By Isabella Duarte
I have a theory: you only really know someone once you’ve heard them order a Spritz. There are the ones who say “an Aperol” and point at the next table’s glass. There are the ones who ask whether there’s an alcohol-free version and then finish mine. And then there’s us, the insufferable ones, watching the bartender pour the way you’d watch a tailor take your measurements: in silence, with love, and ready to step in.
This isn’t snobbery. All right, a little. But a badly made Spritz is a small and entirely avoidable tragedy: too much melted ice, too much soda, the colour of a fairground fizzy drink. So I did what I do with everything I care about, from a cashmere coat to a contract: I read the fine print.
Blame it, as usual, on an empire
The Spritz wasn’t born of an Italian idea but of an Austrian complaint. In the 19th century, when the Veneto belonged to the Kingdom of Lombardy–Venetia under the Austrian Empire (1815 to 1866), Habsburg soldiers found the local wine too strong. Their fix was to cut it with a splash of sparkling water. The German for “to splash” is spritzen. And there’s your name.
I love this origin story because it’s so deeply human: someone arrives somewhere beautiful, can’t handle the wine and, instead of adapting, starts a trend. I know women who have done exactly that with flat shoes.
My favourite fact to show off at dinner: according to research by the Venetian journalist and historian Alessandro Marzo Magno, reported in Treccani’s language magazine, the oldest known printed mention of a “Spritzer” dates from July 31, 1857, in the Pesth-Ofner Localblatt, a German-language newspaper published in Budapest. It described wine mixed with sparkling water, and the dispatch was filed from St Mark’s Square in Venice. In other words, the Spritz had a Venice correspondent before it had a colour.
The orange came later (from Padua)
For decades the Spritz was simply wine and sparkling water. Even today, in Friuli-Venezia Giulia and Trieste, if you order one you may be served exactly that: white wine, sparkling water and a thin slice of lemon. It’s the version closest to the original, and it’s surprisingly elegant, like a perfectly pressed white shirt.
The twist came after the First World War, when the aperitivo became a habit and the bitters that give it its colour arrived. In 1919, in Padua, the brothers Luigi and Silvio Barbieri unveiled Aperol at the Padua International Fair, after seven years of experiments that had begun in 1912. The name comes from apéro, French for aperitif. It’s 11% alcohol, which goes a long way to explaining its success in the late afternoon.
A year later, its rival was born in Venice. Brothers Mario and Vittorio Pilla, from Bologna, opened their distillery in the Castello sestiere, and on May 29, 1920 they registered the Select brand. It’s a deep ruby red, with juniper and rhubarb root among its botanicals, and Venetians defend it with the fervour other people save for their football team.
The right ratio, no arguments (almost)
Here’s the part I’d like you to tattoo, discreetly, on your wrist: 3-2-1.
The official recipe from the International Bartenders Association, the closest thing cocktails have to a civil code, says:
- 90 ml prosecco
- 60 ml Aperol
- A splash of soda (Aperol itself puts it at 30 ml)
- A slice of orange
You build it straight into a wine glass full of ice and stir gently. You don’t shake it. Shaking a Spritz is like ironing silk on the highest setting: technically possible, morally questionable.
My method, which follows the rule and adds a few quirks:
- A big, well-chilled glass. A stemmed balloon wine glass, as the brand recommends. A small glass can’t hold the ice a Spritz deserves.
- Lots of ice. Really. The IBA says “a glass full of ice,” and full means full. A lukewarm Spritz is unforgivable.
- Prosecco first. Properly cold. That’s the order in Aperol’s own recipe: prosecco, then Aperol, then the soda.
- Soda last, and not much of it. Thirty millilitres is a splash, not a river. If your Spritz tastes watery, this is almost always the culprit.
- One turn of the spoon. Just one, so you don’t kill the bubbles.
A confession that sets me free: even the sources don’t agree. In a 2019 press release, Campari Group, which owns Aperol, described the Spritz as “equal parts” Aperol, prosecco and soda, and its Asian website suggests a shorter pour of prosecco. The IBA and Aperol’s official site stand by 3-2-1. I’m sticking with 3-2-1, because if even the brand can’t make up its mind, the least you can do is pick a side and defend it with charm.
The Venetian code: Select and an olive
Order “a Spritz” in Venice and there’s a good chance you’ll be asked “with what?” The answer that makes the bartender smile is Select. The house recipe is almost the same ratio on a different scale: 7.5 cl prosecco, 5 cl Select and 2.5 cl soda or seltzer, plus the detail that changes everything: a big green olive instead of the orange. Salty, plump, slightly absurd. Perfect.
And if you want to impress someone without saying a word, order a Spritz with Cynar, the artichoke bitter born in Padua and launched in 1952. The IBA lists it as an alternative, alongside Campari and Select. It doesn’t taste of artichoke, I promise. It tastes like someone who’s been here before.
What really makes a good Spritz
After years of ordering them on terraces around the world, my conclusion is less technical than you’d think. The recipe matters, of course: 3-2-1, plenty of ice, one turn of the spoon. But what turns a Spritz into a ritual is the moment: six in the evening, the light going golden, a little something to nibble, and nobody checking the time.
The Austrians wanted a lighter wine. Without knowing it, they invented the world’s best excuse to stay sitting for one more hour. I’ll raise a glass to them, with soda. But not too much.