We have expected so little of our zero-proof offerings for so long that even a modest effort at producing an original bouquet of wet flavours is usually met with resounding enthusiasm, or at least with curiosity. Here we have the chance to play with context, offering combinations of ingredients that diners have doubtless tasted on the plate, but never in the glass. Sure, you’ve probably tried ponzu sauce or a Waldorf salad before, but have you ever tried them as drinks?
Do these flavours always delight? Suffice it to say that blue cheese syrup isn’t everybody’s idea of a good time. Less favourable reactions to some of the more potent elixirs have been hilariously visceral, such as a beverage made with a fermented hemp spirit that one woman described as tasting “like hairspray and shoe polish.” Recently, an experiment with melting Swedish salted licorice fish into a dark, briny stock was affectionately nicknamed “orc blood” amongst staff.
What I find especially delightful is when people describe the flavours that appeal to them, but that evade easy characterization.
“This tastes like somebody beating clean linens against a rock on the Cornish seaside,” one person said about a potion composed of a brackish botanical gin alternative made with coastal herbs, tonic, elderflower and orange blossom.
“It tastes the way a walk in the woods feels,” said somebody else about a brew made with spruce tips, saffron and dandelion root.
And there it is, the thing that I love most about mocktails: we do not always know what to expect from them, nor how to describe them. It’s difficult to be jaded about a thing you’ve never tried, and so most folks approach mocktails relieved of the weight of their assumptions, to gather with friends and to try something new.
Who knows how long this open-heartedness towards zero-proof innovation will last? How long the sober curious will remain curious? For now, I intend to enjoy my perch behind.
Love Letters
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This article appears in the July/August 2026 issue of Edify