Drink In Life

French 75 Cocktail History After 1927: The Cognac Mystery

Posted on November 10, 2026 by drinkinlife

Welcome to part two of my deep dive into French 75 cocktail history, an ongoing investigation that, despite my best efforts, continues to produce more questions than answers. By 1930, you might think the mystery surrounding this cocktail would finally begin to settle down. We’ve already encountered wartime drinks named for French artillery, competing recipes, an unidentified bartender named Henry, and a famous bartender named Harry. Champagne had been surprisingly absent from much of the story. Then, in 1927, Here’s How! finally brought gin, lemon, sugar and Champagne together in one glass under the name French 75. Case closed. Right?

Not quite. As I discovered while researching Henry, Harry, and the Mystery Behind the French 75 History, the French 75 has a habit of making things considerably more complicated just when I think I’ve figured them out.

Three years later, another Harry entered the story, although this one came with considerably better documentation. Harry Craddock included the French 75 in The Savoy Cocktail Book in 1930, helping carry the cocktail into a new decade and a much wider drinking world. From there, however, the story becomes complicated all over again.

An older version of the 75 refused to disappear. Bartenders began changing how the sparkling version was served. Hollywood gave it a cameo. Then, in 1948, one of the era’s most influential cocktail writers looked at decades of gin-based recipes and essentially announced that everyone had the spirit wrong.

Somewhere further down that road, New Orleans would embrace the French 75 so enthusiastically that Cognac would eventually become an important part of the cocktail’s identity in the city.

Apparently, the French 75 wasn’t finished with me yet.

Harry Craddock Brings the French 75 to the Savoy

The 1930 publication of The Savoy Cocktail Book is frequently presented as the moment the modern French 75 arrived. It was certainly an important moment in the cocktail’s history, but as we discovered in the previous article, the sparkling recipe had already appeared three years earlier in Judge Jr.’s Here’s How!

Image Credit: Euvs vintage cocktail books

Craddock’s version called for two-thirds dry gin, one-third lemon juice and a teaspoonful of powdered sugar. The mixture was shaken and strained into a tall glass half-filled with cracked ice, then topped with Champagne and stirred gently. It sounds remarkably familiar because it is. Gin, lemon, sugar and Champagne had survived the journey from 1927 intact.

What had also survived was the tall glass and cracked ice.

The French 75 as published in Harry Craddock’s 1930 The Savoy Cocktail Book, served over cracked ice rather than in the Champagne flute commonly used today.

Image credit/disclosure:
AI-generated historical visualization based on the documented 1930 Savoy French 75 recipe.

That detail is easy to overlook when so many modern photographs of a French 75 show the cocktail served elegantly in a Champagne flute or coupe glass. Craddock’s version, however, looked quite different. Served in a tall glass over cracked ice, it had much more in common with the French 75 published in 1927 than the versions we’re accustomed to seeing in cocktail bars today.

Then Craddock added five words that may be my favorite recipe instruction in this entire investigation: “Hits with remarkable precision.” A rather entertaining way of warning readers that this was not a cocktail to underestimate.

Image Credit: Harry Craddock-Savoy Alchetron Encyclopedia

After everything I’ve learned about the Canon de 75 modèle 1897 and the cocktail’s wartime name, there isn’t much mystery about that particular joke. The drink may have changed considerably since 1915, but its artillery heritage was apparently still understood well enough in 1930 that Craddock needed no further explanation.

What Craddock didn’t say is equally important. He didn’t claim to have invented the French 75. In fact, the title page of The Savoy Cocktail Book describes the cocktail recipes as having been “compiled by Harry Craddock.” That single word matters.

Much like Judge Jr. before him, Craddock was recording a drink that already existed. Yet the extraordinary influence of The Savoy Cocktail Book would eventually make his name almost impossible to separate from the French 75.

The reason Harry Craddock was standing behind a bar in London in the first place takes us directly into another chapter of the story.

Prohibition Sends American Cocktail Culture Across the Atlantic

This is where Prohibition makes the French 75 cocktail history even more interesting.

