The Negroni has always been a democracy: equal proportions of three liquors most of the diviest bars would have, each taking up equal real estate of your tastebuds. I claim no ownership of it, but I feel like it was taken from me—and too soon.
Robert Simonson wrote in the foreword to an entire book on the drink that:
At this rate of ascendancy, the Negroni will graduate in a few years’ time from its status as a secondary classic to the halcyon plane occupied by the martini, Manhattan, old-fashioned, and select other top-drawer cocktails.
Perfection knows its place.
But I fear that instead, it’s sidling up to fallible specimens: Jello (sometimes in shots), cupcakes, cans. It’s not its fault—I suppose it’s ours: We squeezed it so hard, it slipped through our fingers.
“While many of us love this drink unabashedly, your average consumer has probably never heard of it and many more can’t identify with or enjoy that characteristic dry bitterness that comes when gin and Campari unite.”