A Love Letter
to the Negroni

A Love Letter to the Negroni is the first article in this series. I don’t know what it says about me that I chose one of the stronger drinks on a typical menu as its opening subject, but here we are.

I have drunk Negronis in Milan, Zurich, Paris, Montréal, Rome and Naples, in the mountains, by the sea and almost everywhere in between. I associate the drink with fond memories of all these places and, of course, with the Negronis themselves.

You may be thinking: that is all well and good, but why write an entire article about it? Who should care?

What follows is a personal account of how I came to love this drink, what I want from each of its ingredients and how I make it at home. By the end, you will have my recipe and understand the decisions behind it.

I cannot tell you where I drank my first Negroni. It may have been during a holiday with my parents, somewhere in a nice mountain resort. Clearly, it was not a life-changing experience. There was no sudden revelation, no perfectly cut block of ice and no orange peel that permanently altered the course of my drinking habits.

My appreciation for the Negroni grew slowly but steadily. At first, it was merely the occasional order. I found it bitter, strong and, if I am honest, not particularly pleasant. But it did look cool.

Negronis may be the cigarettes of the drinks world. They have a certain visual appeal long before they become genuinely enjoyable. That probably sounds slightly pretentious, but the Negroni really is an acquired taste. You need some time with its bitterness before you can begin to appreciate the drink in its purest form.

My first real memory of a great Negroni comes from a trip to Milano with a friend in 2021. We had spent the day roaming around the city, looking through shops and stopping wherever something caught our attention. As the afternoon sun began casting its first long shadows across the old façades, we wandered into a bar near the Colonne di San Lorenzo.

The temperature was already beginning to drop, but that did not stop us from sitting outside.

«Due Negroni, per favore.»

A few minutes later, two deep-red Negronis arrived in crystal glasses, each finished with a slice of orange. I cannot remember which gin or vermouth they used. I could not tell you whether the dilution was technically perfect, either. What I remember is how right the drink felt at that particular moment.

It marked the beginning of a beautiful evening. Later, we crossed the city for dinner at a wonderful little restaurant. By the end of the night, there were Negronis in front of us once again, this time as we stood outside another small bar. The first had opened the evening, and the second seemed to complete it.

There was no going back after Milano. The Negroni became a small obsession.

I started making them at home, initially in a rather rudimentary fashion, using whatever bottles happened to be available. Gin was gin, red vermouth was red vermouth, and Campari would surely cover any mistakes. Today, I would probably grimace if I had to drink some of those wonderful early creations.

Still, every questionable Negroni taught me something. The more I drank and mixed, the more clearly I understood what I wanted from the glass.

I wanted the bitterness without the harshness, the sweetness without the stickiness. Above all, I wanted a drink that did not announce its strength before anything else.

The perfect Negroni is a well-behaved gentleman, not a rowdy guest.

At first, I assumed that improving the drink meant buying a better gin. I invested in more expensive bottles and experimented with increasingly aromatic varieties. I also replaced Campari with alternative bitters, hoping to discover something more refined or interesting.

Some combinations were good. Others were merely different. None of them answered the question completely.

Eventually, I realised that the vermouth was the lead artist in this little three-man jazz band. Gin provides the structure and Campari establishes the rhythm, but vermouth holds the entire performance together. It controls the sweetness, contributes many of the herbal and spiced flavours and softens the sharper edges of both the alcohol and the bitterness.

So I began working my way through different vermouths. There are dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, and some are considerably better suited to a Negroni than others.

Eventually, Cocchi Storico Vermouth di Torino took the place of my longtime favourite, Carpano Antica Formula. More on that little change of allegiance later.

Today, my preferred Negroni contains Gordon’s London Dry Gin, Campari and Cocchi Storico. None of these bottles is obscure, particularly exclusive or unnecessarily expensive. Together, however, they understand exactly what they are supposed to do.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning to the Negroni. It contains only three ingredients, yet its balance can be endlessly reconsidered. A small change can make it too sweet, too bitter or too forceful. Get it right, and the drink feels effortless.

And whenever one arrives in front of me, whether at home, somewhere in Italy or at a bar in an unfamiliar city, it still carries the possibility of a very good evening.

