Let’s face it.  I am not a natural Aperol Spritz kind of person.  Normally, it is the sort of drink that I wouldn’t look twice at.  After all, if I couldn’t be persuaded to drink Cinzano Bianco by Leonard Rossiter and Joan Collins, I should be immune to the orange allure of Aperol Spritz.  But there is just something about it, which has kept me intrigued; wanting to try it; even perhaps secretly hoping that I might find myself sufficiently enamoured that I convert to a habitual Aperol Spritz drinker.

Because Aperol Spritz is not just a drink.  It is a lifestyle.  It suggests afternoons spent in lazy, summer idleness.  It is a drink to be sipped; swirled, provocatively around its big balloon glass; a drink to be looked at, drunk by people who want to be looked at.

If nothing else, that description should tell me it is not a drink for me.  I want a drink that can be necked; one that rarely stays long enough in its long, straight glass to be swirled; a drink that is obdurately anonymous, drunk by people who prefer to sit alone in dank, dark places, head down, bent low over a sticky, beer-stained table.  Often grumbling to themselves.

But still the curiosity remains.  I know that my restless drinking spirit will find no peace until I have tried an Aperol Spritz. 

It is with a degree of embarrassment that I make my order; utter the words in an almost whispered undertone, almost willing the barman to mishear me, and serve up my usual pint of wheat beer.  But there is no misunderstanding.  There it is: the distinctively ostentatious glass; the chink of ice cubes; the orange Aperol liqueur; an equal amount of Prosecco; a dash of club soda; even a plastic straw thrown in for good measure––I didn’t know such things still existed; only in Aperol Spritz Land.

It is a big moment.  I prepare to take my first sip of Aperol Spritz.  What am I expecting?  If I am being honest, something like an alcoholic Lucozade.  Nothing wrong with that.  In fact, I think that Lucozade are missing a trick not producing an 18+ version themselves.

I am feeling rather self-conscious.  Are people looking at my drink?  Looking at me, drinking my drink?  On the whole, I think not.  I take my first sip; suck, actually.  It is definitely not a drink to neck.  Not even one to suck at furiously.  Do I like it?  I am not sure.  It is… enigmatic.  It is refreshing but, on the whole, if I want something refreshing I would probably prefer a cider.  It reminds me of a weak sangria.  I’m not saying that is necessary a bad thing either; nothing wrong with a weak sangria.  On the whole, it is not a drink I would choose to accompany a meal; I think that I would always prefer a wine instead, either red or white.  Will I try it again?  Probably not, although if someone bought me another, I am not going to turn it down.

Ultimately, it comes back to that question of lifestyle.  While I might quite like the taste of Aperol Spritz, it just doesn’t fit into my natural environment.  If people are looking at me drinking it, it is not because they are envious of my continental savoir faire, it is because they are wondering what kind of illness this middle-aged woman is suffering from that requires her to be sitting in a north London boozer drinking a big bucket of Lucozade filled with ice cubes.

© Beery Sue

Beery Sue has one for the road.  But only one