A little before 9 p.m. on a warm Wednesday night, I climbed onto a barstool inside the dimly lit Rising Tides Bar in East Dallas.

It’s a great bar and down the street from my house, so I’ve sat on that stool a few times. My orders typically range from a standard can-poured Guinness to cocktails and, if the night calls for it, maybe a shot or two. Variety is always welcome, but that night, I went a pour too far.

My friend and research assistant ordered a can of PBR — coward. The tall, bearded bartender with a glorious mane of hair turned and asked what I wanted. “Coors Light bottle,” I told him.

It’s a staple fridge beer normally overlooked when my nights take me out, but I opted for it that fateful evening because I needed a cheap rinser for the second, far less benign portion of my drink order.

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“Shit, man,” the bartender said with a sigh as I confirmed that I had, indeed, ordered a Malorthattan.

As I explained to the good man, it’s exactly what it sounds like: Jeppson’s Malort and sweet vermouth stirred with ice, then served up with two dark, syrup-soaked cherries. Don’t know what Malort is? Its own fans, of which there are a worrying number that I might include myself in, have coined tellingly appropriate cult slogans such as the “Champagne of Pain” and “pumpkin spice for sadists,” if that tells you anything.

At best, Malort can be described as an unrelentingly bitter liqueur, one that optimists might say has an intense grapefruit-peel aftertaste. At worst, which is where most people find it, practically any undesirable simile can apply to its lingering, soul-wrenching flavor profile. Industrial cleanser, nuclear-grade cough medicine, or as one Redditor put it, “soy sauce and vinegar marinated with nails in a shoe.”

But like a cheap pack of cigarettes, you can develop a taste for Malort, especially if you don’t categorically eschew bitter tastes. After probably my sixth try last year, the earthy, herbal aftertaste that seems to linger longer than it should started to grow on me. In the age of fizzy gin concoctions and lychee martinis, there’s something novel about booze that actually makes you sit there and reckon with what it’s just done to your mouth, and you may eventually start to taste more grapefruit than carwash runoff. Maybe the best way to describe it is dark chocolate — some never grow a taste for it, but those that do can’t tear themselves away.

Having grown accustomed to shots served handshake-style alongside a beer, I thought it might have some utility in a cocktail. But few drink menus feature Malort as a base, so I substituted it in a drink close to my heart. It was, unequivocally, a mistake.

Stop No.1: Rising Tides

Another knowledgeable bartender on staff made my cocktail at the Tides; disappointment and disgust evident on his face as he poured the Malort into the cocktail mixing glass. He recalled how he used to order a horrifying mix of Goldschläger, Tabasco, Bacardi and Jager for undeserving acquaintances asking for a free shot. Maybe he thought he was handing down a similar punishment. In fairness, the result was only a marginal improvement.

Two parts Malort, one part sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters and two cherries. That’s it. The first sip was OK. After all, I do enjoy Malort, at least for a second. But then it became clear why it’s really only served as a shot.

For starters, chilling Malort seems to accentuate all that’s wrong with it, and sipping it rather than gulping lets you marinate in it. Not even the extra dash of orange bitters the barman sympathetically added could help. I was locked in, down to the last cherry.

Stop No.2: McRae’s Bistro and Cocktails

I figured this one would be a long shot. It’s a respectable place, with chartreuse and fine brandies stocked behind the bar. Still, I tried.

“Never heard of it,” the man behind the bar told us after I inquired about their Malort selection.

Good for him.

Stop No.3: Lakewood Landing

Next, we headed to the Lakewood Landing, one of Dallas’ most deservedly beloved late-night haunts. And like any good dive, the bartenders here will let you know what they think. That night, they certainly did.

I asked for a Malort — simple enough. I’ve gotten it here before, and the long-tenured folks pouring drinks at the Landing have likely poured their fair share. But after I told the man what I wanted him to do with the Malort, his face dropped; faith in humanity shaken.

“What the fuck,” he said, shaking his head.

I explained that my order was part of a journalistic investigation, a justification he clearly didn’t take much comfort in. Still, he grabbed the shaker and poured the Malort, then dejectedly strained what may have been one of the worst drinks he’d ever made into the glass.

The Landing Malorthattan followed the one I’d received at Rising Tides closely. Two parts Jeppson’s, one part vermouth and a few dashes of bitters added before the cherry. And again, it shared many of the same issues. The vermouth didn’t do much, and the chilled serving temperature accentuated everything that’s wrong with the base liqueur. All that’s to say, the Malort was the problem. Shocker. 

A light at the end of the wormwood tunnel: Goodfriend Burger and Beer Garden
Goodfriend Beer Garden & Burger Bar helped transform the intersection of Peavy and Garland roads in East Dallas into an up-and-coming neighborhood for local, independent food and drink businesses.

But one lone bright spot stood out in a dark night of Malort sampling. And, judging by the banner boasting “As for me and my house, we will serve Malort” hanging on the wall, I should have known Goodfriend Burger and Beer Garden off Peavy Road could make something happen. 

I also should have remembered that this is maybe the only bar in town with Malort already listed in its cocktail selection. A few months ago, I had a lemonade-Jeppson’s frose at the neighborhood staple. That was also a mistake, but it still offered some consolation to remember that this place isn’t afraid to tangle with tear-inducing tonic. And it makes sense: it’s an eccentric bar offering built to serve a neighborhood full of eccentrics, so why wouldn’t they lean into something the average patron might scoff at?

In turn, the convivial woman behind the bar wasn’t shaken by my drink order. She didn’t even seem surprised. When we pressed her on the mildness of her reaction, which was almost jarring given the reception we’d gotten elsewhere, she shrugged.

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” she said.

It actually wasn’t bad. She used more vermouth than the other places I visited, which paid off without a doubt. Still bitter and boozy, this Malorthattan was almost kind of refreshing. No, probably not in the same way most cocktails would aspire to be, but it was complex, balanced and felt like it could have been a decent way to start the night, much like a nice aperitivo should.

She also recommended we try a sample of the staff’s current Malort project: a candy-corn infused bottle of Jeppson’s, of course. Seeing the two often-maligned ingredients work together was actually the highlight of the night. The sugary, syrupy hit of flavor detracted from all the worst parts of a Malort shot, and the aftertaste offered a welcome reprieve when the candy got to be too much.

It made me think. The Malorthattan at Goodfriend was only OK, but this revelation gave me hope for a world where Malort could be more than a gag shot. And even if a candy corn shot is categorically a gag, it was still good — still something I’d order regularly. So maybe it can be redeemed in a cocktail, too. To be clear: I’m not saying the Manhattan is it. It isn’t. But maybe the Malort spritz is?