There's a drink that is sophisticated and sexy in Italy, where they like it mixed with soda. It's very hip among young professionals in Brazil, who prefer it on the rocks. It sells roughly the same volume worldwide as Jack Daniel's. Back in 1932, it gave us the world's first alcopop, sold today in beautiful volcano-shaped bottles.
In every other country in Europe, this drink not only sells well, but has the sort of cachet you'd expect from the title sponsor of the Italian Grand Prix. It's hard to see why, for the past two decades, it has failed to make any impact in Britain.
"The Lorraine Chase ad was a terrible mistake," sighs Enzo Visone, the managing director of, yes, Campari International. Not that he holds the infamous 1970s Luton airport ad to blame for Campari's lacklustre British sales, but Campari is an elite brand, and Lorraine Chase appeals to, shall we just say, an entirely different market. Funnily enough, more than 20 years on, we still rate it among the top 15 TV ads of all time.
But that alone isn't enough to explain why the British don't find Campari sexy. On paper, the drink has tremendous allure: the signature translucent red, the chic Continental associations, the slightly inaccessible bitter flavour that marks it out as a drink for connoisseurs. Add to that how our restless drinks market is ripe for a new cult drink (particularly one that, in Campari-soda, comes in a cute bottled version for bars and pubs) and, well, you can only conclude that we ought to be gagging for it.
"Our British distributor has been telling me that for the past three years," says Visone. "Everything seems perfect for Campari to take off, but . . ." Over the past 20 years, Campari has tried everything to hook us - from the usual above-board advertising to carefully staged guerrilla tactics - but will we pay attention? No.
Perhaps the colour is a problem. British men tend to shy away from having anything even vaguely pink - and vermilion is close enough - in their glass. The idea is, I suppose, that it's unmanly - though this sort of thing never bothers the Italians or the French, who have realised that true masculinity is located elsewhere. Or perhaps it's to do with the taste. I love Campari but, like oysters and black olives, it's an acquired taste. The last person I pressed it on screwed up his face and all but accused me of trying to poison him. Visone dismisses this: "Taste is not a barrier to anything, to my mind." No doubt he's right. If you consider the fortunes made on repellent Bacardi Breezers, which sell in their millions, not to mention Red Bull (and I can remember a time when all my contemporaries agreed they'd never touch the vile stuff), it's amazing that anyone bothers trying to make anything taste good. We live, after all, in a world in which marketing and fashion's whim are king.
I still think the British sweet tooth might be a problem - Campari is quite bitter - but Simon Difford, the former editor of the bartender's bible, Class magazine, points out that around 60 per cent of beers sold in France have sweet fruit syrup added to them, yet Campari is not too bitter for the French. So it beats me.
In a way, I'm pleased. I much prefer being the only person I ever see ordering Campari-soda, which has replaced Campari-orange in my affections since Visone gave me another tip: I'd been drinking my Campari far too diluted. It should be mixed 50:50 with the water, and actually tastes sweeter that way, which I prefer.
I notice that other drink journalists seem to like Campari-tonic, Campari-grapefruit (particularly delicious) and also Campari-vodka (no mixer), which I have seen being drunk with ice by the tumbler - but that's drink journalists for you.
It's such a wonderful drink that I have convinced myself, once again, that Campari fever is surely about to sweep the country. The beautifully designed bottles, the secret recipe (everyone likes a drink with a "story") - everything points to it. And as Visone says of his determination to conquer Britain: "We will never give up."