The recognizable sparkling French 75 first appeared in an American cocktail book in 1927, right in the middle of Prohibition. Three years later, it appeared in one of London’s most celebrated cocktail books, compiled by a bartender whose own career had been redirected by Prohibition.

Craddock was born in Stroud, Gloucestershire, in 1876. He moved to the United States in 1897, spent years working behind American bars, including several of New York’s best-known hotel bars, and became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1916. When Prohibition arrived in 1920, Craddock returned to England and began working at London’s Savoy Hotel.

Interestingly, he didn’t immediately take charge of the famous American Bar at the Savoy. He initially worked in the hotel’s service bar, becoming head bartender of the American Bar in 1925. By the time The Savoy Cocktail Book appeared in 1930, he had established himself as one of London’s most recognizable cocktail personalities.

Image Credit: Library Of Congress Prints And Photographs Division

While Americans were legally prohibited from buying cocktails in bars at home, American-style cocktail culture was thriving across the Atlantic. Prohibition did not make Americans stop drinking, of course. Speakeasies flourished, alcohol moved underground, and bartenders continued practicing their trade wherever they could. It also encouraged some experienced American bartenders, or in Craddock’s case, an English bartender who had built his career in America, to seek opportunities elsewhere.

London, Paris, Havana and other international cities became important destinations for Americans who had both the inclination and the means to drink legally. The Savoy’s American Bar was particularly well placed to welcome them, offering familiar cocktails in a city where ordering a drink didn’t require knowing the location of a hidden doorway or remembering a password.

This gives the French 75’s 1930 appearance at the Savoy a significance beyond the recipe itself. Here was a cocktail whose recognizable sparkling form had appeared in a New York publication during Prohibition, now being recorded in London by a bartender whose own career had been redirected by the same law.

The French 75 wasn’t simply appearing in another cocktail book. Its presence in both publications offers a glimpse into a period when American cocktail traditions were being preserved, adapted and celebrated on both sides of the Atlantic. Even Prohibition couldn’t keep a good cocktail from traveling.

1934: One Book, Two Different 75s

If The Savoy Cocktail Book makes it look as though the French 75 had finally settled into its identity, William “Cocktail Bill” Boothby complicates matters four years later.

In the 1934 edition of World Drinks and How to Mix Them, we find something rather revealing: the older 75 and the newer sparkling French 75 appearing in the same cocktail book.

It’s a good reminder that cocktail history doesn’t always follow the tidy timelines we create for it. One recipe doesn’t simply disappear because someone publishes another.

The front cover Cocktail Bill Boothby’s World Drinks and How to Mix Them – EUVS

The earlier 75, made with gin, Calvados, grenadine and lemon, was still holding its own alongside the newer combination of gin, lemon, sugar and Champagne. Cocktail historians identify Boothby’s 1934 edition as the earliest documented example of both styles appearing together in one book.

Think about that for a moment. Nearly twenty years after the first documented Soixante-Quinze cocktail appeared in 1915, and seven years after the Champagne recipe entered the printed record, two distinctly different drinks were still sharing essentially the same artillery-inspired identity.

So much for standardization.

As if having two different French 75 recipes in the same book wasn’t enough, Boothby also decided to complicate matters with the glassware. His sparkling French 75 called for a chilled goblet rather than the tall glass specified in the 1927 and 1930 recipes. It’s the earliest documented example I’ve found of the sparkling version being served in something other than a tall glass. The instructions suggest a drink served without ice in the glass, although the wording doesn’t settle that question entirely. Evidently, agreeing on what went into a French 75 was only half the battle. Deciding what to serve it in was another matter altogether.

1934 Cocktail Bill Boothby’s World Drinks and How to Mix Them – EUVS

I’m going to resist following the glassware trail too far just yet. That deserves its own investigation later. For now, it’s worth remembering that while the ingredients of the sparkling French 75 were becoming familiar, bartenders were already experimenting with how it should be served. Even the glass wasn’t immune to a little reinvention.

