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IT BEGINS WITH A CLINK. A tall glass. A pour of something golden. A hiss of fizz. The highball — deceptively simple, endlessly adaptable — is the cocktail world’s quiet overachiever. It's not flashy. It's not fussy. But it is, in many ways, perfect.
The highball, broadly speaking, is a spirit (often whisky) mixed with a larger amount of a non-alcoholic companion (typically carbonated). But behind this seemingly straightforward formula lies a long, winding journey: from genteel English salons to boisterous American bars to minimalist Japanese izakayas — with detours through war, glassmaking, and even steam trains.
A Sip of the Past
The highball’s roots trace back to 18th-century England, when Joseph Priestley’s invention of artificially carbonated water met the spirit of the moment: brandy. Thanks to advances in glass production, bubbly brandy-and-sodas became the preserve of the fashionable set, albeit served at room temperature (ice, after all, wasn’t yet on demand).
When wars and vineyard blight made brandy scarce, whisky stepped in, particularly Scotch, whose popularity surged after Queen Victoria fell in love with Balmoral. By the dawn of the 20th century, the Scotch highball was, as cocktail historian David Wondrich puts it, “the most fashionable drink in America.”
Stateside Stardom
Across the Atlantic, the highball slipped into American life with ease. The soda fountain craze of the 19th century set the stage, and by the 1890s, bartenders were already scribbling “high ball” into their recipe books. Chris Lawlor’s The Mixicologist (1895) offered several variations, and Harry Johnson’s influential Bartenders’ Manual (1900) sealed the drink’s status.
Who named it? No one knows for sure, but the theories are as charming as the drink itself. Some say it came from American railway signals, where a raised “high ball” meant full steam ahead (a fitting metaphor for a good drink). Others point to the Irish slang “ball” for a measure of whisky, served in a “high” glass. Still others say it was simply shorthand for a “glass of whisky and soda, please.”
The Japanese Art of the Haibo-ru
But if the highball was born in Britain and raised in America, it found enlightenment in Japan.
There, it’s known as the haibōru, and it’s not just a drink — it’s a discipline. Ever since Suntory’s Shinjiro Torii opened his Torys bars in the 1950s, the Japanese highball has been treated with near-religious reverence. Ice is “sweated” to smooth its edges. Soda is cold, dry, and precisely carbonated. The whisky is often Japanese, but the method is universal: precision, patience, purity.
In modern Japanese bars, machines pour the perfect highball, achieving what some describe as “whisky champagne.” It's light, elegant, and ideal for food pairings — especially in a post-work culture where beer is bloating and cocktails are costly.
It’s no wonder the canned highball is now a staple in Japanese convenience stores, perched beside green tea and Pocky sticks.
One Name, Many Drinks
Despite its name, the highball isn’t monogamous. Whisky and soda may be the classic duo, but the highball family includes gin and tonic, rum and Coke, vodka and orange juice, and the nostalgic Seven and Seven.
Today’s bartenders are stretching the boundaries further. Think Osmanthus syrup with Japanese whisky. Thai Mekhong rum with lime and soda. Ginger ale or yuzu soda instead of club soda. Even garnishes are getting thoughtful — a twist of shiso, a sprig of rosemary, a tiny carved ice sculpture (because, of course).
The highball has become a canvas. One where clarity, contrast, and restraint matter just as much as the ingredients.
What Makes It Endure
So why does the highball last — when so many cocktail trends fizz and fade?
Because it adapts. Because it’s honest. Because, at its heart, it’s a drink that doesn’t try to impress you — it invites you in.
It’s what you order when you don’t want to think too hard. Or when you do want to think hard, but prefer to do so over a quietly sophisticated glass of something golden and fizzy.
It’s the ideal aperitif, the eternal “second drink,” the weekday hero. A drink that doesn’t just age well — it evolves, reflecting the tastes, tools, and tempo of each culture that embraces it.
And that, perhaps, is the true artistry of the highball. Not its ingredients. But the way it allows itself to be reimagined — with just enough structure, and just enough space.
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