This summer, Aperol Spritz has been flowing from the counters of the most enchanting venues in New York City, from the rooftop of the Independent Art Fair in Tribeca to the flamingo-themed new bakery on my Brooklyn block. In Singapore, you can take an Aperol Spritz bar crawl, and in Paris, it's now a fixture at most cafes next to the local pastis and kir.
It seems that aperitivo (Italy's cherished pre-dinner drink) has become the new happy hour. And yet, the current popularity of Aperol Spritz leaves us Venetians slightly perplexed. How did a drink that, until 20 years ago could only be found in our region's humble osteria (tavern) and cheap local bars, conquer the world?
Concocted in about three minutes with half a glass of prosecco, a third glass of bitter liqueur, ice cubes and a splash of seltzer – added in this order, so that the bubbles naturally burble up – and garnished with a big, juicy olive or an orange slice, the Venetian aperitivo was recently voted Italy's favourite pre-dinner drink. It is so popular that Italian minister Eugenia Roccella deemed it responsible for a population crisis saying that young couples now choose between “drinking spritz and having kids”. In the US, it's become so fashionable that Star Wars actress Zendaya, among others, wears Aperol Spritz–coloured nail polish inspired by the summery orange hue of the drink.
The original spritz wasn't orange though. Its history goes back to the 19th Century when Austria occupied Venice in 1797 and ruled it for decades; the Austrians had no taste for the heavy Venetian wine, Malvasia, and imported their tradition of “Spritzen”, adding a splash of sparkling water to a glass of white wine. The idea to use the local sparkler, prosecco, instead of wine and mix it with a bitter liqueur came much later, when, according to Giuseppe Zanon, bartender and co-owner of the historic Al Mercà café (Campo Bella Vienna, 213) by the Rialto Bridge, Venetians decided that watered-down wine was too light and started to add Aperol, Select, Campari or Cynar (listed in order of sweetest to most bitter).
Aperol – now by far the most popular spritz liqueur around the world – was invented in the nearby city of Padova in 1919 by brothers Luigi and Silvio Barbieri after seven years of experiments, macerating sour orange peels, gentian root, rhubarb and spices in their father's distillery. It was first advertised in the 1920s to drinkers who wanted to stay fit because of its low alcohol level (11%), and to women in the 1930s with the slogan, “Signora! Aperol keeps you thin”. By the '80s, it was dirt-cheap and appreciated by regulars at every local bar in the Veneto region, creating a sort of spritz archipelago in the Po Valley, where the cities of Padova, Venice, Treviso and Vicenza would carry on the tradition, each with their own slightly different recipe.
“Aperol Spritz was the drink of the old salts and the old drunks, the ones at the bar who (I say this with the deepest affection) would say a curse every three words,” explained Roberto Pasini, author of the 2013 pamphlet A Guide to Spritz. It was served in sturdy rock tumblers, “which were indestructible and could be slammed downon the counter of the osteria”.
Rowdy old men, however, were not the only ones to see the appeal of the cheap and cheerful drink. By the late '90s, Padova's medieval squares and the cobblestoned backstreets of its ancient ghetto were crowded every Friday evening with rambunctious students enjoying Aperol or Campari spritzes in plastic cups with their friends. It was an excuse to meet people and stay out late, with the olive garnish often standing in for dinner.
In his song Fame un Spritz (Make Me a Spritz), Sir Oliver Skardy, whom I can only describe as our Venetian Bob Marley, portrayed the osteria as a “real oasis” in the sticky heat of the Venetian summer, where students and grandpas alike would play cards, eat, drink and carouse together.
To ensure it controlled the Venetian market, Campari bought Aperol in 2003. It also brought this regional aperitivo to few selected bars in Milan and, in a true stroke of design genius, started serving it in an elegant and tall balloon-shaped glass instead of the rock tumbler of the osteria.
“A brave choice, but rather annoying”, said Julka Villa, a Veneto native and CMO of the Campari Group, who shared my own averse reaction when she first saw the new glass in bars 20 years ago. But while it looked unnatural, a sort of Milan-isation of a down-home Venetian tradition, it was also a clever, game-changing commercial choice.
This glass gave it visibility and dignity
“This glass gave it visibility and dignity,” said Villa. The glass signified the drink's elevation from the humble osteria to the upper-class bar lounge. The target drinker was no longer the old “medieval barfly” of Padova, who would order it from 12th-Century watering holes, but the aspirational and fashion-conscious crowd of Milan. Glasses no longer needed to be sturdy because no one slammed them on the counter anymore.
