How to Make a Whiskey and Vermouth Cocktail

A brief story: I was once taken to a bar by a friend. “You’re going to love this place,” he said, “they have a whole menu of Manhattans!”

“Great!” I replied. I love Manhattans. I’m an American, am I not? The Manhattan is one of the best cocktails ever invented. It is a cornerstone of mixology, the patriarch of a whole family of incredible cocktails and one of the best things you can drink on this planet or any other. You’re telling me this bar’s menu is devoted to Manhattans? I can only assume they love the cocktail as much as I do and have put in serious work to discover some delightful combinations of rye, sweet vermouth, and bitters, combinations I was excited to try as soon as I could.

I’m not naming the place because of what happened next. I picked up the menu and instead of effort and expertise, was greeted with something resembling its exact opposite: The menu was an invitation to “Build your own Manhattan,” under which they listed a dozen types of American Whiskey, a dozen bottles of vermouth, and a dozen bottles of bitters. It was on me to choose my own adventure among the 1728 possible combinations. 

I was livid. I still am, to be honest. Embedded in this lazy, mumbling, room-temperature bath of a “menu” is the idea that all Manhattans are equally good, and that all you need to do is mix rye, vermouth, and bitters together and it’ll be great. This is not in any way true. It’ll be OK, possibly even good—one of the charms of the Manhattan is that it’ll be pretty good with most combinations, provided you don’t totally screw up the preparation—but we shouldn’t be content with a pretty good Manhattan. I want a phenomenal Manhattan. I want a Manhattan that’s so good that I interrupt a conversation to say “you’ve got to try this,” the kind of Manhattan that I text my best friend about before I’m done drinking it and that I’m thinking about at least once a day for the next week. If, as bartenders, that isn’t our goal, then honestly, what are we even doing here?

This is, sadly, the state of most of the discourse on the Manhattan. Look up a recipe online (of which there are roughly a hundred million) and you will likely find the following: 2 oz. rye whiskey, 1 oz. sweet vermouth, 2 dashes of bitters. I don’t want to be too harsh here (most people don’t know any better) but this commits the same error as the aforementioned “Manhattan Menu,” namely that the brands and styles don’t matter, and so simply calling for a generalized “rye whiskey” is like giving up on the idea of greatness before you even start.

The truth about Manhattans is that the specifics are everything. You’ll make a great Manhattan and think, “Ok! That’s my go-to Manhattan vermouth,” but then you try that same vermouth with a different whiskey and it’s terrible. Same with whiskies for a different vermouth. I’ve spent months trying Manhattan combinations—the same rye across six vermouths, the same vermouth across six ryes, etc., etc., etc.—and what I consistently found is that it’s not about any one special bottle of whiskey or vermouth, but about how each two unique products work together. I’ve come to realize that it’s something resembling a landscape: There are many amazing Manhattans, peaks on the flavor landscape, places wherein the vermouth and rye and bitters combine to form something truly special. This is unrelated to the age or scarcity or general luxuriousness of the whiskey or vermouth themselves—you have to start with something good, of course, but the Manhattan is a duet, and it’s all about how the two harmonize together.

Below are a few of my favorites. There are many more yet to be discovered. But hopefully you like them as much as I do, and if you’re inspired, help orient your compass, to find some fabulous combinations of your own. And if I’m really lucky, they’ll get you to a place where you are as contemptuous of the flaccid, whimpering equivocations of a “Build your own Manhattan” menu as I am.

The Opulent Manhattan

For this cocktail and the additional recipes below, add ingredients to mixing glass, stir on ice for 15 seconds (small ice) to 30 seconds (bigger ice). Strain into stemmed cocktail glass and garnish with a quality cocktail cherry.

This is my personal favorite—not The Best, necessarily, but the one I find myself making over and over again, that for me is the most satisfying and deep and complex. The Cocchi Vermouth di Torino has a deep bold vanilla note that some people code as too sweet, but it’s the extraordinary depth it hits that elevates this combination to my favorite. It’s like a rollercoaster—it starts with the vermouth’s fruit and rye’s grain high and front on the palate, then a big swing low on the midpalate to Angostura’s bitterness and the vermouth’s vanilla hum, then a big swing back up to the finish with the rye’s oak and the bitter’s spice.

The Dark Manhattan

Punt e Mes is a bittersweet vermouth (the name is slang for “point and a half,” as in, “a point of vermouth and a half point of bitter”). It is visibly darker than its competitors and tastes darker too, all black cherries and bitter chocolate, and combines beautifully with the filtered sweetness of Dickel Rye. Most Punt e Mes Manhattans taste different enough to nearly warrant a new name, but Dickel Rye, distilled in Indiana but filtered, aged and bottled in Tennessee, handles it gorgeously.

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The Eccentric

As much as anything, this one indicates just how many possibilities are out there. Sazerac is a great rye for Old Fashioneds and Sazeracs and yet stubbornly refused greatness for most of the Manhattan trials—it was pretty good with Lustau and a little less good with Punt e Mes, but split those vermouths 50/50 and it’s gold. Lustau is a sherry-based vermouth (as opposed to all the others, which are based on a mild white wine like Trebbiano, and the sherry will bring some light nutty qualities with bounce off the chocolate of Punt e Mes and the oaky punch of Sazerac to unusual but wonderful effect.