Every summer when we were kids, my brother and I would visit my grandparents on Lake Minnetonka in Orono, Minnesota. We spent some of our days waterskiing on Mud Lake, seeing plays at the Guthrie, and riding the rollercoaster at Mall of America. But most of our WASPy Midwestern days were spent at the Woodhill Country Club playing tennis or lounging poolside. Many teenagers were bored by Woodhill’s sea of Lilly Pulitzer sundresses and Brooks Brothers’ monogrammed golf-sweaters, but I was fascinated. I was convinced (since I was a teenage TV junkie) the Woodhill Country Club, built among some the largest estates of suburban Minneapolis, was built on a bedrock of scandal.
Every summer when we were kids, my brother and I would visit my
grandparents on Lake Minnetonka in Orono, Minnesota. We spent some of
our days waterskiing on Mud Lake, seeing plays at the Guthrie, and
riding the rollercoaster at Mall of America. But most of our WASPy
Midwestern days were spent at the Woodhill Country Club playing tennis
or lounging poolside. Many teenagers were bored by Woodhill’s sea of
Lilly Pulitzer sundresses and Brooks Brothers’ monogrammed
golf-sweaters, but I was fascinated. I was convinced (since I was a
teenage TV junkie) the Woodhill Country Club, built among some the
largest estates of suburban Minneapolis, was built on a bedrock of
scandal.
If television has taught us nothing else, it has certainly informed us
that the more affluent a community, the more skeletons lurk in its
walk-in closets. On “Dynasty,” Alexis’s butler trapped her in a cabin
and set the building ablaze. On “90210,” Kelly was nearly date-raped at
a Halloween Party. On “The O.C.,” Julie had an affair with her
sixteen-year-old daughter’s ex boyfriend. And, most recently, on
“Gossip Girl,” Georgina blackmailed Serena for her involvement in the
death of a cokehead suitor. Woodhill members included Mill City
Millionaires whose parents and grandparents (including mine) founded
the likes of The Pillsbury Company, Target, and General Mills. I
thought one of them must have had an affair with their indicted
ex-business partner’s transsexual cousin. Fortunately or unfortunately,
I was mistaken. As I entered college, I slowly and sadly discovered
that Woodhill was just as clean-cut and wholesome as it appeared—with
one notable exception…The Bootleg.
The Bootleg, a summer cocktail made from lemonade, crushed mint, soda
water, and a choice of rum, vodka or gin, is Woodhill’s only relic
which points to a scandalous past. According to my grandfather, during
Prohibition, Minnesotans got their alcoholic fix from grain merchants
in Duluth who would either smuggle gin from Canada or make it in their
bathtubs. Occasionally they would get a bad batch of rotten-gut Gin.
However, with the shortage of booze, drinkers couldn’t be choosey so
they mixed this gin with lemon and mint to mask the taste and stench of
the lousy gin and the Bootleg was born. While now this drink is more
often consumed after a rousing round of golf, and not in the dim light
of a Minneapolis Speakeasy, drinkers must still beware. The sweetness
of the lemonade and the fragrance of the mint belie the powerful punch
packed into each cocktail. Have one too many and you may find yourself
creating some scandal at Woodhill after all.
Bootlegs are made from 1 part Bootleg Mix, 2 parts club soda, and 2 parts gin, vodka or light rum.
Bootleg Mix can be purchased at the Woodhill Country Club in Wayzata, MN or made by combining a packed cup of mint leaves, a can of condensed lemonade, and a can of condensed limeade in a food-processor.