Introducing Tender is the Night

A poetic barrel-aged black vermouth for all occasions.

A rare Spanish-style vermouth for the discerning drinker.

Casa Carmen's barrel-aged black vermouth comes from the best local grapes and natural herbs and spices, black walnuts from the farm, and oranges of Seville. Try it on its own, or on the rocks, with a twist of orange.

The Pour

Drink it neat by the fire on a cold winter night.

Vermutería Style

Add ice, a slice of orange and an olive, a splash of bubbles and drink it anytime.

Marianito Preparado

Add bitters, a splash of gin, a twist, and drink it close to the ocean breeze.

"It's herbaceous and spiced, like a brooding grown-up root beer when topped with soda and a twist."

Wine & Spirits Magazine


Inspired by John Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale," this rare Spanish vermouth will transport the truehearted drinker to worlds unseen on the "viewless wings of Poesy."


My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
  But being too happy in thine happiness,—
    That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
          In some melodious plot
  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.



O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
  Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
  Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
          And purple-stained mouth;
  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim...





Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
    Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
          But here there is no light,
  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
  Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
  White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
    Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
          And mid-May's eldest child,
  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
    The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.



Selections, "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats, 1795 - 1821