The French 75 Keeps Changing Through the 1930s

Boothby wasn’t alone in making changes to the French 75. As the decade continued, cocktail books offered different ideas about how the drink should be prepared and served. Some recipes returned to the familiar Tom Collins-style glass, while others favored stemmed glassware. Gin, lemon, sugar and Champagne remained the recognizable ingredients, but nobody seemed particularly concerned with issuing bartenders a memo about what glass the cocktail was supposed to arrive in.

I have to admit, I find this part of the French 75’s history rather entertaining. Here was a cocktail that had finally settled on a recognizable combination of ingredients, yet the bartenders still couldn’t agree on the presentation. Looking back from the 21st century, it’s tempting to imagine that someone invents a drink, writes down the recipe, and everyone follows the instructions from that point forward. The French 75 clearly had other ideas.

Older recipes remained in circulation, new interpretations appeared, and bartenders continued putting their own touches on the drink. What we now consider a classic cocktail was still finding its way, one recipe book and one glass at a time.

From Cocktail Books to Popular Culture

By the early 1940s, the French 75 had moved well beyond the pages of cocktail books. It was turning up at parties, making appearances in Hollywood films, and even providing a little entertainment for screenwriters who knew something about its unusual name.

In August 1940, Bill Chase, writing for the New York Amsterdam News, included a rather entertaining detail in his society column, “Who Said Californians Can’t Give Parties Outta This World?” While reporting on California’s social scene, Chase described a party where guests consumed what he called “gallons of French 75.” That’s quite a lot of Champagne cocktails, and I can’t help wondering just how many people attended that particular gathering. What I find particularly interesting is that the French 75 was being mentioned in a society column rather than a cocktail book. By 1940, it was clearly a drink people were ordering and enjoying, not simply a recipe being passed from one bartender to another.

Illustration inspired by Bill Chase’s August 1940 society column in the New York Amsterdam News. AI-generated historical interpretation, not a reproduction of the original newspaper.

The following year, the French 75 found its way into the 1941 John Wayne film A Man Betrayed, and this time the cocktail received more than a passing mention. During a nightclub scene, a waiter brings up the French 75 and asks Lynn Hollister, played by Wayne, whether he’s ever had one. His response takes the conversation in a rather unexpected direction.

“Nope. But I shot one on our courthouse lawn. Gave me an awful kick!”

Of course, Hollister is referring to the French 75-millimeter artillery gun rather than the cocktail, which makes the exchange particularly entertaining given everything we’ve already discovered about the drink’s name. It’s a clever little joke that works on both levels, particularly since the cocktail itself had developed a reputation for delivering quite a kick.

John Wayne statue outside the John Wayne Birthplace Museum in Winterset, Iowa. Photographed during my October 2026 road trip. © Elaine Luxton, Drink In Life.

Later in the film, Sabra Cameron, played by Frances Dee, orders another French 75 while Hollister sticks with coffee. Clearly, she was the more enthusiastic French 75 drinker of the two.

Then, in 1942, came an appearance I find even more intriguing.

In Casablanca, Yvonne arrives at Rick’s Café Américain with a German officer. When she calls out to Sacha, her companion orders “French seventy-fives.” Given everything we’ve learned about where the cocktail got its name, that’s a detail I couldn’t help noticing. Here is a German officer, in a film set during World War II, ordering a cocktail named for the French artillery gun that had become famous fighting Germany during World War I.

Yvonne responds by asking Sacha to line up an entire row of drinks along the bar, before her companion decides they will begin with just two.

AI-generated illustration inspired by the atmosphere of the 1942 film Casablanca.

Of all the cocktails he could have ordered, I find it rather amusing that the German officer chose that particular one. Whether the filmmakers appreciated the historical irony is another question, but it certainly wasn’t lost on me.

My only wish is that the scene continued long enough for us to see what those French 75s actually looked like. Unfortunately, it moves on before Sacha makes or serves them, leaving yet another French 75 question unanswered.

By 1946, we’re back among the cocktail books, where Lucius Beebe had something to say about the French 75’s earlier popularity among American drinkers. His Stork Club Bar Book offers something we haven’t encountered much of so far: a contemporary writer looking back at the cocktail’s history rather than simply recording another recipe.

