Old Fashioned

There are drinks, and then there are monuments. The Old Fashioned is not just a cocktail. It is a declaration. A handshake from another century. A smoky whisper from a time when men wore hats without irony and you could still smoke in restaurants without someone giving you the side-eye.

It’s not a complicated drink. In fact, that’s the point. It laughs in the face of pretension. No foam, no tincture, no goddamn infused nonsense. Just whiskey, sugar, bitters, water, and a twist of citrus. That’s it. No need for fancy names or theatrical smoke domes. It doesn’t need help. It was born right the first time.

The Old Fashioned is arguably the oldest cocktail in the American canon. We’re talking about the early 19th century, when the word “cocktail” itself was a new idea. Back then, the recipe was known as a “whiskey cocktail,” and it followed a standard formula: spirit, sugar, water, and bitters. That was the law. It was simple, strong, and honest. The kind of drink that got you through a hard day’s work or a long night of brooding.

Then the world got clever. Bartenders—sorry, mixologists—started tinkering. Absinthe here, crème de whatever there. The whiskey cocktail faded into the background, a relic too blunt for modern tastes. But some people missed it. They wanted a drink made the old-fashioned way. And so the name stuck. Out of nostalgia and stubbornness, the Old Fashioned was reborn.

It had its peaks and valleys. The mid-20th century gave it a run—Don Draper-esque Mad Men drinking culture didn’t hurt—but by the ‘70s and ‘80s it had become a syrupy mess. Bar cherries, soda water, and orange slices were muddled to death. It was a sad impersonation of its former self, a cocktail gone to seed. It took the craft cocktail renaissance of the early 2000s to drag it out of the ditch, rinse off the sugar gunk, and remind people what the drink was supposed to be.

Today, a good Old Fashioned is a litmus test. Unfortunately, with Mad Men making the drink ubiquitous, there’s a lot of bad versions out there. If the bartender reaches for a decent bourbon or rye, adds a sugar cube, two or three dashes of Angostura, a splash of water, and stirs with a touch of reverence, you’re home.

It’s not just the taste. Though yes, a well-made Old Fashioned hits like a hammer wrapped in velvet. The slow burn of the whiskey, the soft sweetness, the perfume of citrus oils on the rim. It’s balanced and grounded, like an old blues riff played on a beat-up Gibson. It reminds you that there’s no need to complicate a good thing.

But it’s more than that. The Old Fashioned is a ritual. It’s the drink you order when you’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re not posturing. You’re not flirting. You’re just there, sitting with your thoughts, soaking in the moment. Maybe you’re on your third. Maybe you’re having the only one you’ll need.

You sip, and it doesn’t just taste good. It feels right. It feels like a memory. Like your grandfather’s hand on your shoulder. Likea bar that never changes. Like the world, for a moment, makes a little more sense.

In a universe drowning in caramel vodka and pumpkin spice nonsense, the Old Fashioned stands firm. Stoic. Patient. Unmoved. It waits for you to come to your senses. And when you do, it’s ready.

No fuss. No garnish circus. Just the truth in a glass.

Drink it slow.

How to Make It

Ingredients:

2 oz (60 ml) bourbon or rye whiskey

1 sugar cube (or ½ tsp simple syrup)

2 to 3 dashes Angostura bitters

A few drops of water

1 large ice cube (or several smaller ones)

Orange peel

Instructions:

Start with the sugar: Place the sugar cube in a heavy-bottomed rocks glass. Add the bitters and a few drops of water (just enough to dissolve the sugar).

Muddle gently: Muddle until the sugar is mostly dissolved. You’re not making a purée. You’re making a base.

Add the whiskey: Pour in two ounces of your chosen whiskey. Stir gently for 15–20 seconds. Add ice: Drop in one large cube or a few smaller cubes. Stir again until the glass feels cold.

Express and garnish: Take a strip of orange peel, twist it over the glass to release the oils, then rub it along the rim. Drop it in or discard it—your call.

Notes from the Old Guard:

Bourbon will be smoother and sweeter.

Rye will be spicier, drier, and more old-school.

Never muddle oranges or cherries.

No soda water. The ice is your dilution.

This is not a fast drink. This is something you sit with.

Peter Gietl is the managing editor of Frontier and Return. He lives in Texas.