Stop messing with my Negroni

My first Negroni was in a bar called Turandot, in a piazza in Lucca, Tuscany. It was the summer of 1996, and I noticed the waiter bringing out an intriguing-looking red liquid, served in a rocks glass over a large ice cube, and garnished with an orange slice. I had agreed to split a bottle of prosecco with my three holiday companions, despite hating the stuff. But it was a warm, lazy evening, the fizz was nice and cold, and a drink is a drink, after all. I asked the waiter to bring me whatever it was he was serving the other customers, and soon I was taking my first sip of what has since been my favourite pre-dinner cocktail.

The genius of the Negroni lies in the equal-parts ratio of bitter Campari, aromatic gin such as London or Plymouth, and sweet vermouth, preferably Cocchi di Torino. When stirred over ice and with a twirl of orange peel, it is a perfect balance of bitter, sweet, floral, fruity, spicy, and faintly herbaceous. The Negroni can be traced back to Florence in 1919. Legend has it that Count Camillo Negroni requested a stronger version of his favourite Americano, which is Campari and sweet vermouth, and the bartender sloshed in some gin to perk up the alcohol content. Who knows if it is true, and frankly, who cares?

Its simplicity makes it the perfect tipple, so why, then, are there countless and growing numbers of variations on offer, many of which do not resemble the original at all? After all, what makes the Negroni a ‘Marmite drink’ is the bitterness from the Campari.

Before I give examples, a note on what I hate about the Negroni: the pretension – how it has attained almost a cult following among the trendy crowd. There is even a ‘Negroni Week’, and it becomes tiresome to witness fellow aficionados lecture Negroni haters on how brilliant a drink it is. But in writing about it, maybe I have become one of those people.

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My love for this cocktail, which I only ever drink before dinner, and never during or after, runs so deep I can’t understand why there are so many bastardised variations. Why mess with perfection? Take the White Negroni, which resembles the original about as much as a whisky and ginger does. The only ingredient that manages to keep its place is the gin, as the Campari and sweet vermouth are replaced with Lillet Blanc and dry vermouth. Then there is the dirty version, with a dash of olive bitters and a few drops of saline solution (salt water) and garnished with a skewered pimento-stuffed olive. Yuck.

I do, however, like the Old Pal, which swaps the gin and sweet vermouth for rye whiskey and dry vermouth. But a Negroni it is not. The Bicicletta is effectively a Campari soda, which can be topped with either wine or dry vermouth. Again, nothing at all like a Negroni. ‘Sbagliato’ means ‘mistake’ in Italian, and never a truer word, because it is also the name of a Negroni with prosecco and no gin.

The Kingston replaces gin with rum, the Spicy is made with smoky mezcal, Campari, and fiery sun-ripened ancho chiles. There is one with an added slug of espresso, and a frozen version, sort of like a red Slush Puppy. The Sharon substitutes gin for sherry, the Gloria is top-heavy with gin, and with added Cointreau, and the Cynar replaces Campari with artichoke liqueur.

There is a sober version, made with Wilfred’s non-alcoholic aperitif, Martini Floreale, and Lyre’s Italian Orange. It’s not half bad in terms of flavour, but one of the joys of the Negroni is the instant hit of the booze. I have a friend who makes his ice from gin, and uses orange bitters rather than peel, so that nothing but alcohol is in the glass. For me, that’s a step too far.

Negroni rules in my house consist of proper, equal measures. One large ice cube goes in the glass first, an orange peel twist (orange juice from a fresh slice changes the taste. If you want orange, use a dried slice), and a gentle stir before drinking. Do not shake as it aerates. Finally, don’t talk about it. That friend who always orders an amaretto, or crème de menthe and lemonade: they are human too.