White rum, lime and frozen strawberries blended to a thick slush that holds a straw upright.
Put the rum, frozen strawberries, lime juice and sugar syrup into a blender.
Add the ice.
Blend on high for 30-45 seconds, stopping to scrape down the sides once, until completely smooth.
Test the texture with a straw. It should stand up on its own; if it leans, add more frozen strawberries and blend again briefly.
Taste and add sugar syrup a little at a time if the fruit was sharp.
Pour into two chilled glasses.
Cut a slit in each strawberry and sit it on the rim with a lime wheel, and serve at once.
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Strawberry first and much more sharply than expected, because the lime is doing a great deal of work — 50ml is a lot of acid and it turns what could be a sweet slush into something genuinely bracing. The fruit is jammy and slightly floral, and freezing concentrates it: a frozen strawberry has a more intense flavour than a fresh one because the cell walls have burst and released everything. White rum sits underneath with a clean sugarcane sweetness and almost no other character, which is its job — it lengthens the drink without arguing with the fruit. The sugar syrup is a correction rather than a flavour and should be barely detectable. Cold suppresses sweetness perception significantly, so the drink tastes noticeably sweeter as it melts, which is the main reason to under-sugar it at the start.
Muted, and that is a property of the temperature rather than a fault. At below zero most volatiles are locked down, so a frozen daiquiri smells of very little at the moment it is poured — a faint strawberry sweetness and a little lime. It opens up considerably as it warms, which is one of the few arguments for drinking it slowly.
The entire point. It should be a smooth, dense slush — closer to a sorbet than to a drink — with no ice shards and no grit. Frozen fruit gives a softer, creamier structure than ice does, because fruit freezes with sugars and pectin in it and never sets as hard as water. The texture degrades fast: within five minutes it separates into a pale watery layer at the bottom and a foam on top, and there is no way back.
The blender is the only sound and it tells you where you are: a loud, uneven clattering at the start as whole frozen strawberries and ice cubes are thrown around, changing over about twenty seconds into a smooth, high, even whine as the mixture becomes homogeneous. When the pitch stops changing, it is done. After that the drink is completely silent.
Cold before anything else, hard enough to briefly numb. Then strawberry, then the lime arriving sharply behind it. The rum is barely a flavour and mostly a warmth at the back and a slight lengthening. The finish is short and clean and mostly acid, which is what makes the drink refreshing rather than cloying. As it melts, everything reverses: sweetness comes forward, acid recedes, the rum becomes more obvious, and the last of the glass tastes markedly sweeter and boozier than the first.
A few degrees below zero, and short-lived. There is no ice in the glass to maintain it — the drink is its own ice — so it warms steadily from the moment it is poured and the texture goes before the flavour does. A chilled glass buys a minute or two, which is a meaningful proportion of its lifespan.
It is a poolside drink and it does not want food. If pressed: salty things — crisps, salted nuts — which reset the palate against the sweetness. It works surprisingly well with chilli-hot food for the same reason any sweet cold drink does. It is actively bad with dessert, which it makes taste of nothing, and it is the wrong register for any kind of proper meal.
Easy, and the only variable is texture. Everything else is measured; the consistency depends on how cold your freezer runs, how much water is in your strawberries and how powerful your blender is, so the recipe gives you a test rather than a time.
Low. Frozen strawberries are inexpensive and available all year, the rum is the only real cost, and it makes two drinks.
A blender that can handle frozen fruit and ice — this is the one drink here that genuinely needs a decent motor, and a weak blender will leave lumps and heat the mixture while it struggles. A citrus squeezer. Two glasses, chilled.
Hot weather, afternoons, outdoors. It is also one of the few drinks in the collection that children's non-alcoholic version is genuinely good, which makes it useful at a family gathering.
None, which is the quiet advantage of a frozen-fruit drink — it is exactly as good in January as in July, unlike a fresh strawberry.
Evenly coloured, opaque pink-red, with no visible fragments of unblended fruit or shards of ice. It should hold a soft peak when the blender stops and mound slightly rather than levelling out.
The straw test, and it is a real test rather than a flourish. Stand a straw upright in the middle of the glass: if it stands, the drink is thick enough; if it falls, add more frozen strawberries — not more ice — and blend for another five seconds.
Nothing raw and nothing to manage.
Using fresh strawberries and compensating with ice, which makes a watery drink. Over-blending, which warms the mixture and thins it. Adding all the sugar before tasting — strawberry sweetness varies enormously by season and brand. Warm glasses. And making it too far ahead, which is not a small error: this drink is at its best for about three minutes.
