Nothing says “jungle movie” like a sound track with plenty of evocative “ka-dawing” bird calls and monkey yelling. Throw in the occasional tiger roaring in the darkness, and you have a convincing, if clichéd, aural impression that transports us right into the exotic elsewhere of the tropical jungle.
When I hear a soundtrack done well, I can feel the heat. I can smell the mud and the trees.
When it’s done right, the movie soundtrack is a powerful thing.
Of course, it can be done wrong, and all that power flows in the opposite direction.
Which brings us to my favorite of all tropical bird calls: the Common Loon. I can just picture some clueless B-movie sound guy all excited about this eerie, haunting bird sound, just the thing to make the jungle even more alien, but for anyone who lives in northern lakelands, that familiar call overlaid on tropical visuals is pure cognitive dissonance, the trigger for a good belly laugh. So much for being transported to another world.
But that’s why the Loon is one of my favorite “jungle birds.”
My other favorite isn’t even a real bird—it’s a tiki concoction. At least it does have the distinction of actually being from the tropics.
The Jungle Bird is unique among tiki drinks of the post-war “classic” tiki era. The formula doesn’t look much like tiki at all—no long list of exotic fruits and syrups, and no blend of two or three disparate rums.
Strangest of all is its hallmark ingredient: unique among traditional tiki formulas, the Jungle Bird includes Campari.
The drink is also interesting because it appears so late in the tiki era. According to Jeff Berry, it first appeared at the Kuala Lumpur Hilton’s Aviary bar, sometime around 1978.
It’s a clever experiment, a considerable break from the Trader Vic and Don the Beachcomber-inspired creations that preceded it. Minimalist and avant garde, it’s more like a modern “cocktailian” exploration than a traditional tiki presentation.
The Jungle Bird
- ¾ oz Campari
- ½ oz fresh lime juice
- ½ oz sugar syrup (demerara syrup)
- 4 oz fresh unsweetened pineapple juice
- 1½ oz dark Jamaican rum (Myers’s Original Dark, Smith and Cross)
Shake well with plenty of ice cubes. Pour unstrained into a double old-fashioned glass. Garnish with an orchid and a cocktail cherry speared to lemon and orange wheels.
The key to the Jungle Bird is the pineapple juice. Fresh juice has a light, soft, round flavor, compared to the sharper, more aggressive canned juice, and you’ll need roughly 4 ounces to balance the rum and Campari. Juicing pineapples can be a pain even if you have the luxury of a good juicer, but a fresh-juice Jungle Bird is totally different from, and much superior to, one made from canned juice.
(If you find yourself using canned juice, you will likely want to cut the amount of pineapple way back. I’ve seen recipes with as little as 1½ or 2 ounces of juice, and I suspect they’re based on canned juice.)
Even with the heavy molasses of the Myers’s or the funk of the Smith and Cross, the fruit is still the main driver of both scent and taste in the Jungle Bird.
The initial nose is mostly about pineapple, with just a faint note of citrus, which probably comes as much from the twist and garnish as from the lime in the drink itself.
The first sip is pineapple, with a bit of sweetness. As you might expect of this formula, it’s less sweet than many tiki formulas, and the herbal and bitter notes of the Campari quickly appear. The first swallow seems to be dominated by Campari, but, curiously, the Campari seems to recede in later swallows, and allows the earthy notes of the rum to come through.
My main impression from the Jungle Bird is that it is driven by the pineapple and just a bit of lime tartness. It suggests that the balance of the pineapple and the Campari is the whole trick of this drink.
Separating reality from imagination is always an interesting exercise, and the Jungle Bird presents a pleasant way to spend some time pondering it. On one hand, we have the marvelous Loon converted to a faux tropical bird, and it probably gets away with it sometimes.
On the other hand, in the world of tiki—unabashedly a faux Polynesian drinking environment—we have a formula called the Jungle Bird, which doesn’t look like “real” tiki, but certainly tastes like it, and which may be one of the last carriers of the tiki banner before that fashion collapsed entirely.
So here’s to Jungle Birds—the “Jungle Bird” Loon elevated to faux stardom by unknown B-movie soundmen, and a tiki gem called Jungle Bird projected to real prominence by an unknown Malaysian barman in 1978. Cheers!
“Chasing the Jungle Bird” at cold-glass.com : All text and photos © 2016 Douglas M. Ford. All rights reserved.