Rum enthusiasts have a new obsession.
Among aficionados of craft spirits, the obsessive quest for the “authentic,” “pure” and “rustic” intensifies with each passing year. Not too long ago, rhum agricole from Martinique or Guadeloupe — a rum distilled from the juice of fresh-cut sugar cane, following strict rules enforced by an “appellation d’origine contrôlée” in France — might have satisfied those nebulous ideals.
Most rum in the Caribbean is made from molasses, the byproduct of refining sugar cane. By definition, molasses-based rums are more processed than those made from fresh sugar cane. So it makes sense that a rhum agricole, with its grassy, smoky, funky notes, would seem more “pure.” Many enthusiasts consider these to be the world’s finest expressions of rum.
But over the past several months, an unaged rum from Haiti called clairin, also made from fresh-pressed sugar cane juice, began popping up on cocktail menus. Clairin certainly ticks all the romantic boxes. Authentic? Clairin is distilled in remote Haitian villages, often by homemade stills in the same way it has since the 19th century. Pure? Clairin is made from native, sometimes wild, sugar cane varieties that have been lost elsewhere in the Caribbean. Rustic? The raw ingredient is usually transported on horseback and often crushed by the power of oxen.
“This is the rum of the past. This is the taste of two centuries ago,” Daniele Biondi, who works for the importer La Maison & Velier, said on a recent afternoon at the bar Amor y
Amargo in New York City. La Maison & Velier is a FrenchItalian partnership headed by the Italian rum importer Luca Gargano, who encountered clairin on a visit to Haiti in 2012.
Biondi poured three expressions of clairin, each bottle named for the distiller (Clairin Casimir or Clairin Vaval), listing the village, the variety of sugar cane (such as Hawaii or Madame Meuze) and noting that it’s spontaneously fermented with wild yeast.
“Pure sugar cane juice rum is always a bit more sophisticated,” Biondi said. “Molasses is just not a complex raw material.” These were fiery, spicy, edgy rums, all clocking in at more than 96 proof.
“They’re funky and unique and cross a lot of different categories,” said Sother Teague, Amor y Amargo’s beverage director, from behind the bar. “Funky like Jamaican rum, grassy like rhum agricole, earthy like mezcal.”
Biondi enjoyed the mention of mezcal. “We always make the comparison with mezcal,” he said. “Comparing clairin with rhum agricole is like comparing mezcal with tequila.”
For several years, craft mezcal — made from wild agave, cooked under the earth and distilled once in small batches — has been the darling mark of authenticity for the cocktail crowd. Producers of other spirits have sought to duplicate its credibility and success. Call it the mezcal-ification of spirits. But how much does this really help American consumers understand an unfamiliar liquor?
“There’s a real desperation for lots of these spirits to say they’re the ‘mezcal’ of whatever because of economic success,” said Bobby Heugel, the owner of several high-profile bars in Houston, including Anvil Bar & Refuge and the Pastry War, that have extensive mezcal and rum lists.
One group, unsurprisingly, has not appreciated La Maison & Velier’s sales pitch as the mezcal of rum: those who produce and import Martinique rhum agricole. “I’ve had more questions about clairin lately than anything else. It’s more confusion, more noise,” said Ed Hamilton, whose company Caribbean Spirits imports Neisson, La Favorite and Duquesne rhum agricole.
Ben Jones, the owner of Spiribam, which imports Rhum Clément and Rhum JM from Martinique, thinks this “clairin wildfire” is good publicity for all pure sugar cane rums. “But all of a sudden, we’re cast as Jose Cuervo or Patrón?” he said. “It’s like, chill out, bro. When someone says the best rum in the world has to come from a still made from car parts, or the sugar cane has to be delivered by an animal, that’s just counterproductive.”
The whole notion of pure sugar cane rum is a relatively new concept for Americans. Both Jones and Hamilton introduced their rhum agricoles from Martinique to the United States in 2005. “I’d have people ask me if I’d spell-checked my label because I’d left an ‘h’ in the word rhum,” Jones said.
Martin Cate, the rum expert and author of “Smuggler’s Cove: Exotic Cocktails, Rum, and the Cult of Tiki,” now has 46 Martinique rhum agricoles and 26 Guadeloupe rhum agricoles on the menu at Smuggler’s Cove, his popular tiki bar in San Francisco. At his bars, Cate steers drinkers who like the grassy notes of tequila or the vegetal notes of Scotch toward rhum agricole. Cate says that both rhum agricole and clairin provide what he calls “an authentic experience of terroir.”
“It’s hard not to be drawn to the authenticity of these projects,” he said. “There’s a real passion for products that are out of the grasp of large industrial companies.” But Cate acknowledges that modern craft bartenders have “asbestos palates, and they want to be shocked,” and are therefore inevitably drawn to spirits like clairin.
Teague, for instance, is already trying to develop cocktails with clairin for Amor y Amargo and the neighboring bar, Cienfuegos. “The overwhelming majority of my job is talking to people and getting them to drink new things,” he said. “With clairin, there’s definitely something new to talk about.”