Too thin, straw falls: more frozen strawberries, not more ice. Too thick to pour: 15ml of water or lime juice and a five-second blend. Lumpy: the blender is not up to it — pulse a few times first to break up the fruit before running it continuously. Too sweet: more lime. Watery as it melts: too much ice in the original proportion. Separating in the glass: it is too warm, and there is nothing to be done except drink it faster.
Not really, and this is one of the few drinks where the answer is a flat no. What you can do is weigh out the fruit and the ice in advance and keep them in the freezer, and pre-mix the rum, lime and syrup in the fridge, so that blending takes forty-five seconds when people are ready.
None. It separates within ten minutes and cannot be re-blended without turning to slop.
Not applicable.
Freezing the finished drink produces a solid pink block, not a slush. Do not.
None if you make it for two. If there is any left in the jug it is best poured out rather than saved.
This recipe is already scaled for two because a blender needs volume to circulate. For four, do two batches — a jug filled to the top will not blend evenly.
Any frozen berry works and raspberries in particular make an excellent and sharper version; frozen mango makes a thicker, sweeter one. Aged rum instead of white gives a rounder drink with more vanilla, which some prefer and which fights the strawberry slightly. Lime cannot be substituted — lemon makes it taste like a dessert rather than a drink. Fresh strawberries can be used but need roughly double the ice, and the drink is noticeably more watery for it.
Vegan, dairy-free, nut-free and gluten-free as written. A non-alcoholic version genuinely works here, unlike most drinks on this site: leave out the rum, add 60ml of water or apple juice to keep the blender moving, and increase the lime slightly. It is a good drink rather than a consolation.
Frozen strawberries from a supermarket freezer. Fresh limes. A plain white rum. Nothing here requires a special trip.
Frozen strawberries are cheaper than fresh for most of the year and better for this purpose, so the cheap option is also the right one. Use an inexpensive white rum: it contributes almost no flavour here and an aged or premium bottle is wasted under 300g of fruit.
Frozen fruit has a lower waste footprint than fresh, since nothing spoils in the bag. That is a genuine point in its favour rather than a stretch.
Around 250 calories and roughly 2.4 UK units per drink. The strawberries contribute a genuine amount of vitamin C and fibre, which is not why anybody drinks this but is true.
Worth it, and better than its reputation. The frozen strawberry daiquiri has been badly served by commercial mixes for fifty years; made with real fruit and enough lime it is sharp, cold and not remotely cloying. It costs very little, it takes five minutes, and the non-alcoholic version is one of the few in this collection worth making on its own merits.
Cuba for the daiquiri; the United States for the frozen strawberry version.
Daiquirí in Spanish, with the stress on the last syllable. A frozen one is a daiquirí frappé at the Floridita.
DAK-uh-ree in English, dai-kee-REE in Spanish.
A place: a beach and an iron mine on the south-east coast of Cuba, near Santiago.
The daiquiri is credited to Jennings Cox, an American mining engineer working near Daiquirí around 1898, who is said to have mixed the local rum with lime and sugar. It reached the United States through naval officers and became firmly established in Havana. The frozen version is the work of Constantino Ribalaigua Vert at El Floridita, who from the 1930s made daiquirís with shaved ice — Hemingway's association with that bar and with a sugar-free version of the drink is the reason many people know it. The strawberry daiquiri is a later and separate development: it belongs to the arrival of the domestic electric blender in the mid-twentieth century and, later, to the frozen-drink machines of American chain restaurants, which is why it carries a slightly unserious reputation that the drink itself does not deserve.
It is the drink that stands for the frozen cocktail as a category, and the category has been treated with suspicion by serious bars for decades — largely because most versions are made from a bright pink commercial mix rather than from fruit. A frozen strawberry daiquiri made with real strawberries and real lime is a different proposition and is the point of this recipe.
Heat, holidays, afternoons and swimming pools. It is not an evening drink and it is not a winter one.
Shaved or crushed ice originally, blended since. Ribalaigua's Floridita method used finely shaved ice, which produces a smoother result than cubes and is what a good blender is imitating.
It got sweeter, redder and more artificial through the second half of the twentieth century, as commercial mixes replaced fruit, and it has been coming back the other way since. The other change is that frozen fruit became universally available, which is what makes the version here practical in February.
The Floridita's own daiquiris are a family rather than a drink — numbered variations, some with maraschino, some with grapefruit. Outside Cuba the fruit daiquiri has become a template: banana, mango, peach and passion fruit versions are all standard, and all work on the same frozen-fruit principle.
In using frozen fruit as the bulk of the freezing agent rather than ice, and in giving a physical test for texture rather than a blending time. Most recipes specify seconds, which cannot account for the variation between blenders.
Jennings Cox for the daiquiri and Constantino Ribalaigua Vert for the frozen version are the standard attributions in drinks history. The strawberry version has no claimed author.