The Last Word

In the taxonomy of forgotten drinks, few have experienced as dramatic a resurrection as the Last Word. This equal-parts cocktail disappeared so thoroughly from American consciousness that its rediscovery felt less like revival than archaeological excavation.

The drink emerged during Prohibition at the Detroit Athletic Club, credited to Frank Fogarty, a vaudeville performer, around 1915. Ted Saucier preserved the recipe in his 1951 Bottoms Up, but the cocktail itself faded into obscurity during an era when American drinking culture favored clearer distinctions—sweet versus dry, strong versus light. The Last Word, with its challenging herbal backbone, defied easy classification.

Its resurrection came through Murray Stenson, a Seattle bartender who discovered the recipe in 2004 at the Zig Zag Café. His timing was impeccable: the craft cocktail movement was gathering momentum, and the Last Word became its emblem. The equal-parts formula democratized luxury—three-quarters of an ounce of expensive Chartreuse stretching further than a two-ounce pour, making the drink simultaneously precious and practical.

The Last Word registers at 49 proof with approximately one ounce of pure alcohol—a Strong Sipper in the proof and pour framework. You’re consuming roughly the same alcohol as a standard martini, but distributed across nearly four ounces of liquid after dilution. The herbal intensity of Chartreuse, the subtle sweetness of maraschino, the botanical complexity of gin, and lime’s cutting acidity create something that occupies an unusual position: neither sweet nor sour, neither herbaceous nor fruity, but somehow all of these simultaneously.

This multidimensional character demands attention. You cannot drink a Last Word quickly or casually. The combination of strength and complexity makes it ideal as a pre-dinner aperitif—something to sip slowly while deciding what comes next. The herbal backbone cuts through rich foods, particularly effective before meals heavy in cream or butter. This is fundamentally a solo drink or an intimate conversation piece, not a party pour.

The preparation rewards attention but forgives imperfection. Fresh lime juice is non-negotiable—bottled juice destroys the drink’s delicate balance. Shake vigorously for twelve to fifteen seconds until the tin becomes painfully cold with frost forming outside, visual confirmation of proper dilution and temperature. For gin, avoid anything too juniper-forward; Citadelle works beautifully, its gentler profile allowing the Chartreuse to shine. Green Chartreuse cannot be substituted—yellow lacks the necessary intensity. Luxardo remains the standard for maraschino. The equal-parts ratio is insurance against measuring errors, but only if you honor the proportions.

Strain into a chilled coupe, not a martini glass. The coupe’s broader surface area allows aromatics to develop without affectation. No garnish necessary. The common mistake is inadequate shaking—if your Last Word tastes harsh or disjointed, you haven’t diluted enough. The second mistake is poor lime juice. Squeeze it fresh, strain the pulp, use immediately. The drink’s entire architecture depends on that brightness.