We were blessed with a warm, sunny day here in Oxford for the first time in months. Like other locals who were desperate to soak up the medicinal Vitamin D, I went to a bar with outdoor seating. (Since I’m boring and not particularly inclined to be sociable, I brought the anthology that I’m reading.) 

The bar mostly served beer, which I will enjoy at a BBQ but never order. I asked the bartender what good cocktails he could make. He endorsed the Aperol spritz on the limited menu. I trusted him and decided to give the classic a try. 

The Aperol spritz possesses many of the qualities I appreciate in a drink. I like the way Prosecco dances on my tongue. I like fruity cocktails that capture summertime in liquid form. I like liqueurs and syrup because a small portion of my taste buds never matured past adolescence. I like holding a jumbo glass in my tiny hands. I like straws to avoid putting my lips where many other people have, and to prevent ice from attacking my face when I take a sip. 

And the Aperol spritz lacks what I hate. I refuse to swallow gasoline, sometimes referred to as “mezcal.” I object to anything green — mint, cucumber, rosemary, thyme, olives — in my cocktails because I don’t want to drink a salad. I will not allow anything other than a piña colada to be blended. 

So I expected to enjoy the Aperol spritz. But I was betrayed. With a single sip, I knew that it was the worst drink I have ever consumed. I resisted the urge to gag. It was as though someone had decided to take the Fanta soda and make it awful. I was crushed by the devastating realization that I paid over ten dollars for sparkling cough syrup. I wondered, did the bartender just commit a hate crime against me? 

As I was writing this article, I prompted my Instagram followers — of which there aren’t many — to defend the Aperol spritz. I received a handful of replies. One friend instructed me to drink it while picturing myself in Italy overlooking the water on a hot day. But a good drink is a drink that is good independent of the environment where it is consumed and without the need for imagination. Another friend said she liked the cocktail’s “fun” appearance. Certainly, the presentation of food matters; I learned this quickly when waitressing. Still, the photogenic properties of dish or glass can’t compensate for its entirely unimpressive — even revolting — taste. Yes, you eat with your eyes first, but you do not eat only with your eyes. I’m convinced that, if Aperol didn’t have its marvelous bright orange color, then nobody would drink it. 

Does the Aperol spritz have its merits? It doesn’t pair well with food — although that is by design. The liqueur is an “aperitif” (French) or “aperitivo” (Italian), deriving from the Latin “aperire” meaning “to open.” Accordingly, Aperol should be consumed before eating because it “opens” the digestive tract. Supposedly, Aperol also primes the palate to eat — but I reckon that is because the awful taste renders you desperate to put anything else in your mouth. So maybe the cocktail has some virtues, but I prefer taste over supposed digestive benefits. 

I confess that I was radicalized with one sip, and I’m resuscitating the temperance movement. I hereby announce my campaign, Abigail Against Aperol 2024. Together, we guide our fellow citizens toward better cocktail orders through moral persuasion.