Skardy lamented that “spritz used to be cheap, [and] now it's a luxury for yuppies”. But nothing could stop the rise of Aperol, a sort of orange tidal wave that, according to food expert Eleonora Cozzella, was powered by the easy appeal of its colour and taste. “It has a chromatic coherence: it's the colour of the summer evening. You say Aperol Spritz, and you already see yourself on a terrace at sunset overlooking the Adriatic Sea,” she explained. (It's such a distinctive hue that Pasini is creating a pantone colour chart for beginner mixologists who want to get the right tone).
“It's sweet, but people can also enjoy the aromatic flavour, the herbs and the citrus,” continued Cozzella. “And who doesn't like prosecco and the orange?”
A universal crowd-pleaser, and much less alcoholic than Campari, Aperol introduced a taste for bitterness to people who didn't know they liked it yet, Villa explained. In the US, Aperol played a key role in the evangelisation of bitterness. Until about 40 years ago, Americans weren't open to bitter flavours, just as they weren't to dark chocolate, strong coffee or kale. Now, people are Googling questions like, “What the heck is Vermouth?” (a bitter, fortified wine) or “What is red bitter liquor?”, and more existential dilemmas like “Can you drink Aperol by yourself?”
Such global success seems to always come at a price, however. In this case, the casualty was the olive. To appeal to an international audience who preferred the zesty taste of the orange – and, according to Pasini, its cheaper price – there is no mention of the olive in the recipe on the label of the Aperol bottle (just the orange slice garnish). Most non-Italians I asked didn't even know an olive was ever an option.
“It's a big loss for humanity,” said Pasini. The olive garnish adds a touch of salt that tempers the sweetness, especially if you don't rinse the brine. And any serious bartender in Venice would add a full olive with the pit, which is part of the culture of the drink in the city. “There is always that awkward moment when you don't know where to put the pit,” conceded Cozzella. “On the napkin? Next to the chips?”
Pasini prefers the orange and olive together like they used to do in his native Treviso, another town of the “spritz archipelago”. His list of grievances goes on: the commercial recipe has too much Aperol – and too much ice (see his recipe below). He thinks that you only need two ice cubes, not a full glass because “a spritz isnot a mojito”. And because it's a spritz and not a cocktail, he also argues there's no need for a straw.
When speaking with friends back home in Venice, I heard similar sentiments. “Most people still drink Aperol Spritz, but Select is on the rise,” explained bartender Zanon. I called him the moment his cafe opened at 18:00 when he happened to be preparing 24 spritzes at the same time. “Myself, I have drunk too much Aperol, and I am now tired of the sweetness,” he said. In his opinion, Select is having a renaissance, and he proudly offers it as “the true Venetian aperitif” whenever anyone asks for something that's more bitter than Aperol but sweeter than Campari.
A taste for compromise seems to be taking over Padova too. My childhood friend Laura, who also dislikes the sweetness and “excessive ice” of the Aperol Spritz, prefers to mix Campari and Aperol together. Laura's partner Simone drinks it with half Campari and half Cynar. Yet, some Italians forgo the whole spritz and bitter liqueur tradition all together. In the small town of Schio, 35km north-east of Vicenza, they still drink spritz like the Austrians – with only wine and seltzer. And a few elegant organic wineries in Venice have now declared with a veiled pride that they are not the kind of place that serves spritzes, as “real connoisseurs” would never splash water in their wine.
I suppose it's complicated, like everything involving fine taste in Italy seems to be. However, 85% of Italians agree on one thing: they can't give up the habit of aperitivo at least once a month.
“It's a hymn to slowness,” said Cozzella. “The desire to prolong the moment before the dinner. It's an excuse to drink, nibble and stay together a little longer before going home.” That probably explains this ever-evolving 200-year-old spritz tradition, from the time of the Austrians until today: it's a very Italian, prolonged and unhurried pursuit of the perfect flavour of a summer sunset.
Method
- Step 1
Take a tumbler rock, add two ice cubes and a slice of orange. - Step 2
Pour the prosecco on the ice. - Step 3
Add the Aperol and a splash of seltzer water – ideally use a bar gun, but if you don't have it, any seltzer water will do (never use sugary soda). - Step 4
Garnish with an unpitted olive and orange slice
— CutC by bbc.com
