There’s depth, complexity and nuance to this fortified wine that’s worth its own moment in the spotlight
I
like to think of vermouth as the Nile Rodgers of drinks, a backbone of good times known more for big hit collaborations than for its solo work. It is a foundation of any self-respecting cocktail cabinet (though it should be kept in the fridge), and also a family of drinks with many individual talents, which are now at long last being more widely recognised – Waitrose’s most recent Food & Drink report even touted vermouth as a 2026 trend, with searches for the stuff up by 26%.
A fortified wine that originated in 19th-century northern Italy, vermouth is most associated with western Europe, but these days it’s produced in or close to many wine-producing regions across the world. It is made by aromatising a base wine with botanicals – traditionally wormwood, from which it takes its name (wermut in German), but also gentian, citrus peel, herbs, spices and others – before that’s bolstered by grape spirit or brandy, generally taking the ABV to between 15% and 18%. This is a gladiator of a wine: it has brawn, but also plenty of complexity.
And yet, historically, its complexity has been chronically underrated. A vermouth is usually identified simply by its colour and/or dryness, rather than by its unique tasting notes. I only started to appreciate its nuances when I lived in Spain, where a vermut arrives on the rocks, singing from a tumbler with just a simple orange and olive garnish, which allows you to taste something of the base wine with which it started, the flavours of the botanicals used and/or the cask in which it might have been aged. A side-by-side tasting of Atamán and Golfo – both imported to the UK by Brindisa, and very different beasts, made respectively with palomino (sherry) grapes in Jerez and old vine tempranillo in Ribera del Duero – is a case in point.
