When I go out for dinner or drinks, I tend to stick with what I know I like: a Dirty Vodka Martini with oysters, an Old Fashioned, a Manhattan, maybe a beer or a glass of Pinot Noir. Cocktail lists are often full of creative drinks that are simply too sweet for my palate. But every once in a while, I’ll order a Negroni. I’ve come to appreciate the bitterness since the Covid days.

While developing my “36 Hours in Savannah” piece, I was introduced to Saint Bibiana’s Infinite Negroni. It caught my attention not only because it was beautiful and delicious, but because there was a story behind it.

I’m a sucker for traditions and rituals, though sustaining them over time can be difficult. Since Saint Bibiana opened its doors, they’ve kept a journal documenting the continuously evolving recipe for their Negroni. Housed in a flimsy tan Moleskine, the book passes from bartender to bartender. As they come and go, they adapt the recipe, make notes, sign their names, and keep the drink alive.

I find something beautiful in that.

Maybe it seems simple, but when I order their Negroni, I feel like I’m joining a journey that started before me and will continue long after I’ve moved along. The drink isn’t simply a finished recipe. It’s something shaped by the people who have tended to it, each leaving a little something behind for whoever comes next.

There’s something poetic about that kind of ritual. The idea that a thing can become more itself over time because people keep adding to it, rather than trying to preserve it exactly as it was.

And maybe that’s why I like the Infinite Negroni so much. It reminds me that some of the best things we create aren’t really ours to begin with, or ours to finish. We simply get to participate for a little while.

Life feels better like this: more connected, intertwined, collaborative, and dependent on one another to make something beautiful.

Even if they did spell it wrong on the first page.

Perfectly imperfect.

Alla prossima