For travelers to Europe, the rainbow of aperitifs in Mediterranean bars and restaurants has long been a fascination.
There is the extraordinary concoction, the color of Kermit’s blood, served in iced highballs that all four members of that stylish French family are sipping. (Crème de menthe.) Shall I try the bright-yellow stuff that shimmers like liquid gold in the Portofino sunshine? (Limoncello.) And who in their right mind would want to drink anything neon blue on the shores of Juan-les-Pins? (You do. It’s an anise liquor called P’tit Bleu.)
With cocktail culture’s color wheel spinning again in the 2010s, we’ve moved out of our blue period and into the orangey red of Aperol. Best presented in a big balloon of a wine goblet with lots of ice, a glug of prosecco, a jigger of soda water, and a wedge of Sicilian orange, it’s very photogenic and not too alcoholic. La dolce vita in a glass—a sweet, fizzy, and easy spritz.
Now, like a bubbly orange tsunami, Aperol has overtaken cocktail lounges from Naples to New York, Venice to Venice Beach, Cortina to Courchevel. In 2023, Aperol sales increased worldwide exponentially, especially in the U.S. In the Veneto region alone, almost 300,000 Aperol spritzes are consumed every day—more than the 200 every minute in Venice proper.
Matt Hranek, the editor of Wm Brown magazine and author of books on the Negroni and martini, reports that in Rome one can buy beakers of Aperol spritz from street vendors, similar to how one acquires a hurricane in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.
Aperol has become a sociopolitical phenomenon as well. Its ubiquity and popularity among millennials and Gen Z has even caused distress among the Italian Establishment. In 2023, the country’s minister for family, natality, and equal opportunities suggested that young people were too busy drinking Aperol to think about having babies. “In Italy, children are not born due to a cultural problem,” the minister lamented to the press. “It is a choice between the spritz and the child. ”
The actress Zendaya is only one of many influencers who has taken to Aperol-colored nail polish, inspiring dozens of enamel brands to cash in on the trend.
Now Aperol is no longer just a summer affair. It’s the cocktail of choice in smart resorts throughout the Alps and the Dolomites. What looks better against a bluebird sky and the white peak of the Matterhorn than a cheerful blend of rhubarb, bittersweet botanicals, and the obscure gentian and cinchona plants?
“In Italy, children are not born due to a cultural problem. It is a choice between the spritz and the child.”
At Selva di Val Gardena’s Rifugio Emilio Comici restaurant, favored by Prince Albert of Monaco and a whole grid of Formula One drivers, patrons drink Aperol like they do soft drinks. Some of them may be wearing Aperol’s new collection of ski-wear, scarves, beanies, and Norwegian-style knitwear.
This all makes sense given that the Spritz Veneziano, as it used to be known, originated in the mountains. Back in the 19th century, Italy’s Veneto region was controlled by the Austrian Empire. Thirsty Habsburg soldiers in search of something alcoholic—but not overly heady—would yell “Spritzen!” (Splash!) to their Italian bartenders. Water was added to prosecco, sometimes with a dash of botanicals, and the spritz was born.
Aperol came much later. A portmanteau of the French apéro (aperitif) and Italian sole (sun), the bottled amaro was invented in the Veneto town of Padua in 1919. Brothers Luigi and Silvio Barbieri, heirs to a liqueur business, macerated sour-orange peels, gentian root, rhubarb, and spices in their father’s distillery. They launched their invention at the Padova International Fair’s Campionaria exhibition, devoted to food, travel, and lifestyle products.
Riding a nascent wellness trend that took hold during the Prohibition years, low-alcohol Aperol Barbieri was marketed to casual drinkers, mostly women, who wanted to stay in shape. The advertising campaigns promised, “Signora! Aperol keeps you thin.”
Aperol was all the rage in Italy during the 50s and 60s, but by the 80s, its summery luster had started to fade. It became known as a fast, cheap, and sugary drink favored by winos. Its sales were confined mostly to Veneto.
By the 90s, the spritz’s fizz had gone flat, too. The Negroni and the Bellini took over. Campari made a comeback. Metropolitans drank cosmopolitans. Alpinists who preferred colored fizz popped rosé champagne.
But then a savior arrived in the shape of Campari Group. It purchased Aperol in 2003, and Robert Kunze-Concewitz, Campari’s chief executive officer from 2007 to 2024, masterminded a revival that targeted the free-spending beer-drinking demographic. A key component: stand-alone Terrazza Aperol bars, which opened in Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, in Milan, and the Campo Santo Stefano, in Venice.
By the time Kunze-Concewitz defected to Carlsberg, last year, sales had quintupled. Today, Aperol accounts for more than 20 percent of Campari’s multi-billion-dollar business. No wonder Kunze-Concewitz received such a generous parting gift: a cool $30 million. (He was replaced by Matteo Fantacchiotti, but he only lasted five months. Campari Group’s new C.E.O., former William Grant & Sons boss Simon Hunt, started on January 15.)
What is the appeal of a drink that tastes, depending on one’s palate, of either earthy-floral-vegetal delight or embittered cough syrup? Hranek believes it’s all linked to the time and place it’s enjoyed. “At the hotel in Capri by the pool just before lunch,” he declares. “Around 11:45 a.m. It’s the perfect ramp to a long afternoon in the shade. Lovely color, looks good on your Instagram—perfect.”
There are many appealing variations. At the Grand Hotel Tremezzo, on Lake Como, the barman adds Jeio Prosecco, a splash of Chiarella soda, a dash of essential oils from Sicily, and exactly 15 ice cubes.
Hranek has his own formula. “Use champagne instead of prosecco, and forget about the soda water altogether,” he advises. “This unsweetens and intensifies the drink, adding a bit of bitterness. And if it’s in season, finish with a blood-orange wedge. Mmm.”
Simon Mills is an editor at Wallpaper and a writer at The Times of London
