Manhattan

The Manhattan is a drink that lies.

Not about its contents – those remain admirably straightforward – but about its origins. The most popular legend places its creation at the Manhattan Club in the 1870s, supposedly commissioned by Jennie Jerome (Winston Churchill’s mother) for a banquet honoring presidential candidate Samuel Tilden. It’s a tidy story, complete with British-American aristocracy and political intrigue.

Unfortunately, it’s almost certainly false – Jerome was in France at the time.

Purported provenance aside, what we know with greater certainty is this: by the 1880s, the Manhattan had achieved the status of a classic, appearing in bartending guides and ordered in establishments from New York to San Francisco. The drink likely evolved organically in multiple locations, a natural marriage of available ingredients – American whiskey, Italian vermouth, and aromatic bitters – that somehow achieved perfect equilibrium.

In the Proof & Pour hierarchy, this drink sits in the high-proof, standard pour category at roughly 29% ABV with 2 ounces of pure alcohol. It is assertive, but not unduly overwhelming. Where the martini is all angles and austerity, the Manhattan offers something more forgiving. The sweetness of vermouth tempers whiskey’s assertiveness, bitters provide aromatic complexity, and the cherry offers a final punctuation of sweetness.

This is a pre-dinner drink, a contemplative sipper that warms rather than jolts, and as such it has earned a place as one of my all-time favorites. It’s what you make when you want the transition into evening to feel deliberate but welcoming, when you’re settling into a comfortable chair rather than standing at attention. The Manhattan accommodates the drinker – it won’t punish small variations in execution the way a martini will.

Traditional preparation follows a near-liturgical sequence.

Begin with a mixing glass filled with ice. Add two ounces of rye whiskey (purists insist on rye for its spicy backbone, though bourbon offers caramel smoothness), one ounce of sweet vermouth, and two to three dashes of Angostura bitters. Stir – never shake – for thirty seconds until properly chilled and diluted. Strain into a Nick & Nora, as it’s perfectly sized for this small yet potent drink.

For the rye, Rittenhouse has become the unexpected standard—a bottled-in-bond overproof that was once obscure but earned its reputation through sheer performance. The higher proof stands up to dilution better, maintaining character even as the ice opens it up.

For vermouth, Carpano Antica Formula is worth seeking out. Its vanilla-tinged richness and subtle bitterness elevate the drink beyond what standard sweet vermouths can manage, and it has the added benefit of stimulating appetite—making this an ideal pre-dinner choice in more ways than one.

For the bitters, there really is no substitute for the classic Angostura, however Regan’s Orange Bitters makes a nice accent, if you do two dashes of the former and one of the latter.

The stirring deserves attention. Shaking introduces air bubbles and creates cloudiness; stirring maintains the drink’s jewel-like clarity while achieving proper dilution. This isn’t mere aesthetics – the slow incorporation of ice water opens the whiskey’s aromatics and softens its edges without compromising character.

A properly made Manhattan should be bracingly cold, slightly viscous, perfectly balanced between sweet and bitter, soft and sharp.

For garnish, you have philosophical choices. A brandied cherry leans into the drink’s sweetness and provides a boozy finale. A lemon twist, expressed over the surface, adds brightness that cuts through the richness. Both work; they simply shape the experience differently. The drink is forgiving enough to accommodate either voice.