COCKTAILS: The Elusive Perfection of the Gin and Tonic

To me, the gin and tonic is the drink that isn’t, and shouldn’t be, simple. It’s often treated as effortless, almost automatic, yet it’s one of the easiest cocktails to get wrong. The idea of a G&T is flawless: cold, bracing dryness; a clean, medicinal bitterness; refreshing carbonation; a flash of botanicals that lifts everything into focus. The reality, however, is usually disappointing.

More often than not, the gin is poured at room temperature. The tonic, if it’s decent at all, is barely cold. Ice melts too fast, diluting the drink before it ever has a chance to shine. What’s left is either limp and watery, flat and under-carbonated, or both. It’s a tragedy hiding in plain sight.

That frustration is what sent me down a rabbit hole. I became obsessed with perfecting the gin and tonic, not just making it better, but understanding it completely. Over time, I’ve developed approaches that range from practical, at-home fixes to deeply unconventional interpretations that stretch the definition of the drink itself.

If you want a good G&T without much effort, the bare minimum is temperature control. Put your gin and a couple of highball glasses in the freezer (don’t worry, the alcohol won’t freeze). Store your tonic in the coldest part of the refrigerator. When you’re ready, add ice to the glass, pour the gin, then gently tilt the glass and add the tonic. Finish with a squeeze of lime. This will give you a respectable drink, but for me, it still falls short of greatness.

At my bar, in Puerto Banus, Spain, the standard gin and tonic is far more deliberate. I built it from quinine sulfate, the bittering agent in tonic, combined with sugar, clarified lime juice, gin, water, and salt. Each element requires preparation. The lime juice, for example, is clarified so it won’t foam during carbonation. That means enzymes, wine-fining agents, and a spin through a centrifuge. It’s labor-intensive, yes, but precision has its rewards.

Lately, though, I’ve been more interested in stripping the drink down even further, sometimes eliminating lime juice entirely. I’ve experimented with sumac, a tart, berry-like spice that delivers acidity at the back of the palate without overt citrus. And then there’s my favorite provocation of all: a gin and tonic with neither gin nor tonic.

The key ingredient is schisandra, a Chinese berry that does something remarkable. It’s bitter enough to stand in for tonic, sour enough to replace lime, and resinous enough, thanks to its juniper-like notes, to suggest gin. The alcohol? Vodka. Neutral, invisible, functional.

What results isn’t a gin and tonic in the literal sense, but something closer to its essence, the idea of a G&T, distilled. And somehow, improbably, it hits exactly the mark.