Image Credit: The Stork Club Bar Book by Lucius Beebe – EUVS

The French 75 Comes Home

In The Stork Club Bar Book, Lucius Beebe reflected on the cocktail’s association with World War I, suggesting that whether or not it actually originated during the conflict, it was during those years that the drink came to the attention of American drinkers. By the time the war was over, the French 75 had established a place in American cocktail culture.

I appreciate that Beebe didn’t pretend to have all the answers. After following this cocktail through three decades of conflicting recipes and questionable origin stories, it’s rather refreshing to encounter someone willing to admit that its beginnings weren’t entirely clear.

His recipe, however, leaves little room for debate about what went into the glass in 1946: two ounces of gin, a teaspoon of powdered sugar, the juice of half a lemon, cracked ice and Champagne, all served in a tall glass.

Image Credit: The Stork Club Bar Book by Lucius Beebe – EUVS

Nearly twenty years after Here’s How! introduced the recognizable sparkling recipe, gin was still very much part of the picture. The French 75 had appeared in American cocktail books during Prohibition, traveled through the pages of London’s Savoy Cocktail Book, survived the competing recipes of the 1930s, and even found its way into Casablanca. Yet here it was in 1946, still made with gin and served over cracked ice in a tall glass.

For a cocktail that seemed determined to keep changing, that was a surprisingly consistent detail. Which makes what happens just two years later considerably harder to explain.

1948: Cognac Enters the French 75 Mystery

This is where things get particularly interesting. After following the sparkling French 75 through more than twenty years of cocktail books, one ingredient had remained remarkably consistent. From Judge Jr. in 1927 to Harry Craddock, William Boothby and Lucius Beebe, the recipes might have disagreed about glassware, ice and preparation, but gin had remained firmly in the picture.

Then along came David A. Embury.

In his influential 1948 book The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks, Embury presents the French 75 with two ounces of Cognac, lemon or lime juice, sugar syrup and Champagne. He instructs readers to shake the ingredients with crushed ice, pour everything, “ice and all,” into a Collins glass and fill it with Champagne.

Image Credit: SCRIBD

So far, another variation to add to an already rather crowded collection of recipes. Except Embury wasn’t simply offering Cognac as an alternative to gin. He had something to say about which spirit belonged in the cocktail.

He acknowledged that gin was sometimes substituted for Cognac, then declared that a drink made that way really shouldn’t be called French.

Excuse me?

After spending this much time tracking gin through the printed history of the French 75, I admit this was one of those moments when I stared at the page for a while. Had Embury been reading an entirely different collection of cocktail books? The surviving recipes we’ve followed tell almost the opposite story.

The recognizable sparkling French 75 entered the printed record with gin in 1927. Craddock used gin in 1930, and it continued appearing in recipes throughout the following two decades. Yet here was Embury in 1948, treating Cognac as the rightful ingredient and gin as the questionable substitution.

Where did Cognac come from? More importantly, what did Embury know, or believe he knew, that led him to such a different conclusion?

Although I’ve found an earlier reference to brandy as a possible substitute in a 1940 recipe, Embury’s 1948 book is the earliest printed example I’ve traced that specifically presents Cognac as the base spirit of the sparkling French 75. That doesn’t necessarily mean he was the first to make one, and it certainly doesn’t explain why he considered gin the substitution.

For now, I’m left with a rather curious situation. After two decades of documented gin recipes, Cognac had entered the French 75’s history with an author who seemed convinced it should have been there all along.

Gin or Cognac? Even 1948 Couldn’t Decide

If Embury’s Cognac recipe represented a universal shift in the French 75, the story might finally become simple. Except another well-known name in the cocktail world was busy making the French 75 with gin at almost exactly the same time. So much for great minds thinking alike!

Trader Vic’s Bartender’s Guide, first published in 1947 and reprinted in 1948, called for dry gin, powdered sugar, lemon juice and Champagne. The ingredients were shaken with cracked ice and poured into a highball glass containing more cracked ice before being topped with chilled Champagne.

More than twenty years after Here’s How! brought those four ingredients together under the French 75 name, gin was still there, the tall glass was still there, and so was the ice. For all the changes we’ve encountered along the way, some bartenders seemed perfectly happy with the recipe they already had.

