Allen's Coffee Brandy
Mornings in Maine, contrary to popular belief, are not a perpetual Robert McCloskey story. Those in the fishing and logging industries are up well before sunrise, often undertaking brutal work in punishing conditions. So it’s only natural that some might derive motivation to get through the day (or to start it) from a bit of Allen’s in their coffee or a cold glass of Allen’s and milk.
Mainers have all kinds of nicknames for the state’s bestselling liquor (by volume — Fireball cinnamon whiskey recently surpassed it in sales). Most are affectionate, some are not, and few can be printed by this magazine without alienating its more virtuous readers. What most of them salute are the velvet-hammer-ish properties of a 60-proof liqueur, flavored with real coffee-bean extract, mingling with one’s Oakhurst over ice. On the one hand, I used to get exasperated when I worked in a liquor store with the parade of repeat customers who put away a liter of the stuff on a daily basis. (A 1.75-liter plastic bottle costs about $15.) On the other hand, it bothers me when I see Allen’s served or consumed ironically, as a sort of lowbrow stunt beverage, a mockery of those who truly enjoy it.
Allen’s popularity in Maine is a cult thing — it’s a top-selling drink exactly no place else and more or less unknown outside New England. And like all cult beverages, it inspires very specific, ritualized orders among its fans. Good bartenders know which regular patrons prefer their Allen’s and milk “on the very dark side.” Other, equally devoted fans of the brand simply observe a little splash in their coffee whenever they shovel the driveway. For my part, I’ll take a Rumford — half Allen’s and half Moxie, served over crushed ice. And yes, a pint glass will do just fine, thank you. — JOE RICCHIO
Joe Ricchio is Down East‘s former food editor and a Maine dining guru.
Allen's Coffee Brandy
Mornings in Maine, contrary to popular belief, are not a perpetual Robert McCloskey story. Those in the fishing and logging industries are up well before sunrise, often undertaking brutal work in punishing conditions. So it’s only natural that some might derive motivation to get through the day (or to start it) from a bit of Allen’s in their coffee or a cold glass of Allen’s and milk.
Mainers have all kinds of nicknames for the state’s bestselling liquor (by volume — Fireball cinnamon whiskey recently surpassed it in sales). Most are affectionate, some are not, and few can be printed by this magazine without alienating its more virtuous readers. What most of them salute are the velvet-hammer-ish properties of a 60-proof liqueur, flavored with real coffee-bean extract, mingling with one’s Oakhurst over ice. On the one hand, I used to get exasperated when I worked in a liquor store with the parade of repeat customers who put away a liter of the stuff on a daily basis. (A 1.75-liter plastic bottle costs about $15.) On the other hand, it bothers me when I see Allen’s served or consumed ironically, as a sort of lowbrow stunt beverage, a mockery of those who truly enjoy it.
Allen’s popularity in Maine is a cult thing — it’s a top-selling drink exactly no place else and more or less unknown outside New England. And like all cult beverages, it inspires very specific, ritualized orders among its fans. Good bartenders know which regular patrons prefer their Allen’s and milk “on the very dark side.” Other, equally devoted fans of the brand simply observe a little splash in their coffee whenever they shovel the driveway. For my part, I’ll take a Rumford — half Allen’s and half Moxie, served over crushed ice. And yes, a pint glass will do just fine, thank you. — JOE RICCHIO
Joe Ricchio is Down East‘s former food editor and a Maine dining guru.
