Branca that is…I worked lunches in the Upper East Side for a time and close to the restaurant there was this Cookbook store. This is during the days when I actually gave a shit about eating out. I had money, time, and was surrounded by all sorts of ways to get rid of both. I wined, I dined, I bought clothes and shoes, took nice vacations. It was the first time in my life I had any taste of money. I had been in undergrad and grad school for years and lived a frugal life, so when it came time to treat myself to nice things, I did. For me, the lavish life wasn’t about cars and chicks, it was about experiencing new cultures in other countries and eating in all the cool restaurants New York had to offer. I also liked to cook at home and this curiosity led me into the minds of famous chefs across the world. After work, I would stroll to the store, Kitchen Arts & Letters, and peruse. I had many books, why not add even more to my sagging shelves?

My current obsession was offal. I made a mean headcheese every Thanksgiving, purchased the hog’s head down at the Union Square farmers market on special order. One of my favorite restaurants was the Kabab Cafe in Astoria, Queens, a twelve seat place featured on Bourdain’s No Reservations show. The owner and chef, Ali El Sayed, was this massive Egyptian dude, with an even bigger smile, and a little toque on his head.

There was no menu, no waiter. My kind of place. Ali would tell you what he had and you chose. After your selection, he would get to work making the dishes. He prepped it all to order, chopped the onions, etc. I loved all of this. We got to know each other well because I went once a week and he while he cooked, he told me stories of his life growing up in Egypt and all the places he lived before moving to the United States.

His brother owned a joint a few blocks south, I went in there once but the food wasn’t as good.

Ali cooked northern style Egyptian, whatever that meant. I didn’t know shit from shinola. There was piping hot pita, good, fresh, fluffy, served with foul (pronounced “fool”) a condiment made with fava beans, garlic, cumin, chili pepper, lemon juice, olive oil, and tahini. It got to the point where I would go in on a rainy day and would be the only person in there and Ali would cook, he stopped asking me what I wanted because I ate everything, and the two of us would sit and eat together.

He introduced me to the real McCoys of offal, not just liver pate, sweetbreads, and such being served in restaurants but weird shit like lamb’s cheeks, kidneys, goat’s brains, and bull testicles. Whatever it was, I was game. He had all sorts of odd ingredients at his disposal, a delicious hot sauce made with seven types of chilis, preserved lemon, pomegranate molasses, and something called dukka which chef’s began to use a lot in the late aughts and early tens.

To make a long story short, this is how I was led to a man named Fergus Henderson, a chef in London, England. He was and still is a legend in the game of offal. I was interested and so went and bought his cookbook, The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Cooking. In the very back of the book there is a recipe for a hangover cure:

Fernet Branca? Hmm. Never heard of it. Luckily, on the same block across the street was a great liquor store I frequented. The next day I stopped in and asked the proprietor about it.

“Fernet Branca? Yes, yes. I have a few bottles up here somewhere.” He went up a ladder, rummaged a bit and came down with a dusty bottle.

“Does anyone ever buy it?”

“There is an old Italian woman who comes by once a month. She has a teaspoon a day after dinner. She’s 96.”

“What is it?”

“No idea.”

I took it home, opened it when I arrived, poured a swig into a glass and drank it down.

My first blast of Fernet would be best described as intense medicine made with dirt. Foul. Very bitter. A touch of sweetness and an overpowering finish of concentrated mint and other herbs. Not pleasant.

I didn’t own any creme de menthe but had a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. I threw some ice in a glass and added the Irish staple with an equal measure of Fernet. A little better. Not bad at all. The cream helped to nullify the medicinal quality and mellowed out the harsh aftertaste. I had a couple more and was in a pretty good mood. I put the Bailey’s back into the fridge and the Fernet in the cupboard.

The bottle remained behind closed doors and when I moved from New York to Boston, it did not come with me. It was forgotten.

My last year in Boston I worked with a legendary bartender, Scott Schoer, a clown prince and master of the craft. A strange version of myself, a kindred spirit devised in an alternate timeline. My first shift there, he pulled out a bottle of Fernet and poured us two shots as we were cleaning up.

“Fernet? No way, dude.”

“You’re taking a fucking shot with me and that’s all there is to say about it,” he said. “You’re also taking at least two or three more.”

I choked down the first one, tears coming to my eyes. Scott laughed.

“You’re going to have to get used to it. We drink several bottles of this shit a week.”

I never did. Even today when the rare time comes to force down a shot of the dark, oily substance I receive the same shivers I did when I first tasted it.

Ok, so after all of this…What the hell is Fernet? Well, it is in the classification of Amaro (Amari plural) which means “bitter” in Italian. Also a digestivo, meaning it is supposed to help you digest after a meal. All fernet are amari but not all amari are fernet. Make sense? It is a distinction that separates it form the catagory. A fernet will be a higher proof, less sweet, more bitter form of an amaro like let’s say, Averna which is more balanced, pleasant, and palatable. The Branca version is made in Milan and is heavily consumed in Buenos Aires and San Francisco.

Your AI generated image for this post, #447, 8/18/26