Image Credit:Trader Vic’s Bartender’s Guide, Archive.Org

So, at almost exactly the same moment Embury was arguing that a French 75 made with gin really shouldn’t be called French, Trader Vic was publishing one with gin and clearly hadn’t received the memo. I have to wonder what Embury would have made of that.

What we’re seeing isn’t a neat historical hand off from gin to Cognac. Brandy had already been mentioned as a possible alternative, but Embury went considerably further by insisting that Cognac was the proper spirit. Gin, meanwhile, certainly hadn’t left the building. Two influential cocktail books from essentially the same period offered very different opinions about which spirit belonged in the glass.

The question was no longer simply how the French 75 had changed since 1927. I wanted to know how Cognac had gained enough ground for Embury to treat it as the original ingredient, despite the years of published gin recipes suggesting otherwise.

That question will eventually take us to New Orleans, where the Cognac French 75 would develop one of its strongest associations. For now, however, the historical record has left us with two spirits, two influential cocktail writers, and considerably less agreement than I had hoped to find.

The French 75 Mystery Isn’t Getting Any Easier

When I started researching the history of the French 75, I expected to find a few competing origin stories, perhaps an interesting recipe or two, and eventually something resembling a reasonable explanation of how this cocktail became the one we recognize today.

I may have been a little optimistic.

By the end of the 1940s, the French 75 had appeared in cocktail books on both sides of the Atlantic, survived Prohibition, found its way into Hollywood films and developed a rather impressive collection of variations. Gin had been a consistent presence in the sparkling recipes for more than twenty years, yet Cognac was now being presented by at least one influential writer as the spirit that belonged in the glass.

What I find particularly fascinating is how much of this history can be followed through the original cocktail books, and how many questions remain even after reading them. Each new discovery seems to answer something while raising another question I hadn’t thought to ask.

One thing has become increasingly clear to me. The French 75 didn’t evolve in a straight line from one original recipe to the familiar Champagne cocktail we know today. Its history is a collection of overlapping recipes, changing tastes and bartenders who apparently had very different ideas about what made a proper French 75.

So where does New Orleans fit into all of this? That’s where I’m heading next. The city has become closely associated with the Cognac French 75, and I want to find out when that relationship began, how it developed and whether the historical evidence supports some of the stories we’ve come to accept. I have a feeling the French 75 still has a few surprises waiting for me.

In the meantime, I’d be curious to hear what you think. Are you firmly in the gin camp, do you prefer Cognac, or have you discovered another version of the French 75 worth investigating?

Thanks for following along through another few decades of French 75 history. I started this investigation hoping to untangle a few mysteries, but the further I get, the more convinced I am that this cocktail has absolutely no intention of making things easy for me. At least it hasn’t been boring!

Imagining a French 75 magazine filled with cocktail history, fascinating people, memorable places, and stories from around the world. An AI-generated illustration created for International French 75 Day™ 2027.

Who knows, perhaps one day it will be more than an imaginary magazine!

About Elaine

Elaine is an international award-winning travel writer, wine writer, photographer, and WSET Level 3 wine professional who believes every destination has a story worth telling. Through Drink In Life, she explores wine, travel, gardens, books, food, and the quiet moments that make a life well lived.

Read more about Elaine →

All text and images © 2017–2026 Elaine Luxton and Drink In Life LLC. Photography by Elaine Luxton / Drink In Nature Photography. International French 75 Day™ and French 75 Day™ are trademarks of Elaine Luxton. All rights reserved.

Where to Eat in the Dolomites: A Unique South Tyrolean Lunch Stop

Posted on November 2, 2026 by drinkinlife

Pretzels in Italy?

If you cross the invisible geographic border separating the rolling vineyards of Trentino from the dramatic peaks of northern Italy, you’ll notice a fascinating shift. Road signs suddenly display two names instead of one, traditional Alpine chalets begin to replace the more familiar Italian architecture, and even the restaurant menus offer a few surprises. When deciding where to eat in the Dolomites during our road trip from Trento to Val Gardena, I certainly hadn’t expected to find myself contemplating pretzels and sausages for lunch. Pasta, absolutely. A good plate of risotto, certainly. But Weißwurst and a warm, salt-crusted pretzel? Apparently, we were about to discover a very different side of Italian cuisine.

