R egrettably, I have wasted hours watching Netflix’s Emily in Paris, a show that Entertainment Weekly aptly described as a “brain vacation.” The main character, Emily Cooper, played by Lily Collins, is an intense and energetic workaholic who moved from Chicago to Paris because of her marketing job; she struggles to adjust from American corporate culture to the relaxed French environment. The series is popular among women because of its visual appeal, not its plot. Emily has an enviable wardrobe, and, as she roams through gorgeous streets and villas in France, she interacts almost exclusively with attractive men. The show inspired some fashion trends — and a drinking trend.

In the third season, Emily is introduced to the Kir Royale cocktail and loves it immediately, leading her to pitch a canned version to a client. Her fictional marketing skills had real-world effects: Every American woman who watched the episode was intrigued and desperate to try a sip. Quintessential Brands partnered with the show’s producers to make a canned Kir Royale with packaging inspired by the series, and the product is set to launch with the release of the show’s fourth season this month.

I was among the women eager to taste the ruby-colored cocktail, but I didn’t want a canned version. So I grabbed my tote bag and walked over to the Old Bookbinders Ale House, a cozy French-inspired pub hidden in Oxford’s residential streets. Although the cocktail might be popular now because of a silly television show, it has a far more serious past: a “Nazi-defying history.” The drink is reportedly named after Félix Kir, who was a Catholic priest, politician, and Resistance member; the New York Times said in its obituary that he helped over 4,000 prisoners of war escape from a camp. When he wasn’t heroically saving lives, his other wartime activities included trying to mimic the red wines that had been stolen by the Nazis. When doing so, he invented the Kir cocktail, one part crème de cassis (black currant liqueur) and four parts white wine. That recipe was amended slightly to use champagne instead, making the Kir Royale.

As I sip from the flute glass, it proves challenging to associate the Kir Royale with something as horrific as World War II because the sweet drink is light and fun, a fruity twist to a refreshing glass of plain champagne. It does match the description given by an Emily in Paris character: “The perfect drink to sip and do nothing. . . .” The berry flavor is detectable but subtle and delicate, perhaps because the bartender who served me was gentle when pouring the liqueur. Like the Aperol Spritz, the drink has a photogenic appeal from its brilliant ruby color, the precise shade that I want bottled in a nail polish. But the Kir Royale has the advantage of not tasting like cough syrup, unlike some spritzes. The cocktail is considered an aperitif and meant to be drunk before a meal, but I think it would be perfect with a chocolate dessert.

Recently, I’ve been making Kir Royales at home — partially because I like the taste, but largely because it is impossible to mess up, given that the mere two ingredients can be combined in rather flexible proportions to suit personal sweetness preferences. Here’s another bonus: No fancy bartending paraphernalia is required. I’m not in the tax bracket that allows me to buy good champagne, and thankfully, the black currant liqueur obscures my frugal champagne choices. I guess it is also possible to make what I’d call the Kid Royale, a nonalcoholic and child-friendly version with a zero-proof sparkling juice as a substitute. (Maybe apple cider?) Perhaps I can copy Emily and market this idea. For those tempted to make the Kir Royale at home, be sure not to wear any light-colored clothing that you don’t want ruined with bright red stains. On an unrelated note, I now have to do laundry.