An Old Fashioned Kind of Origin
By Rafi Mercer
If you ever meet me — properly meet me — chances are I’ll have an Old Fashioned in hand. Not because it’s fashionable, or rare, or complicated. Quite the opposite. It’s a drink that’s built on simplicity: whisky, sugar, bitters, ice, and that single slice of orange that changes everything. The gloss of it. The scent. The way the light catches the glass. It’s calm in a tumbler.
I’ve had Old Fashioneds in so many cities now that they’ve become a kind of compass. Tokyo, London, Stockholm, Marrakech — each one slightly different, but always familiar. In a way, it’s my origin drink. The thing that resets me wherever I am, that marks the beginning of another night of listening.
There’s a discipline to making it right. The ritual matters — the slow stir, the cold weight of the glass, the small, deliberate movements. It’s the same rhythm as cueing a record. You don’t rush it. You listen as you build. You measure not by rule but by intuition.
What I love most is that the Old Fashioned, like deep listening, rewards attention. The first sip is sharp — a reminder that patience has power. Then the flavours open, layer by layer, the way a good record reveals itself after a few minutes of silence and anticipation. That touch of orange oil is like a horn line or a piano run — bright, unexpected, perfectly placed.
It’s the drink that sets the tone for wherever I am. Before I walk into a listening bar, before a record spins, before I even speak — that’s the moment I stop, take in the room, and let everything else slow down.
There’s something universal about it too. Every bartender interprets it differently, just as every selector curates their own sound. Some lean sweet, some smoky, some almost ascetic. But the shape is always there, like a well-known chord progression. It doesn’t age, it adapts.
Maybe that’s why I’ve come to think of it as a listening companion. It anchors me. Reminds me to pause. Reminds me that craft doesn’t need complexity, just care. You don’t rush an Old Fashioned — you listen to it.
So here’s to the drink that’s followed me across the world. To the scent of orange in low light, the slow clink of ice, the small moment before conversation begins. Every city has its version. Every night, its pour.
For me, it’s not just a cocktail. It’s a cue. A signal that I’m in the right place, ready to hear what the world has to say next.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters.
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