In the spring of 2010, an essay titled “Negroni Season” was published on the literary and culture website The Awl. Written under the pseudonym Evelyn Everlady as part of a recurring series called “The Worst Boyfriend in the World,” the personal piece detailed a tumultuous relationship with an alcoholic partner set against the backdrop of 2005 New York City. At the time, the author could not have anticipated that a private chronicle of heartbreak and young adulthood would inadvertently spark a widespread cultural obsession, permanently attaching a bitter Italian aperitivo to the concept of seasonal hospitality branding.
The origins of the essay lay in a shared history between the writer and a close friend who had witnessed years of the relationship firsthand and later became a cofounder of the nascent website. The pseudonym was adopted primarily out of caution; the former boyfriend was described as a terribly private and vaguely vindictive person who would surely object to his habits being aired publicly. Furthermore, despite uncertainty over whether anyone outside a small circle would actually read the piece, there was a lingering self-awareness that the author did not necessarily come across looking flawless in the narrative either.
The events chronicled in the essay occurred in 2005, a time when the author was not yet 30 years old but possessed a firm conviction of being fully mature. Domestic life involved living with a partner, hosting dinner parties, visiting farmers’ markets, seeing family, putting up Christmas trees, and jointly purchasing a sturdy midcentury Danish dining-room table. To those living through it, it felt like the pinnacle of adult life.
Looking back, contemporary drinkers often express disbelief regarding the landscape of cocktail culture during that era. In 2005, the classic Negroni—a bitter combination of gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari that was invented by an Italian aristocrat at a bar in Florence in 1919—was virtually unknown in mainstream American society. The drinking public was still emerging from the long shadow cast by the popularity of the Cosmo popularized by Sex and the City, while simultaneously bracing for the alarming proliferation of appletinis.
By the time “Negroni Season” was published five years later, the drink had achieved a modest level of familiarity among certain urban circles. Yet neither the author, her friends, nor various Italian liqueur makers could have predicted the immediate aftermath of the essay’s publication. Nothing the writer had previously produced had ever been shared, cited, and disseminated so widely. Strangers materialized in droves, ready to weigh in on the author’s past romantic choices, while a surprising number of readers wrote in to share that they had lived through remarkably similar experiences.
Whether this widespread resonance tapped into a universal sentiment akin to the uneasy transitional phase described by pop culture icons of youth, or simply struck a chord with the exquisite pain of first love lost, the author remains steadfast in her belief that the viral reaction was not driven by the cocktail itself.
Nevertheless, within a year of the essay’s release, escaping the drink proved impossible. The author experienced a mixture of bewilderment and offense as the phrase “Negroni Season” was rapidly adopted by the hospitality industry for marketing and branding purposes. Because the term was entirely fabricated for the essay, no industry consensus ever existed regarding when the designated season actually takes place. Before long, the bearded intellectuals who formed the author’s preferred social circle abandoned old-fashioneds in favor of the bitter Italian red drink. Over the ensuing years, the beverage transformed into a ubiquitous menu staple, accompanied by an expanding ecosystem of creative and sometimes unusual variations.
A casual glance at contemporary cocktail menus in New York City reveals a dizzying array of reinterpretations, ranging from experimental concoctions like fruit cake and coconut Negronis to more refined offerings. Establishments like Dante in Greenwich Village have even offered pre-batched multi-packs of varied iterations. Meanwhile, cultural touchstones have occasionally thrust related drinks into the spotlight, such as the Sbagliato—an accidentally invented "bungled" Negroni dating back to 1972—which received a massive modern boost following a viral video by actor Emma D’Arcy. Publications frequently endorse seasonal adaptations incorporating complex amari like Fernet-Branca and Cynar, while bartenders across the country experiment with bourbon, rum, and mezcal substitutes. Even non-alcoholic versions, such as the Phony Negroni, have successfully penetrated the market, finding their way onto family lunch tables.
Reflecting on the motivations behind the essay, the author occasionally wonders if it was simply a cheaper alternative to therapy, or if the process was fueled by the literary empowerment found in Nora Ephron’s Heartburn, which champions the catharsis of reclaiming the narrative of one’s own sorrow. Another underlying factor, no doubt, was the quiet satisfaction of knowing how intensely the former boyfriend would despise its existence. Ultimately, such motivations matter very little, as history and popular culture have firmly decreed that the appeal of the Negroni will long outlive the personal anguish that inadvertently helped introduce it to a broader American audience.
As for the former boyfriend, time has moved on; he is now married to someone else and reportedly doing well. The two maintain a civil distance, exchanging polite birthday greetings and occasional acknowledgments on Instagram stories. The author, meanwhile, found stability with a tall and kind partner who ensures life remains clear of anything that induces sickness or sadness. Having abstained from drinking a single Negroni in the 21 years since those events transpired, the author harbors complex feelings about the published piece—occasionally regretting its creation, sometimes wishing her real name had been attached to it from the start, but primarily lamenting that she never figured out a clever way to legally monetize the phrase she left behind.
