The negroni that changed my life
If you had told me three years ago that a cocktail would have such an impact on me, I probably wouldn’t have believed you. Until I was 22, I didn’t drink. Not because I was scared to, but because I simply wasn’t interested. Even taking a shot here and there with friends didn’t intrigue me enough to want to push my limits. But here I am, telling you the story of how a drink changed my life.
Back in Paris, surrounded by the streets of the Marais, is a bar called Bar Nouveau. This bar is serenity in its purest form. Small, with turquoise walls, mirrored ceilings, and a Mediterranean-style bar, seating only fifteen at a time. It was heaven. Instrumental music played softly in the background. A bartender, who looked like he could’ve walked straight in from the fields of Greece, shook cocktails with the ease of someone who understood patience wasn’t an obstacle, but a gift.
Having been there three times in the week, I was already familiar with their signature cocktail list. But the one cocktail I love, absolutely adore, is a Negroni. A Negroni, to me, screams decadence. Not only in presentation, but in flavor. The fruity aromas of orange from the Campari, the sweetness of vermouth coating the mouth, the bitter aftertaste, with floral notes of gin drifting in between. Knowing they did some classics, I had to ask.
After a nod from the bartender and five minutes of watching him move like poetry behind the bar, I was presented with a deceivingly simple Negroni. The colors weren’t as deep as I was used to. The large slice of orange had been replaced with just the tip of the fruit, and to keep it cool, two perfectly formed ice cubes. Did I mention it was deceiving?
My first sip was almost — no, entirely — orgasmic. As if I had never really tasted a Negroni until that moment. Suddenly, every other one I’d had in the past fell short. The aromas of orange had an intensity I’d never experienced before — like I’d picked the sweetest fruit straight from the vine and bitten into its flesh. The vermouth only deepened it, coating everything in warmth. And the gin — if I guessed right, a Japanese one — carried it all with a clean, floral lift.
You might think I’m exaggerating. Maybe I am. But I dare you to try it yourself and see how it makes you feel.
After I finished my drink, I didn’t just feel buzzed — I felt moved. I wanted to understand this. To learn this craft, this skill. I wanted to make drinks that weren’t just drinks, but moments — the kind you carry home with you, long after the glass is empty.