Welcome to South Tyrol.

For centuries, this region was part of the Austrian Habsburg lands before becoming part of Italy after the First World War. Today, the influence of both cultures is evident everywhere, from the Italian and German place names to the architecture, traditions, and food.

It’s one of the things that makes exploring South Tyrol so interesting, particularly if, like me, you enjoy discovering a destination through its history and the dishes that have found their way onto local tables.

As I shared in my earlier article, The Ultimate Dolomites Road Trip: Driving from Trento to Val Gardena, our journey took us through some remarkable scenery, but it also gave us the opportunity to explore a few places we might otherwise have overlooked. One of those was the small village of Colma, or Kollmann as it’s known in German, where we stopped for lunch and discovered that this quiet corner of South Tyrol had quite a bit more to offer than a good meal. Between its centuries of history and the traditional dishes we were about to try, our little lunch stop turned into one of the more memorable discoveries of the day.

A Quiet Village with an Imperial Past

Driving through the Isarco Valley, it would be easy to pass right by Colma without giving it much thought. Tucked between the mountains along the Isarco River, it’s a small village that gives little indication of the role it once played in European travel and trade.

Looking around today, with its traditional buildings and peaceful streets, it’s difficult to imagine the number of people who once passed through this little corner of South Tyrol.

Long before modern roads made traveling through the Alps relatively easy, the Isarco Valley was a well-traveled passage between northern Europe and Italy. The route wasn’t always an easy one, however. In the Middle Ages, the narrow river gorge presented a considerable obstacle to travelers, with steep terrain, marshy stretches, and sections that were nearly impassable.

In 1314, a merchant named Heinrich Kunter financed the construction of a route through the gorge, which became known as the Kuntersweg. It was a significant development for trade and travel through the region, eventually becoming part of the historic Kaiserstraße, or Emperor’s Road.

The vibrant Isarco River, captured here just 15 minutes down the road at the Cornedo Covered Bridge, runs directly past the village of Colma and the tavern doors

Over the centuries, Holy Roman Emperors, nobles, merchants, and pilgrims made their way along this route, many continuing south toward Rome. In 1483, Archduke Sigismund of Austria had Friedburg Castle built in Colma, serving both as a fortified toll station and a means of protecting this important passage. Even Johann Wolfgang von Goethe traveled through the area during his famous journey to Italy in 1786, later writing about his experiences in Italian Journey.

I’ve always found it interesting how often the smallest villages turn out to have the most intriguing histories. Colma certainly isn’t a place where you’d expect to find yourself thinking about emperors, medieval merchants, and centuries of Alpine travel, particularly when you’ve only stopped to find somewhere for lunch. Yet, standing among its old buildings, it was worth considering just how many travelers had followed this same route long before we arrived.

Stepping Inside Oberweger Bierstube Durstkurort

In the heart of the tiny village of Colma sits Durstkurort Bierstube Oberweger, a traditional South Tyrolean tavern that caught our attention as we were driving past and seemed like just the right place to pause for lunch. With its distinctive exterior and prominent Bierstube sign, it was another reminder that we were experiencing a side of Italy quite different from the one we’d left behind in Trento.

Before settling in, we stepped inside to have a quick look around. The dining room was everything you might hope to find in a traditional Alpine Stube, filled with dark wood furnishings, simple tables, and the sort of comfortable, lived-in atmosphere that comes from a place that hasn’t felt the pressure to reinvent itself to keep up with modern trends.

It reminded me of the kind of old-fashioned tavern where you could quite easily settle into a corner for a leisurely afternoon and lose track of the time.

For a moment, I was tempted to stay indoors and enjoy the surroundings. However, the sunshine outside made that a difficult choice to defend. As much as I appreciated the character of the dining room, spending such a beautiful afternoon in the Dolomites sitting inside didn’t seem like the best use of the weather. We headed back out, found a table on the terrace, and settled in with the menus.

