I’m sure I would have hated this drink at some point in my life, the strongly bitter liquid with a finish reminiscent of that thick, nasty, red cough syrup that my mother would dose out in big tablespoonfuls when I was a child. Heck, Campari even resembles that disgusting cough syrup in color; I wonder suddenly if it’s not some secret component of of the medicine, with Campari‘s known quality as an aperitif derived of herbs that are actually good for you.
If I hated the bitter, medicinal quality as a child, it is surely this very aspect that I now adore, for my adult body craves only what is good – and I don’t mean sugars. I would choose bitter salad greens over creamy sauces, naturally-sweet fresh or dried fruit over sugar-saturated pastries on almost any day.
Whatever the reason, my palate is developed enough to now enjoy the strong, tangy, bitter complexity of the Negroni in any form I’ve yet tried.
And apparently there are many variations on the theme.
Obviously Italian in origin, the common belief is that the classic beverage of the early nineteen-hundreds is a concoction of the Count Negroni, who asked for a beefed-up version of the typically-drunk cocktail, the Americano: a blend of bitter Campari and sweet vermouth, served over ice with a lemon twist. In the Count’s Negroni, gin is the ‘beef,’ added in equal parts to Campari and a sweet vermouth, garnished with an orange slice.
Since then, a ‘perfect’ version has been devised, with double the amount of a better-quality (but not best-quality) gin added to equal parts Campari and sweet vermouth and, as always, served over ice with a hearty wedge of fresh orange for sweetening the cocktail.*
Generally, though, I prefer the ‘Raultini,’ introduced to me by an Italian-Canadian friend at his restaurant in Ontario, wherein the very orange-colored and citrus-flavored Aperol replaces the more intensely-bitter Campari. The result is a version sweeter than the classic Negroni, and slightly less potent.
Ah yes, this is a potent drink. Clearly, as it comprises three equal parts of different alcohols, with nothing beyond a good squeeze of fresh orange and what ice melts in the glass while one sips.
When first reading of this cocktail, I read it listed as a classic ‘man’s drink’, one of those traditionally not served to the more gentle, delicate palates (and constitutions?) of early-twentieth-century ladies. This was a serious drink for serious drinkers; women were surely not desired to be so impaired by nor considered to be able to withstand the effects of hard liquor as were men. Which made it, of course, all the more appealing to me; my notions of classic femininity are well-tarnished with the free-wheeling rebellion of modern feminism – and blended well with a love of joining men in any situation where I might bask in their gentlemanliness while sitting pretty and participating in what they do, in a more observant, genteel and feminine way.
That being said, I tend not to knock back more than one classic Negroni (or Raultini); even sipping slowly, I start to feel the effects fairly well within about half an hour.
Which brings me to the wrong Negroni, the sbagliato.
“Did I ever tell you my favorite cocktail is a Negroni?” I posed to my Italian friend who resides just outside of Milano.
“A regular Negroni, or a sbagliato?” he returned.
A sbagliato?? I’d never heard of such a thing, yet his tone was as if it was as common as a gin-and-tonic.
The sbagliato, it was revealed in my first google attempt*, is Italy’s answer to the kick of the classic Negroni: remove the gin and replace with prosecco. The word literally means “wrong” – it is the Negroni, done all wrong. But the result is a beverage about half as potent and far less bitter, with all the stomach-soothing benefits of the original aperatif. Which explains the current popularity of this truly-Italiano cocktail; it may be wrong, but some mistakes are brilliant.
I don’t know if they’re better made with sweet or dry prosecco; I’ve tried mine with an off-dry organic one (and am blasphemously curious about attempting it with Champagne!) and substituted a couple wedges of California satsumas for orange slices (being sweeter and far juicier than naval oranges). The result is fresh, bitter-sweet and probably more suited to a Californian or Monacan climate in mid-December than to the chilly-cool air of Atlanta.
Regardless, this mistake suits, too, and feels very festive in sparkling red dressed with fresh winter citrus.
Perhaps another lovely version, especially for the holidays, might be served chilled and neat in a champagne flute, with macerated satsuma and decorated with a satsuma leaf… Or, for larger parties, mixed in a silver punch bowl with floating satsuma leaves and stems for ladling out into pretty glasses. Mmmmm….
As blasphemous as this may sound to Italians, it’s clear that the Negroni has been an evolution since the beginning, a search for something special and uniquely grown-up.
And that’s the beauty of mistakes, of sbagliati: they’re opportunities to find perfection in imperfection – making them the perfect New Year’s drink.
Happy New Year.
*Bitterman, Mark. The Definitive Negroni Spagliato Cocktial Recipe, http://www.inthecupboard.com/2008/08/05/the-sbagliato-cocktail-recipe-strikes-the-new-world. August 5, 2008.
Oceans of Mine 