My thoughts on Malört

It was January in Chicago and the forecast was for heavy snow followed by bitter cold — high time, I thought, for a shot of malört, the most undrinkable beverage on earth. Or so I’d always heard — and therein lies a tale I didn’t expect to tell.

Chances are you’ve never heard of malört, formally known as Jeppson’s Malört, Carl Jeppson being the Swedish immigrant who invented the liqueur a century ago. However, it’s legendary in Chicago, where it’s commonly described as a rite of passage. That tells you a lot right there.

Lest there be any doubt, readers are invited to search for #malortface on X, formerly known as Twitter, or Instagram or Flickr. There, thanks to the miracle of the smartphone, you may study the many classic expressions a swig of malört inspires, running the gamut from WTF to grossed out of existence. (Serving malört to unsuspecting newcomers is a common prank in Chicago.)

To the literary mind, the charm of malört lies in attempts to describe it. A sampling from the internet:

• Grandma’s house boiled in flat root beer (Reddit)
• (Like) licking the rim of a gas tank with a stick of black licorice in your mouth (Reddit again)
• Saffron and yellow fruit characteristics are secondary to notes of fusel oil and burning lanolin (New York sommelier, as reported in Eater)
• Like pencil shavings and heartbreak (John Hodgman, best known to me as ‘Judge’ John Hodgman, contributor to the New York Times magazine’s ‘Ethicist’ section)
• Like swallowing a burnt condom full of gas (Jason Sudeikis, star and co-creator of Ted Lasso, as Gene in Drinking Buddies)
• Tastes like the day dad left (ubiquitous)

You get the picture.

But here’s the thing. (Well, the first thing. There’s also a second thing, which we’ll get to anon.) Although I’d been hearing about malört for years, I’d never actually tried it. I was busy. Besides, I’m a journalist. Just because you write about capital punishment doesn’t mean you need to experience it. Still, the breadth and ingenuity of the commentary about malört had made me curious, and the risk of permanent injury seemed low. How bad could it be?

I called my buddy Charlie, who I rely on for support in such matters. We decided to find out.

We went to Ten Cat tavern because a) it was two blocks from my house and b) I knew they served a concoction called a Chicago Handshake, consisting of a shot of malört plus an Old Style, a popular beer in Chicago, to serve as flame retardant.

It wasn’t until we’d settled in at the bar that we realized what we’d walked into. Jess, the bartender, wore a sweatshirt with the Jeppson’s Malört logo on the front and, on the back, a montage of the Jeppson’s bottle, a slice of thick-crust pizza, a Chicago-style hot dog and the Chicago flag. On the bar in front of her was a Jeppson’s-branded spill mat, behind her a figurine of a kitten cuddling a liter of Jeppson’s infamous product. In short, this wasn’t just a place that sold malört. It was a malört shrine.

We announced our mission. The regulars had been there. “Like driving through Gary, Indiana, with your mouth open,” one said.

A pair of Chicago Handshakes were produced. We were advised to toss back the shot in one gulp, to limit collateral damage.

I did so, expecting my eyeballs to melt. That brings us to the second thing: they didn’t.

Not saying the stuff was mother’s milk.

Drinking it required a certain steadfastness of purpose, about which more in a moment. On the whole, though, I had to say: malört wasn’t bad.

I was astonished. I thought I’d be spitting up blood. I glanced at Charlie, who also seemed unfazed, then at Jess, who’d been watching for adverse reactions. “Like grapefruit and dandelions,” she said.

Imagine my predicament. I’d been expecting to write another crazy-stuff-they-do-in-Chicago story. Now I faced the prospect of having to tell a baffled world that an obscure beverage even locals consider revolting actually has its points.

Well, so be it. In this era of fake news, one need to call ’em like one sees ’em. We ordered another round. I started a fresh page in my notebook.

The initial sensation is deceptive — honeylike, some say, owing to the coating of the tongue, but you can make the case for an oil slick. This erupts into an interval of alcohol-fueled turbulence, like sex during July when the AC is out, and over just as quickly, leaving behind a lingering acrid taste, blotted only partially by the beer.

This last phase figures prominently in descriptions of malört. Grapefruit? I’ll buy that. (My limited dandelion consumption didn’t permit judgment.) What you’re looking at experientially, though, is an extended period of melancholy contemplation. Once that passes — and all things pass — you’re left with a modest glow, fortifying you to step out into a cold night.

Not a priority in Miami Beach, maybe. But — acknowledging that even in Chicago some will argue the point — I can say it works here.