Liquid

Behind the scenes with Robert Fathman

Liquor infusions are running amok all over town. Fruits, vegetables, herbs, spices, pork products — it seems no ingredient is too bizarre to steep in a vodka, rum, or bourbon bath to create a new liquid treat. The concept behind infusions is simple: coax the flavor characteristics out of your chosen ingredients by soaking them in booze for days, sometimes weeks, and giving the container a good shake every once in awhile. It’s not rocket science, nor is it a newfangled notion. Yet over the past few years, Bostonians have gone nuts over infusions. House-made infusions dominate every decent cocktail menu in the area, with bartenders and beverage directors reveling in the role of artisanal mad scientist.

Few do it as well as chef Robert Fathman, formerly of Azure and City Bar at the Lenox Hotel, now of the Sherborn Inn (33 North Main Street, Sherborn, 508.655.9521), and arguably the granddaddy of Boston’s house infusions. (“Granddaddy” is misleading, actually, since he’s young, covered in tattoos, and the father of a two-year-old. But the sentiment is accurate.) About 15 years ago, Fathman’s inherent culinary curiosity, passion for farmstand ingredients, and pride in being “a good drinker” led him to unite bourbon with cinnamon, vanilla, and a serendipitous stock of overripe figs. His customers went nuts for the spicy concoction, aptly christened “Diabolique.” Fast-forward nearly two decades, and Fathman’s Infusion Diabolique Bourbon is now available by the bottle at local liquor stores (see www.infusionique.com for a list of vendors), along with Infusion Diabolique Rum and Infusion Angelique Tequila.

“For me, the bourbon Diabolique infusion is a classic marriage of flavors,” Fathman says. “I define ‘classic’ a couple of different ways: it’s either the combination of flavors or something that has been and will be around for years. We want our product to be super clean and super clear. No fake seeds or pieces of star anise. That shows that it’s a handmade product. It’s handmade, hand-bottled, and mouth-tested.”

I can think of worse ways to spend my time than “mouth-testing” batches of infused bourbon, so, at Fathman’s invitation, I decide to do just that. I make the trek out to the picturesque suburbs, where Fathman has been shaking things up in the kitchen since early spring.

Fathman leads me to a prep room in the back of the inn’s “antique” (a gentle word for “about to be renovated”) kitchen. “We’re going to make some infusions,” he says. “What do you like? Figs? Come on, let’s go.” I barely have time to roll up my sleeves before he whisks me downstairs to a walk-in fridge and begins grabbing what look to me like random ingredients: fistfuls of figs, pears, sultanas (golden raisins), fresh ginger. After we’ve chosen a bunch of fruit, we head to the spice rack for cinnamon sticks. “How are your knife skills?” he asks me. I mumble about how they’re laughable. Fathman chuckles; then it’s back up to the prep room to slice and dice.

Actually, Fathman takes pity on me and does most of the slicing and dicing himself, leaving me to awkwardly stuff fruit and spices into large plastic bottles filled halfway with a chocolaty-amber Kentucky bourbon (he won’t tell me which one) while we chat about his infusion techniques. “I use a combination of old-world techniques and new-world ingredients,” he says. “First and foremost, seasonality is the most important issue when it comes to ingredients. If it’s seasonal, and it’s local, it’s always going to taste better. Respect the seasons; that’s half the battle.”

I point out a common issue that aspiring infusionists face: time. In my work on this column, I’ve come across many chefs and bartenders who make infusions a few days, sometimes hours, before their evening bar rush, while Fathman’s blends spend months steeping. How? Why?

“You want to know how to cheat?” he laughs. We leave the building and take a quick stroll next door to the cleverly named Out, the inn’s gourmet grocery store. We peruse the shop’s selection of dry goods, jams, sauces, and wines. Fathman grabs a jar of red-pepper jelly, explaining that, for a quick infusion, jellies and preserves are the way to go. Lighter spirits, such as vodka, are your best base option, since the flavors of the ingredients will be present right away, not hidden by a spirit with a strong personality of its own, like tequila or bourbon.

I think back to an earlier conversation we had over the phone, when Fathman feigned horror when I asked him about the current state of the infusion — using the bottle of bacon vodka that landed on my desk last month as an example. “Wow. If it’s a joke, I’m all for it,” he’d said. “If people are serious about making bacon vodka or bourbon, well, I think food can be fun and whimsical. But bacon vodka? I bet in the next 20 years somebody’s gonna come up with a tricked-out infusion flight with five glasses. First the bacon, mayo, lettuce. They’ll have to have an airline barf bag there.

“Of course,” he’d laughed, “if the guy makes a a bread infusion, then tomato, then million dollars, I’ll be kicking myself.”

Now, in the Sherborn Inn kitchen, watching him survey his available ingredients, predicting the present and future properties of whole roots and fruits and spices, I can see why Fathman unwittingly inspired a local mixology trend. He cares about what others think, sure, but mostly, he’s mixing and conspiring based on what he likes, what he’s itching to crack open in a few months. It’s this earnest love for the products of his hard work that ultimately lead to success.

We’ve made three infusions by this point, and I’ve had a generous taste of every one of them. Fathman passes (“I don’t want to get buzzy at work”), so I relish them myself: the lingering heat of red-pepper vodka; the subtle sweetness of fig-and-sultana bourbon; another bourbon, warm with ginger and pears.

Later, as I head back to the city, I listen to four bottles thumping around in my back seat, and I look forward to two months from now, when I can taste them and compare their progress from day one to full-flavor fruition. Suddenly I get why infusions are so much fun, such a great platform for experiment. The anticipation of the marriage of flavors, the satisfaction you get from waiting for a few months and then learning that your intuition was right. It doesn’t much matter if your ingredients are classic or modern, tried and true or downright wacky. As Fathman demonstrates, if you stick with your gut, you’ll keep your taste buds happy.