular combination of foodstuffs has my blessing—just don’t call it “chowder,” for crying out loud. Today, lovers of real clam chowder—that is, New England clam chowder for those who want to be sure they don’t get the wrong thing, or just “clam chowder” to any reasonable citizen—get to celebrate their rightness.

Image credit: Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The incredible shrinking southern continent

As an American, I’ve always been accustomed to clearly defined state, national, and continental boundaries. The border between Canada and the United States, for example, may be an arbitrary line of latitude, but we all know exactly where it is—what’s in, and what’s out. We know exactly where North America stops and Central America starts; we also know when we’ve reached the easternmost or westernmost edge of the continent because we run into an ocean. Sure, there’s the odd island off the coast here or there, but conceptually, these cause no problems for my notion of what a continent is.

The map of South America, though, has always offended my sense of geographical tidiness. At the southern end of the continent, the land sort of swoops out to the east—but wait, that last big chunk is actually an island. Is that part of the continent? And what about the bazillions of smaller islands littering the coastline to the south and west? If I’m on one of those islands, am I on the continent or not? The geological answer is yes—I’m on the same continental plate. The political answer is also yes—any given spot of any given island is uncontroversially under the control of either Chile or Argentina. But to the average person on the street (or boat, as the case may be), these boundaries are neither visible nor intuitive. Today, we can get the answers to such questions from highly accurate maps. Hundreds of years ago, though, the answers were far less obvious. Speculation about continental boundaries led to some fanciful maps, tall tales, and grand adventures.

What Goes Around

I was standing in a museum in a town on Tierra del Fuego—a name given to the entire archipelago of little islands at the tip of South America as well as to its largest island, which is known more properly as Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego. (For other articles I’ve written here about Tierra del Fuego, see Ushuaia, Extinction of the Yámana, and Pan del Indio.) On the wall was a map from the 16th century showing the landmass we know today as South America extending all the way south to connect with a vast southern continent much larger than Antarctica. In other words: an unbroken stretch of land all the way from pole to pole. This hypothetical continent, which also encompassed Australia, had a detailed imaginary coastline that was represented as being accurate, even though no cartographer had come anywhere near it. Europeans at the time referred to this continent as Terra Incognita (the Unknown Land)—or Terra Australis (the Southern Land). In the 4th century BCE, Aristotle had advanced the idea that a great southern continent must exist, because without it the world would be top-heavy. This view was later expanded on and popularized by Greek geographer Ptolemy in the 2nd century CE. But as of the early 16th century, no European had actually seen this land.

In 1520, Ferdinand Magellan became the first European explorer to discover a sea route from the Atlantic ocean to the waters west of South America, to which he gave the unfortunate name “Pacific ocean.” But as he was passing through what came to be called the Strait of Magellan, with South America clearly on his right, Magellan could also see land to his left. When he realized the channel went all the way through, he drew what was for him the logical conclusion: that land he’d seen to the south must be the tip of the great southern continent. He gave it the name Tierra del Fuego (“land of fire”) upon seeing the smoke rising from numerous fires built by the land’s inhabitants. This name, of course, suited the continent’s popular image as a mysterious and forbidding place. And Magellan’s discovery—apparently the first proof of the existence of Terra Australis—required only minor modifications to the maps of the time.

Down and Out

It was not until 1578 that Francis Drake, in an attempt to circumnavigate the globe, discovered the truth about Tierra del Fuego. Drake sailed through the Strait of Magellan, but his ship was blown south by a storm; he soon found himself rounding the tip of a large island chain. Now there was another way to get between the oceans—the Drake Passage. Although Drake did not sail all the way to Antarctica, he again drew the logical conclusion that it must be down there somewhere—as in fact, by chance, it was. Shortly thereafter, in 1616, Cape Horn—at the tip of Horn Island—was identified as the southernmost point of land that could be construed as part of South America. In the 18th century, captain James Cook discovered the location of Australia—and that it, too, was not the imagined southern continent, its new name notwithstanding. Only in the early 19th century did explorers first set foot on Antarctica and begin to correct the old maps once and for all.

All of the foregoing is, I’m sure, familiar to anyone who (unlike me) actually paid attention in history and geography classes. But it was a revelation to me, looking at an old map in a museum, that assumptions about the nature of the world—unsubstantiated though they were—could have led to such startling errors, such blatant (if well-meaning) fabrications, and so many years during which myths were misrepresented as fact. True or not, deeply ingrained beliefs die hard. If you never thought you could learn anything from history, keep this little lesson in mind as you read today’s news.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on February 22, 2005.

Image credit: NASA [Public Domain]