If you’re wondering where to eat in the Dolomites for a taste of the region’s Austrian-influenced cuisine, this little tavern is certainly worth considering. It didn’t take long to realize that lunch was going to be quite different from the Italian meals we’d enjoyed earlier in our travels. The menu featured traditional South Tyrolean dishes, several of which were entirely new to me. Given my tendency to want to try anything unfamiliar when traveling, the greatest challenge wasn’t finding something that sounded appealing, but narrowing down the choices to what could reasonably fit on our table.

A Taste of South Tyrol: Pretzels, Weißwurst, and Wurstsalat

One of the pleasures of exploring Italy is discovering just how dramatically the food can change from one region to another. In South Tyrol, the influence of neighboring Austria and Bavaria is particularly evident, with substantial mountain fare, cured meats, rye breads, dumplings, and sausages appearing alongside more familiar Italian dishes. Much of this cooking has its roots in the practical demands of mountain living, when preserving ingredients and preparing satisfying meals from what was readily available mattered far more than culinary fashion.

Our lunch at Durstkurort Bierstube Oberweger offered an opportunity to sample several of these regional specialties, and judging by the number of plates that eventually arrived, we had certainly made the most of it. Sharing seemed like a perfectly reasonable strategy when we ordered. By the time everything was on the table, I was beginning to question our definition of reasonable.

We began with a Brezel, the familiar twisted pretzel found throughout the German-speaking Alpine regions. Forget the little crunchy pretzels that come out of a bag. This one had a beautifully browned, salt-studded crust that gave way to a soft, pleasantly chewy center. It would have been perfectly enjoyable on its own, although with a dish of sweet mustard sitting nearby, I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to try the two together.

The Weißwurst, a Bavarian white sausage, was something I had been particularly curious about. Made primarily from finely minced veal and pork, and typically seasoned with parsley, lemon, and mild spices, these pale sausages are gently heated rather than grilled or browned. Ours arrived in a white-and-blue enamel pot filled with hot water, keeping them at just the right temperature without allowing their delicate casings to split. Even the presentation was something I hadn’t encountered before.

Of course, ordering Weißwurst also meant figuring out the proper way to eat it. The casing is generally removed rather than eaten, and while some Bavarians have perfected the technique known as zuzeln, drawing the sausage meat directly from the casing, I decided that attempting that particular maneuver in public might be a little more adventure than lunch required.

Instead, I took the more manageable approach of slicing the casing lengthwise, peeling it away, and enjoying the tender sausage with a generous helping of sweet mustard. I can’t claim to have mastered the finer points of Bavarian dining etiquette in one afternoon, but I was certainly willing to give it a try.

Alongside the pretzel and Weißwurst, we ordered Wurstsalat, a sausage salad popular throughout German-speaking Central Europe. It might not be the first thing that comes to mind when someone suggests ordering a salad in Italy, but I was pleasantly surprised by how well the ingredients worked together. Thinly sliced sausage was combined with pickled gherkins, red onion, tomatoes, and hard-boiled egg, all dressed in a light vinaigrette. The pickles and dressing brought a welcome sharpness to the plate, balancing the richer flavors of the meat and bread.

What I particularly enjoyed about this lunch was discovering how a handful of relatively simple ingredients could come together to create such satisfying dishes. It’s the kind of food I could easily imagine recreating at home, particularly the Wurstsalat, which would be wonderful for a casual summer lunch with friends, perhaps alongside a basket of warm pretzels and a good selection of mustards. Of course, finding the right Weißwurst might take a little more effort, but that’s part of the fun of bringing a few culinary discoveries home from our travels. Sitting on the terrace in Colma, sampling these regional specialties for the first time, I was already making mental notes about what I might like to try in my own kitchen.

For travelers wondering where to eat in the Dolomites beyond the more familiar restaurant offerings, a stop at a local Bierstube is worth considering. Our lunch in Colma was a good reminder that some of Italy’s most interesting regional foods aren’t necessarily the ones that first come to mind when planning a trip.

