Chaos Gardening for Eleven Madison Park

Not a Formula but a Cypher for a Green Spirit

Apr 19, 2025

I walked into Eleven Madison Park with two green bottles tucked in my bag—each labeled with handwritten notes. I’ve been referencing this project a lot lately—I’ve been preoccupied by it’s form and reception and what was in store. I wouldn’t have made this if EMP hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have gone down this path, but now that I have, I’m spellbound.

In the last few years, producers have chased the ancient codes of the monk’s potion. But maybe the code isn’t in the replication of ingredients. Maybe it’s in the garden.

So I stepped into mine—rows and racks of demijohns—and pulled what was calling: vetiver, cucumber, makrut lime, citra hops, fresh shiso, pea shoots.. Chaos gardening. Not replication, but conjuring. I was after the fullest, coolest, brightest green I could summon.

Upstairs at Clemente, I slid into a blue velvet bench. Meg joined me. I met the head bartender Nicole Flora Theresa Giampino.

We ordered drinks. Then more drinks. I was excited, I took photos—of the green bottles beside the glowing menu, of the pre-service meeting unfolding below, of The Fifth Leaf, the drink made with Late Embers, my smoked sunchoke spirit. Everything was beautiful, involved, delicious—and yet there was something casual, almost effortless, about it all. Something like the art baked into the walls and the ceilings.

Sebastian Tollius, the beverage director, came by to introduce himself—after all this time working together, this is the first time we’ve met face to face. I handed off the bottles, and he disappeared with them—down to the kitchen to taste with chef. A short while later, he returned, this time with Josh Harnden, the Creative Culinary Director.

They told me the green spirit I’d made would become the second course of the tasting menu.

A tableside pour. From a crystal chalice.
Blended with snap pea juice. Celtuce. Clarified green apple. Lemon. Mint syrup. Tarragon tincture. Dry vermouth. A regal presentation on a dedicated tray.

I vibrated. I floated. Our server came by and told us there would be no check.

I took more photos—of the ceiling, of the glass, of the honeyed glow. There is no validation quite like Eleven Madison Park deciding your spirit deserves to anchor a course.

Later, I walked home. I called my parents. I texted a few friends.
I pulled out my camera. Slid open the memory card door—

And found it empty.

No photos.
Just the memory: decadent, glowing and green.
Vivid as makrut lime on the tongue.