The Forgotten Fizz: Tracing the Rise and Fall of Champagne Cocktails in the Jazz Age

The Manhattan wasn't named after the island. It was named after the club (how many of you knew that?? We sure didn’t) The Sidecar may or may not have been invented in Paris, depending on who's telling the story and how many they've had. And the martini has more origin myths than Greek gods.

But here's what we know for sure: the cocktails that defined the Jazz Age didn't just appear in glasses. They showed up in lyrics, in late-night recording sessions, in the very fabric of the Great American Songbook. Gershwin, Porter, and Berlin weren't just writing songs. They were sound tracking a culture that believed a well-made drink was as essential as a well-turned phrase.

They were probably right.

When the Music Met the Mix

The 1920s and '30s didn't invent cocktails, but they perfected the ritual around them. Prohibition forced drinking underground, which somehow made it more glamorous. Speakeasies required passwords. Jazz played until dawn. And if you knew the right people, you could get a drink that was actually good, not just whatever bootleg was available.

The Songbook emerged right alongside this. Cole Porter was writing "I Get a Kick Out of You" in 1934, casually name-dropping champagne while making it clear he got his real thrills elsewhere. Gershwin's "Someone to Watch Over Me" became the unofficial anthem for anyone who lost at love but learned that what remains, love distilled into memory, can never be taken away.

 

The songs didn't just describe the era. They were part of the experience. You'd hear them on the radio, in clubs, at parties where someone's uncle had in his possession a speakeasy card. The music was the soundtrack; the drinks were the plot device.

Three Classic Cocktails, Three Iconic Composers

The Martini: Dry, Direct, and Very Gershwin

There's nothing accidental about a martini. Gin (or vodka, if you must), vermouth, a twist or an olive. It's precision masquerading as simplicity. The same thing George Gershwin did with a melody.

Consider "I Got Rhythm." Four notes that became the harmonic foundation for countless jazz standards. Simple on the surface, endlessly sophisticated underneath. That's a martini in musical form.

The classic formula:

●     2½ oz gin

●     ½ oz dry vermouth

●     Lemon twist or olive

Stir with ice (never shake, James Bond notwithstanding), strain into a chilled coupe. Put on “Rhapsody in Blue.” 

The Sidecar: Elegant, Balanced, Thoroughly Porter

Cole Porter wrote lyrics like he mixed drinks. Everything in perfect proportion, nothing out of place, and always with a hint of something unexpected.

"Night and Day" is all longing and restraint. “Just One of Those Things” is heartbreak delivered with a shrug and a perfectly timed punchline. And "You're the Top" is a list of superlatives that somehow never feels excessive. Porter understood that sophistication isn't about showing off. It's about knowing exactly when to stop.

Which is the entire philosophy of the Sidecar. Cognac, orange liqueur, lemon juice. Three ingredients, perfectly balanced. No garnish theatrics, no unnecessary flourishes.

The formula:

●     2 oz cognac

●     ¾ oz Cointreau

●     ¾ oz fresh lemon juice

Shake with ice, strain into a sugar-rimmed coupe (optional, but if you’re going to go through the trouble to make the cocktail, one more step won’t hurt, right?). Queue up "In the Still of the Night." Marvel at how something this simple can be this good.

The Old Fashioned: Timeless, Sturdy, Pure Berlin

Irving Berlin wrote "Blue Skies" in 1926 and it became an instant standard. Straightforward, emotionally direct, built to last. No tricks, no gimmicks, just a great melody that does exactly what it promises.

That's the Old Fashioned. It predates Prohibition, survived it, and emerged as the ideal of what a cocktail should be: spirit, sugar, bitters, ice. That's it. Beauty in simplicity.

Berlin's songs had the same quality. "Puttin' on the Ritz," "Cheek to Cheek," "There's No Business Like Show Business." They sound effortless because the craftsmanship is so solid you don't notice it.

The formula:

●     2 oz bourbon or rye

●     1 sugar cube (or ½ tsp sugar)

●     2-3 dashes Angostura bitters

●     Orange peel

Muddle sugar and bitters with a splash of water. Add whiskey and ice. Express orange peel over the drink Put on "Blue Skies." Understand why some things never go out of style.

 

Why These Still Matter

Here's the thing about vintage cocktails and Songbook standards: they're not "vintage" because they're old. They're vintage because they've proven themselves. They've outlasted trends, fads, and countless imitators because they were made right from the start.

A well-made martini doesn't need elderflower foam. "Someone to Watch Over Me" doesn't need a remix. They work because the fundamentals are sound. That means good ingredients, careful construction, respect for the form.

The Jazz Age understood this instinctively. If you're going to break the rules (and Prohibition was one hell of a rule to break), you'd better know them first. Gershwin studied classical composition before he reinvented it. The best bartenders of the era learned the classics before they started improvising.

Making It Modern

You don't need a speakeasy password or a gramophone to access this world. You need decent spirits, fresh ingredients, and a willingness to take your time.

Make the drink properly. Put on the music. Notice how they complement each other. How a sip of a well-made Sidecar right when Porter hits a particular chord change can make you understand why people got so excited about cocktail hour in the first place.

It's not nostalgia. It's continuity.

The Last Call

The Great American Songbook and vintage cocktails both insist on the same thing: that pleasure is worth doing well. That craft matters. That sophistication isn't about exclusivity; it's about paying attention.

So here's to the composers who gave us the soundtrack and the bartenders who provided the accompaniment. To the songs that made us feel understood and the drinks that made us feel capable of anything.

As Porter wrote in "Anything Goes," (which, coincidentally, is also excellent advice for both mixing drinks and playing jazz) "Times have changed, and we've often rewound the clock, since the Puritans got a shock."

Some shocks are worth repeating.

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At Songbook Ink, we believe the best evenings are built on good music, better drinks, and the right glassware to hold both traditions. Cheers.