Fresh fruits lend their essence to two cordials at Cassis Bistro, a "huckletini" and a Meyer Lemon Drop. You can try this at home.

WHEN SHANNON BAKER, pastry chef at Cassis Bistro on Seattle's Capitol Hill, found an old glass decanter at a garage sale last summer, she knew at once that it belonged at the restaurant. Chef Charlie Durham agreed, "I took one look at that bottle," he says "and I knew what to do. We had all these huckleberries, pounds and pounds of them, so I filled the jar with huckleberries and covered them with vodka."

A few weeks later, bartender Henry Derdenne, a.k.a. Hank, strained some of the vodka over ice to chill it, and poured it into a chilled martini glass. In lieu of olives, a few huckleberries were floated in the glass, and the "huckletini" was born. Some number of huckletinis later, it was gone and so was the season for huckleberries, but the decanter was ready to be filled again.

"When winter came," says Durham, "I thought I might fill the bottle with quinces, but everyone said, 'No, not quinces,' so I said 'How about Meyer lemons?' " And the team approved. So, in no time, Meyer lemons, quartered and gently pressed, were submerged in vodka and their essence was imparted into the spirits. Soon, Derdenne was serving up Meyer Lemon Drops in the bar. Another hit.

What the folks at Cassis were doing followed a great tradition. Since the 15th century, when French and Italian monks perfected the art of distilling high-proof spirits, connoisseurs have been enjoying the essence of fruits and herbs in the form of brightly flavored cordials and liqueurs. Commercial variations range from the fruity, such as orange-flavored Grand Marinier and Cassis, the black-currant cordial for which Cassis Bistro was named, to heady infusions of everything from anise to coffee and chocolate. These days the flavoring and bottling of alcoholic beverages is almost entirely accomplished by large commercial distillers and processors. But since many versions of these drinks involve only the flavoring of spirits and not the actual distillation, it is legal to make these drinks at home or in bars and licensed restaurants.

Makes about 1 quart

Meyer lemons are a particularly mild and sunny variety of citrus fruit; they can be found in season at Sosio's produce in Pike Place Market and at better grocery stores. If Meyer lemons are not available, use other lemons. 3 cups vodka 2 cups chopped Meyer lemons 1 cup simple syrup (made from equal parts sugar and water) In a wide-mouth jar with a close-fitting lid, combine the vodka, lemon and simple syrup and allow the mixture to stand for a week or two. To serve, strain an ounce or two per serving, shake with ice, pour into a chilled martini glass with a sugared rim and garnish with a tiny lemon wedge. Print friendly version.

Makes 1 quart

I like to use this instead of vanilla extract in baking. And a shot of this cordial with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice and a splash of boiling water makes a killer hot toddy. 2 1/2 cups brandy 1/4 cup orange zest 2 vanilla beans, split and scraped 1 cup sugar 1 cup water In a wide-mouth jar with a close-fitting lid, combine brandy, orange zest and the vanilla beans. Keep covered for two weeks, then strain and stir in the sugar and water. Keep well-sealed in a cool dark place. Serve straight up in a snifter or use as a flavoring in cakes and cookies. Print friendly version.

American homemakers have been making ratafias, cordials and liqueurs since colonial times. New England rum, born of the sugar trade, was the foundation for some, and so were the fiery spirits from home distillers that sprang up all over the country in the mid-17th century, long before licensing was an issue. Just like the folks at Cassis Bistro who were faced with a glut of huckleberries, people with a lot of some particularly flavorful fruit found they could preserve some of its flavor in strong drinks and make the alcohol more palatable in the process.

There's an old joke. How do you make a Georgia Peach cordial? "You give her a shot of whiskey and tell her she has pretty hair." Actually, you macerate ripe peaches in bourbon for two weeks and sweeten the brew with light brown sugar before bottling. The result tastes something like "Southern Comfort," that strange brew that kept Janis Joplin crooning through the late '60s.

In "American Home Cooking" (Broadway Books, 2000), Cheryl and Bill Jamison recount a quote from Mary Randolph, who wrote "The Virginia Housewife" in 1824: "Cherry Shrub keeps all summer, in a dry cool place, and is delicious mixed with water." To make it, the housewife was instructed to dissolve cherries in sugar and use the resulting syrup to flavor brandy. With all that brandy, I suspect Ms. Randolph's shrub would have kept a good deal longer.

Similar formulas for cordials are found throughout guides to housekeeping in early America, some of them in the lists of home remedies at the back of the book, some of them in the chapters on beverages. This shift reflects the changing role of flavored spirits over the centuries.

"After the evolution of distilling, the monastic orders made drinks with spirits and other ingredients to serve as remedies, preventives, and ultimately as enjoyable drinks," says "Larousse Gastronomique," the French encyclopedia of all things culinary. Certainly this last purpose, enjoyment, has usurped the therapeutic uses of liqueurs, but certain famous cordials still embody some of the old medicinal ingredients in a most agreeable way.

Benedictine and Brandy, known as B & B, particularly reflects the old restorative purposes of flavored drinks. A secret blend of herbs gives the drink its distinctive flavor and perfume, and among them is Angelica, traditionally seen as the most therapeutic of all the herbs. An obscure little book called "The Art of Cooking with Herbs and Spices," by Milo Miloradovich (Doubleday, 1952) contains a formula for Angelica Liqueur that results in a drink not unlike B & B. In it, angelica, cloves and cinnamon give grain alcohol a punch.

Jerry Traunfeld, author of "The Herbfarm Cookbook" (Scribners, 2000) and Northwest guru on all things herbal, says he has been disappointed with most herbal liqueurs he's tried to make. "I used to fool around with herb-infused vodkas and things," he says. "But generally I find that I'd rather use a commercial eau de vie."

I would tend to agree. Homemade herbal cordials can taste clumsy and peculiar, especially the ones that have green leaves. "They taste like leaf mulch," says Traunfeld. The ones that rely on roots and seeds are more successful. Best of all are fruit liqueurs and the odd, flower-infused cordials that spring up from time to time. Rose petals, orange blossoms and other blossoms have all drifted into alcohol with happy results.

In Provence, as here, Papaver somniferum, the opium poppy, grows wild in fields and along roadsides, and many gardeners allow it to volunteer in their flower beds because its bright red blossoms are so very cheerful. The petals and the seeds, which are the same seeds used for making poppyseed bread and cake, contain none of the dangerous compounds that make buying and selling the plant illegal, and the great Provencale chef Roger Verge uses the blossoms to make a beautiful pale red, sweet liqueur that captures the essence of summer sunshine. "It is said to have certain miraculous qualities," says Verge, "but I've forgotten which ones."

More contemporary formulas for homemade liqueurs can be found in "Classic Liqueurs: The Art of Making and Cooking with Liqueurs" (Culinary Arts Ltd., 1996), but don't be afraid to experiment with formulas of your own. When summer arrives, try steeping a couple of cups of ripe blackberries or raspberries in an equal amount of vodka or brandy for two weeks, then strain out the solids and sweeten the liquor with simple syrup to taste. In the meantime, you might want to try one of the recipes above.

Greg Atkinson, Canlis executive chef, is the author of "In Season" (1997) and "The Northwest Essentials Cookbook" (1999) from Sasquatch Books.