Somewhere in the past century, American apple brandy came to be seen as the gap-toothed, barefoot country cousin of a more refined French apple brandy, called Calvados, which projected a more lace collar and cravat sensibility. French Calvados follows certain strictures—two weeks of fermentation, six months sitting on the lees to enhance flavors, distillation in alembic stills. American brandy makers could employ a variety of production methods—and then tweak the final result by adding small amounts of non-brandy sweeteners and coloring agents. Further adding to the confusion, apple-flavored, sweetened liqueurs made their way on to shelves at some point. Some of these had “apple” on the label even though they hadn’t come within a hundred miles of an orchard.
But actual American apple brandy, made from actual American apples—sometimes called “applejack”—is among the nation’s foundational spirits. (While under TTB regulation apple brandy and applejack are interchangeable, in some regions applejack still refers to an apple spirit made though freeze distillation.) In the colonies and early republic, it could be found pretty much anywhere one found apple trees, which meant pretty much everywhere except the deep South and upper plains.
The grandfather of apple brandy is, without doubt, Laird & Co., which was founded in 1780 in New Jersey and has been producing brandy from apples ever since. I recently rang up Lisa Laird Dunn, vice president at Laird & Co. and ninth-generation descendent of the founder, to ask how she thought the apple brandy category had evolved over the past decade. I was met with a long silence, followed by a loud laugh. “Well, now there is a category,” she said. “That’s the big news. We were it for a very long time.”
While that’s not precisely true—Germain-Robin started making an excellent version in California in 1991—it is remarkable how much extraordinary apple brandy is newly available these days, especially given the depths to which it once sank. At its peak, Laird’s had three distilleries. That fell to just one, in Virginia, during the 1970s, and even that had to shutter for a decade because their existing inventory more than satisfied anemic market demand.
Today, apple brandy is back in the good graces of bartenders and home enthusiasts, with numerous craft distillers entering the field.
Why the resurgence? Several reasons: Applejack’s rediscovery rose in tandem with the cider renaissance, which has introduced a new generation of drinkers to the complex flavors of heirloom apples. Some 7,000 varieties grow around the world, and experimenting with heirlooms yields intriguingly different flavor profiles. While Laird’s uses apples familiar to anyone who’s been in a supermarket lately (think Gala, Fiji, Braeburn), many of the new upstarts making apple brandy, like High Wire in South Carolina, specialize in heirloom varieties. Many others emphasize the hyper-local, such as Vermont’s Shelburne Orchards, which makes brandy using apples from the 6,000 trees outside the door.
So, what’s the best way to enjoy apple brandy, either new-school or old? I enjoy it most when I don’t think about it as “apple brandy” but rather simply as “brandy”—a spirit made from fruit, like cognac or Armagnac—and sip it neat or mix it in a cocktail.
While more robust French Calvados can be hard to balance in a drink—it doesn’t like to be overshadowed—its American cousin tends to be more low-key, hence its ability to be conscripted to good effect in traditional brandy cocktails, like the Jack Rose and Sidecar. It can also serve admirably as a whiskey substitute and makes for a fine Old-Fashioned, a commendable sour and even serves well as a more fragrant Cognac substitute in a French 75. Here, an introduction to the category in four bottles.
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