I first tasted a classic Old Fashioned at my friend Ben’s basement bar, where he made it clear that shortcuts – pre-mixed syrups, bottled “mixers,” crushed ice – were strictly forbidden. His whiskey collection took up an entire shelf, and he measured out bitters and sugar with a seriousness usually reserved for chemistry labs. I still remember how the first sip surprised me: bright orange on the nose, warmth all the way down, and just enough sweetness to make you slow down and appreciate it. After that night, I could never look at ordinary cocktails the same way again.
The Old Fashioned isn’t just a relic from some dusty cocktail book; it’s the original American cocktail. Tracing its roots back at least two centuries, it’s survived fads and Prohibition, and it’s still a mainstay for a reason. There’s almost a reverence about its simplicity: whiskey, a little sugar, bitters, orange peel, and maybe a good cherry if you’re feeling fancy. No umbrellas, no seltzer – just the sum of its parts, each one essential.
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This is a drink that invites you to linger. I’m just as likely to make one for myself on a snowy evening as I am to pull out the big ice cubes for friends on a summer patio. Either way, it’s a slow, satisfying ritual that asks nothing more than your patience.
Ingredients & Glassware
To make my favorite Old Fashioned, you’ll need:
- 2 oz rye or bourbon whiskey (I almost always grab Rittenhouse Rye because it’s got that peppery edge)
- 1 sugar cube or 1/4 oz simple syrup (plain, nothing fancy)
- 2–3 dashes Angostura bitters
- 1 orange peel for garnish
- Optional: a single high-quality maraschino cherry – no neon-red stuff
You’ll also want a proper Old Fashioned glass – wide, low, and heavy in the hand. The shape lets you enjoy the aroma while leaving space for that essential big chunk of ice.
How I Make an Old Fashioned
- Drop the sugar cube in the bottom of your glass. Add your bitters (right onto the sugar). If you’ve got it, just the tiniest splash of water helps things along. Smash with a muddler or even the back of a spoon until the sugar is mostly gone.
- If you use simple syrup (I do, sometimes), skip the muddling and put the syrup and bitters in the glass together.
- Add one massive, crystal-clear ice cube if you have it. A tray was the first “luxury” bar accessory I bought for myself, and it’s worth it: one solid cube melts slowly and doesn’t dilute the drink too fast.
- Pour your whiskey over the ice.
- Stir gently – 20 or 30 seconds should do. You’re not looking to water things down, just enough to marry the flavors.
- Slice a piece of orange peel (a little wider and longer than your thumb works best). Hold it over the glass, skin side down, and give it a good twist so the fragrant oils spray across the drink. Run the peel around the rim, then either drop it in or toss it if you prefer.
- If you love a garnish, a real maraschino cherry is a nice bonus.
The magic is in that first taste: a velvet kick of whiskey, a sly sweetness that lingers, and those bright, citrusy top notes. As the ice slowly melts, the drink mellows, and the flavors shift – half the joy is in the evolution.
If you’re skipping the alcohol, I’ve tried Ritual Zero Proof whiskey alternative or Seedlip Spice 94 with tonic. The Angostura bitters add minimal alcohol, but you can look for non-alcoholic bitters if needed. You still get a grown-up, complex drink that’s more than just juice and soda.
Pairing-wise, Old Fashioneds stand up to rich foods – think steak, blue cheese, or dark chocolate. I’ve even had one with maple-glazed bacon at brunch, and I’m not ashamed to admit it was perfect.
One of my favorite party tricks is an Old Fashioned bar: a few bottles of whiskey, different bitters (orange, chocolate, black walnut), and garnishes laid out. Everyone gets to build their own, and it’s a conversation starter every time.
But what I keep coming back to is Ben’s advice the first time he taught me to make this drink: “Don’t rush it.” Making an Old Fashioned is a small act of rebellion against our need for speed – measuring, muddling, stirring, and not multitasking. Even the drinking itself is better slow, when you can notice how each flavor comes through and recall, maybe for just a moment, the stories and people that first taught you the ritual.
Truth be told, I’ve tried plenty of fancy variations – maple syrup with smoky bourbon, a splash of absinthe, walnut bitters – but nothing beats the original done well. All these years later, making an Old Fashioned is both a habit and a gentle reminder: sometimes, the most satisfying things are the ones we don’t hurry.