At home, the ritual begins with setting out the three bottles, the glass, the ice and the orange. Some Michael Kiwanuka, Kelly Finnigan or Sade plays in the background while I prepare the drink with the attention it deserves.

The final touch is the orange zest. One last squeeze over the glass releases a fine mist of essential oils across its surface. The aroma reaches you before the first sip does.

That first sip should bring a feeling of complete satisfaction. The scent of orange gives way to bitterness, then the herbs and sweetness begin to come through. I like taking a moment to notice them before turning back to the music or the conversation.

You may already understand the sensation I am trying to describe. A Negroni is a mood of its own.

In a good bar, I notice the same things: the cold glass, the light, the music and the people around me. Sometimes the evening is just beginning. Sometimes we have been talking for hours.

So next time you drink a Negroni, feel the cold glass in your hand. Notice the bitterness of the first sip and the scent of orange above it. Listen to the sounds around you. Look at the people you are sharing the moment with.

And, for a little while, simply be present.

Gin

Dryness, structure and juniper.

Although essential to the classic recipe, gin is probably the most replaceable component of a Negroni. Just think of the Negroni Sbagliato, where it disappears entirely. Nevertheless, in a classic Negroni, gin still has an important role to play.

For my taste, it should lift the drink with subtlety and quiet confidence. It provides dryness, structure and a gentle note of juniper without demanding too much attention.

I have tried many different gins in my Negronis. In the end, I came to a rather simple conclusion: you do not need the most expensive or unusual bottle. A good old London dry gin works best.

I currently use Gordon’s, a straightforward and inexpensive choice. What impresses me most is how smoothly it settles into the drink. It wraps around the other ingredients with an almost velvety softness, allowing the vermouth and Campari to express themselves without disappearing completely.

Many gins are bottled at considerably higher strengths. In my opinion, that is unnecessary here. I would even argue that, within reason, a lower alcohol content can produce the more harmonious Negroni. Gordon’s is bottled at around 38 per cent alcohol, depending on the market. That is enough to give the drink structure and carry its aromas, but not so much that the alcohol becomes aggressive or burns at the back of the throat.

The gin should hold the Negroni upright. It should not shout over the rest of the band.

Bitter

Bitterness, citrus, colour and identity.

I have to be honest: I have tried only a handful of alternatives to Campari. It is simply too good at what it does to replace without good reason. Of course, there are plenty of other bitter aperitifs capable of producing an excellent drink. But why insist on changing something that already works?

In a Negroni, Campari is almost an expression of the principle that form follows function. It performs its role so decisively that the character of the entire drink seems to form around it. Its bitterness holds the Negroni in a kind of chokehold, but in a good way. The gin and vermouth may soften its grip, but they never make you forget that it is there.

Campari contributes citrus, herbs and that unmistakable red colour, but above all, it gives the Negroni its identity. It is probably the part that some people dislike most intensely and others enjoy most of all.

The duality of man, one might say.

Vermouth

Sweetness, body, herbs, spice and personality.

Vermouth is the wild child of the three. A remarkable number of herbs and spices shape its production, and their character becomes even more expressive once it enters the drink.

I have probably tried a dozen or more vermouths in my Negronis. I liked some, disliked many and found only a few genuinely impressive. My favourite remained unchanged for most of my Negroni-drinking life, until an unexpected discovery last year.

For years, Carpano Antica Formula held a permanent place in my heart and in my bar. Friends once gave me a bottle while we were organising a murder mystery dinner, and it soon became the golden child of my collection. Its rich sweetness and unmistakable character made it feel almost irreplaceable.

Then, last year, I ran out. Antica Formula is not exactly inexpensive, so I decided to try two other vermouths in the hope that one might come close.

And then, suddenly, the Negroni reached another level.

Cocchi Storico Vermouth di Torino gave me much of the richness I loved in Antica Formula, but with slightly less sweetness. For my taste, that restraint is precisely what makes it so good. The herbal character shines through more clearly, while the drink feels fresher, more balanced and somehow more alive.

Even after buying another bottle of Antica Formula, my opinion did not change. If anything, tasting them again only confirmed it.

Cocchi came in hot and took the crown. It is now my vermouth of choice.