The Old Fashioned — Time in the Glass

By Rafi Mercer

Some drinks announce themselves. Neon colours, umbrellas, a riot of fruit and fizz. The Old Fashioned does the opposite. It sits low in the glass, amber and quiet, holding only three or four elements: whisky, sugar, bitters, citrus. No flourish, no excess, nothing to distract. It is as close to elemental as cocktails get — spirit at the centre, everything else there only to frame it.

The Old Fashioned is not just a recipe; it is a philosophy. It reminds you that complexity does not always come from addition. Sometimes it comes from subtraction, from distilling an idea down to its bones. To drink one is to drink a kind of wisdom: the realisation that less can indeed be more, if what remains is given attention.

I have always thought of the Old Fashioned as a serious drink, not in the sense of austerity, but in its ability to focus you. It is the cocktail I turn to when I want to think less and be absorbed more. The weight of the glass, the slow dilution of the ice, the aroma of orange oils rising with the whisky — all of it seems to still the noise of the day. You do not rush an Old Fashioned. You inhabit it, one sip at a time.

Its name tells the story. In the early 19th century, cocktails were elaborate affairs — punches of exotic liqueurs, syrups, and garnishes. For those who wanted something simpler, the order became: “a cocktail, the old fashioned way.” Spirit, sugar, bitters, water. Nothing else. Over time, this stripped-back request became codified as its own drink. The Old Fashioned was not a new invention, but a preservation — a refusal to let simplicity be forgotten. There is optimism in that. To choose an Old Fashioned is to believe that what was once good still is. That progress does not always mean complication. That refinement can mean clarity. In a world that constantly adds more, the Old Fashioned asks you to stop, to take away, to notice what is left.

What I love most is the geometry of the glass. Sugar sits at the base, dissolving slowly. Bitters bring depth, their spice and bark echoing in the background. The whisky carries it all — bourbon if you want warmth, rye if you want bite, Speyside Scotch if you want elegance. A single cube of ice cools and dilutes, stretching flavour across time. Orange peel crowns it, brightening each sip with oils. Together they build a structure that unfolds sip by sip. Early on, the drink is bold — whisky dominant, sweet sharpness at the edges. As the ice melts, it opens, softens, rounds. By the end, it is mellow, integrated, more conversation than statement. Each Old Fashioned is a journey in miniature, a story told in one glass.

And while it can be described in prose, sometimes clarity is best served neat. Here is the Old Fashioned written as plainly as it is poured:

The Old Fashioned

• 60ml (2oz) whisky — bourbon or rye are traditional, but Speyside or Islay Scotch offer modern twists
• 1 sugar cube or 1 tsp sugar syrup
• 2–3 dashes Angostura bitters
• 1 large ice cube
• Orange peel

Method: Place the sugar cube in a heavy rocks glass. Add the bitters and a splash of water, then muddle until dissolved. Add the whisky and stir gently over one large cube of ice. Express the oils of the orange peel across the surface of the drink, then drop it in. Serve, sip, and let it unfold.

Unlike many cocktails, the Old Fashioned never hides its base spirit. It demands a good whisky, because nothing will mask it. I have had versions with everything from high-rye bourbons to Macallan sherry cask Scotch. Each brings its own personality. A Lagavulin Old Fashioned is smoke wrapped in citrus; a GlenDronach one is dried fruit lifted by spice. The drink does not impose — it reveals. That is what makes it so suited to the listening bar ethos. Just as an album like Lee Morgan’s Search for the New Land lets each instrument carry its voice, the Old Fashioned lets whisky speak clearly. The sugar and bitters are rhythm section, orange peel a flash of brass, but the melody belongs to the spirit.

The ritual of making one is part of the allure. To stir an Old Fashioned is to affirm that some things are worth doing properly. That a sugar cube can be dissolved slowly, that a peel can be twisted with care, that dilution can be allowed to shape flavour rather than rushing it. In the making of the drink, you find a small act of resistance to haste. And in that resistance is hope. If one glass can be made with care, perhaps an evening can be lived with care. If one drink can slow you down, perhaps a life can be paced differently. The Old Fashioned is not just nostalgia. It is an argument for a better present: one in which we value detail, patience, and balance.

I often think of the Old Fashioned as an evening’s punctuation. Not the opening line, not the climax, but the final paragraph that brings everything together. It is the drink I want when conversation has slowed, when the record is on its last side, when the night is turning towards reflection. And that is the heart of it. The Old Fashioned is not about distraction. It is about absorption. It is about giving one glass, one hour, one record your full attention. It is a serious drink, yes — but also an optimistic one, a reminder that life can be lived with care, that presence can still be chosen.

Perhaps that is why it endures. Because in its simplicity, it shows us something essential: that we do not need more, we need better. That in whisky, as in music, as in life, the old fashioned way may yet be the future.

Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters. For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.