P erhaps exhausted by the recent unpleasantness between the States, the American contribution to the great 1867 World’s Fair in Paris lacked the show and ambition many European powers put on display. The Prussians presented massive cannons; the French had a proto-elevator and an endless parade of hideously over-decorated furniture of the sort admired by the fair’s patron, Napoleon III. Amid these displays of national greatness, the United States offered … the cocktail. Such a sensation were the mixed drinks at the Paris fair that the crowds at the American pavilion were described as having “Exhibition Thirst.”

Not about to lose any momentum, American restauranteurs were ready with the beakers, bottles, ice, and shakers come the next world expo, the 1873 Weltausstellung in Vienna. But it wasn’t clear that the concoctions would have anything like the success they had in Paris. For starters, at the earlier fair, American drinks had been a complete novelty. There might not be the same sort of sensation the second time around. And then there was the expense. “A month ago, the impression was very general that the American bars would do a very poor business, on account of the high cost of their drinks,” Baltimore journalist Charles Carroll Fulton wrote in a travelogue titled Europe Viewed Through American Spectacles. After all, “a half-gallon of beer could be had for the cost of one of their fancy glasses.”

The purveyors of American drinks needn’t have worried; they did boffo box-office. The drinks fascinated the crowds, and the bars were worthy of Barnum. There was, for example, a giant tipi, some 30 or 40 feet tall, called the Wigwam. One could say the Wigwam was in dubious taste (especially since in 1873, the U.S. Army was busy prosecuting a bloody war against Indian tribes). Among the images painted on the towering canvas tent were Indian warriors scalping their foes.

A British commission sent by Queen Victoria to report on the exhibition took note of the Wigwam, describing its splendid waiters as “dressed in spotlessly white suits.” Those waiters were, to a man, black, and thus nearly as novel to the Europeans as were the mixed drinks. They were “decided objects of curiosity,” according to Fulton. “They seem to enjoy the inspection that they are constantly subject to.” Seem was likely the operative word.

The British commissioners marveled at the bartender: “Within the Wigwam,” they wrote, “a distinguished professor from New York compounded seductive mixtures with peculiar names, from the unsophisticated simplicity of a ‘whisky skin’ to the high art of a ‘Catawba cobbler.’” Also singled out for praise were the slings, smashes, and juleps, “fragrant with mint and tempting as ice and sugar could make them.”

Fulton, the Baltimore magazine man, had at hand a bar menu and was able to give a more comprehensive accounting of the drinks on offer. There were champerelles, crustas, fixes, flips, sangarees, toddies, eggnog, cups, sours, lemonades, pousse cafes, cocktails, and punches. Of this latter, there was no small number — Jamaican rum punch, brandy punch, St. Croix punch, pineapple punch, and whiskey punch.

Alas, the menu card did not specify the recipes of the drinks. For though almost all of the drinks were standard concoctions, the recipes for which can be found in 19th-century bar books, there was a special Wigwam Punch, the specifics of which are lost.

If we want a little taste of the exhibition, we’ll have to content ourselves with another punch served at the Wigwam, the Metropolitan Hotel punch. Famed bartender Jerry Thomas, in his Metropolitan Hotel days, called this simply brandy punch. (I have altered it slightly for ease of construction and availability of ingredients.)

In a shaker, combine 1 tablespoon of raspberry jam, 1 ounce of simple syrup, the juice of half a lemon, two slices of orange, a slice of pineapple, and 2 ounces of brandy. Top with crushed ice and shake well. Pour the whole mixture into a tall bar glass. Decorate with more orange and pineapple slices. Serve with straws.

Eric Felten is the James Beard Award-winning author of How’s Your Drink?