I first discovered the Orient Express cocktail tucked away in a dim, velvet-lined speakeasy in New York last summer. It was one of those sticky, late July nights when the idea of stepping onto an imaginary train bound for somewhere cooler, more mysterious – Paris, Istanbul, anywhere but Manhattan – felt impossibly appealing. One sip, and suddenly it wasn’t so hard to picture myself peering out a window at moonlit countryside, watching the world slip by.
This drink really is a little journey in a glass. It steals its name from the fabled train that once linked the West to the East, winding luxury and intrigue together and inspiring a thousand stories. No one seems to know exactly who first crafted the Orient Express cocktail – we can blame the usual suspects: imaginative bartenders from the golden age of travel. All I know is, since I tried it, I’ve returned to it again and again, both for solo nightcaps and when I want to give dinner guests something a bit more evocative than a standard gin and tonic.
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If there’s a secret to the Orient Express, it’s the way it quietly blends familiar cocktail cues – gin, orange liqueur, lime – with an unexpected wave of cardamom. That subtle spiciness is what hooks me every time; there’s nothing “ordinary” about it. Pour one for a friend and just watch their eyebrows rise at the aroma alone.
Ingredients:
- 2 ounces gin (I usually reach for something green and herbal, like Hendrick’s)
- 1 ounce orange liqueur (Cointreau is my default)
- 1 ounce fresh lime juice (it’s worth squeezing by hand)
- 1/2 ounce simple syrup
- 2 dashes cardamom bitters (don’t skip these – they’re not just a flourish)
- Orange peel, for garnish
How to make it:
- Heap up your cocktail shaker with plenty of ice. I mean really fill it – don’t be shy.
- Pour in the gin, orange liqueur, lime juice, and simple syrup.
- Dash in the cardamom bitters. I’ve tried it with and without, and trust me, it’s not the Orient Express without them.
- Shake the life out of it: about 15 seconds, until the outside of the shaker feels like winter.
- Strain into a chilled coupe or, if you must, a martini glass.
- Take a strip of orange peel, twist it over the glass to release those oils, run it around the rim, then drop it in.
The result is all sunlit citrus and cool gin, then that whisper of cardamom sneaks in and lingers. I love how it’s both bright and layered. It tastes somehow classic and unexpected all at once.
If you’ve got non-drinkers at your gathering, you can riff a zero-proof cousin: splash together some good tonic, a slug of orange and lime juice, a dash of honey syrup, and those same cardamom bitters. Hand it over in a coupe and nobody will feel left out.
Over the years, I’ve started to play. A few slices of muddled ginger for cold weather, a torn basil leaf or two when summer herbs are calling, or – one desperate evening – simple syrup I’d hastily infused with crushed cardamom pods because I was fresh out of bitters. Not the same, but delicious in a pinch.
Food-wise, this cocktail stands shoulder to shoulder with big flavors. Last month I paired it with a spicy Thai green curry, and it sailed through the meal – its sweetness reined in the heat, and that hint of cardamom echoed the curry’s own background notes. Cheese boards love it too, especially the sharper, nuttier wedges.
One warning: do not try to cheat with bottled lime juice. Fresh is everything here, no matter how lazy or rushed you feel. And don’t forgo the orange peel garnish; it’s not just aesthetics, it makes every sip bloom.
There’s a little magic in this drink, I think. Maybe it’s the storied name, maybe the hidden spice, or maybe just the way it makes a Wednesday evening dinner feel like a ticket to somewhere far away. I’ve shared the recipe so many times I could recite it in my sleep, and somehow every time I mix one for someone new, it reminds me to slow down and enjoy the ride. Isn’t that what the best journeys – and cocktails – are meant for?
