A cooking platform built around craft, culture, and the stories behind what we eat.
Created by Chef Remy
The quintessential Southern sipper: bourbon gentled by fresh spearmint and simple syrup, served over a mountain of crushed ice in a frost-kissed cup that begs you to slow down and savor the afternoon.
Some drinks you make. A mint julep, you build. There's a ritual to it, a rhythm that connects you to two hundred years of Southern hospitality. My grandmother Evangeline kept a patch of spearmint behind her kitchen, and on hot afternoons, my grandfather would disappear out there with his pocketknife and come back with a fistful of green. That smell still takes me home.
The julep belongs to Kentucky by birthright, claimed forever by Churchill Downs and the Derby. But down in Louisiana, we've been making our own version as long as anyone can remember. The technique is simple: muddle mint with sugar, add good bourbon, pack with ice. What separates a forgettable julep from one that makes you close your eyes is attention. How gently you treat the mint. How cold that cup gets. How you position that garnish so the aroma hits your nose with every sip.
At Lagniappe, we serve these on the back patio when the jasmine blooms. Guests sit in rocking chairs, ice melting slowly, conversation stretching into the evening. That's what this drink is for. Not rushing. Not impressing anyone. Just the simple pleasure of something cold and good on a warm day, shared with people you care about.
Quantity
8-10
plus 1 sprig for garnish
Quantity
1/2 ounce
Quantity
2 1/2 ounces
Quantity
as needed
Quantity
splash
if using sugar instead of syrup
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| fresh spearmint leavesplus 1 sprig for garnish | 8-10 |
| simple syrup | 1/2 ounce |
| Kentucky bourbon | 2 1/2 ounces |
| crushed ice | as needed |
| cold water (optional)if using sugar instead of syrup | splash |
Place your julep cup or highball glass in the freezer for at least fifteen minutes before you start. A proper julep lives and dies by temperature. That silver cup should frost over the moment you add ice, and it should stay cold enough to make your fingers ache when you hold it. At Lagniappe, we keep a row of cups in the freezer all summer long.
Drop the spearmint leaves into the bottom of your chilled cup. Add the simple syrup. Now here's where most folks go wrong: you press gently, maybe five or six times. You're coaxing the oils from those leaves, not grinding them into pulp. Press and twist, press and twist. The mint should look bruised but whole, and your nose should fill with that clean, bright perfume. If you're tasting bitterness, you've gone too far.
Pour in the bourbon. Good Kentucky bourbon, nothing fancy, nothing bottom shelf. You want that caramel sweetness and oak backbone to stand up to the mint. Now pack in your crushed ice, filling the cup about halfway. Stir gently for thirty seconds, letting the cold marry the flavors together. The outside of your cup should start frosting over.
Add more crushed ice, mounding it above the rim like a snowcap. Pack it down gently with your bar spoon. The ice should dome up, creating that signature look. Give it one more gentle stir, just enough to bring everything together.
Take your mint sprig and slap it once between your palms. This wakes up the oils and releases that aroma right where your nose meets the glass. Tuck the sprig into the ice beside a short straw, positioning it so every sip brings mint to your nose. Serve immediately. A julep waits for no one, and dilution is both friend and enemy here.
1 serving (about 100g)
Culinary guides, cultural storytelling, and the editorial depth that makes cooking meaningful.
Discover Culinary Explorer
Chef Remy
Wild Louisiana blackberries muddled with local honey, shaken with smooth bourbon and fresh lemon, finished with a float of Peychaud's bitters that turns the whole glass into something your grandmother would call medicinal and your friends will call dangerous.
Chef Remy
A stunning ruby-red tea that marries tart hibiscus flowers with bold black tea and Louisiana cane sugar, kissed with cinnamon and served ice-cold on sweltering bayou afternoons the way my grandmother Evangeline made it.
Chef Remy
The drink that launched a thousand New Orleans brunches: smooth brandy and cold whole milk shaken until frothy, kissed with vanilla, and crowned with a snowfall of fresh nutmeg that perfumes every sip.
Chef Remy
A sparkling Louisiana cooler where fresh ginger brings gentle fire, lime cuts through with brightness, and cane syrup ties it all together with the sweetness of the bayou, the kind of drink that makes a hot afternoon worth sitting through.