Meet Schüttelbrot: South Tyrol’s Unusual Rye Bread

When our lunch was served, it included a wooden basket filled with an assortment of breads, something I always enjoy exploring when traveling. Alongside the soft rolls and seeded slices, however, was something I didn’t recognize. It was thin, rather rustic in appearance, and looked more like a cracker than anything I would normally expect to find in a breadbasket. As I soon discovered, this was Schüttelbrot, one of South Tyrol’s most distinctive regional breads, and another addition to the growing list of foods I was trying for the first time that afternoon.

The name Schüttelbrot translates from German as “shaken bread,” which sounds a little peculiar until you learn how it’s made. Curious about what I’d eaten, I did a little research after our trip and discovered that its origins go back centuries, when families living in the mountains needed bread that could be stored for extended periods, particularly through the long Alpine winters. Rye was well suited to the region’s growing conditions, and baking it into thin, thoroughly dried rounds meant the bread could be kept for months without spoiling. Necessity may have been the original motivation, but the result is something quite different from the soft loaves most of us are accustomed to.

Schüttelbrot literally means "shaken bread,"

What makes Schüttelbrot especially intriguing is the technique used to shape it. Rather than rolling the dough flat, bakers traditionally place it on a round wooden board and shake it in a circular motion, gradually spreading the dough into a thin, uneven disc.

Once baked until crisp, the bread develops its characteristic brittle texture and wonderfully irregular appearance. I have to admit, the thought of trying to shake a piece of sticky rye dough into anything resembling a circle in my own kitchen sounds like an excellent way to make a considerable mess.

The flavor was what really caught my attention. Typically seasoned with fennel, caraway, and sometimes anise, Schüttelbrot has an earthy rye character with a subtle aromatic quality from the spices. I found it incredibly addictive. Each bite seemed to reveal something slightly different, and I kept reaching for another piece, trying to distinguish the individual ingredients and work out what gave the bread its distinctive flavor. It was crisp, fragrant, and far more interesting than its rather modest appearance might suggest. Traditionally enjoyed with South Tyrolean speck, cheese, or other cured meats, ours was served as part of the bread assortment, although I was perfectly content eating it on its own.

I always appreciate finding foods that reveal something about the place they come from, and Schüttelbrot certainly does that. What began as a practical way for mountain families to preserve bread has become a specialty still enjoyed throughout South Tyrol. I wouldn’t mind having a few rounds tucked away in my pantry at home, although I suspect I’d be far more inclined to bring some back from Italy than attempt the traditional shaking technique myself.

As we headed back inside to pay the bill, I spotted a tempting display of freshly baked pretzels near the counter. We’d already shared one with lunch, but after enjoying it so much, leaving without a few extras seemed almost irresponsible. After all, we still had plenty of driving ahead of us through the Dolomites, and having something to snack on along the way sounded like a perfectly sensible idea.

Whether they actually survived long enough to qualify as road trip snacks is another matter entirely.

When Deciding Where to Eat in the Dolomites, Think Beyond the Menu

By the time we wandered back toward the car, I was glad we’d decided to stop in Colma. The Isarco Valley had already treated us to some wonderful scenery that morning, and we still had plenty to see as we continued toward Val Gardena. Yet, sitting on that sunny terrace, enjoying a leisurely lunch and watching the afternoon unfold around us, I hadn’t been in any particular hurry to get back on the road. In fact, I could quite easily have pulled a book from my bag, taken another look at the wine list, which features selections from the surrounding Eisacktal (Valle Isarco) and greater Trentino-Alto Adige wine regions, and settled in for another hour or two. Unfortunately, our itinerary had other ideas.

I’ve always felt that some of the best parts of a road trip are the places you hadn’t necessarily planned to visit. Colma may not have been the grandest stop on our Dolomites itinerary, but it had certainly earned its place among our favorite discoveries of the day. Sometimes all it takes is a small village, an interesting bit of history, and a very good lunch to remind me why I enjoy traveling this way.

Know Before You Go

Finding Oberweger Bierstube

Durstkurort Bierstube Oberweger is located in the small village of Colma (Kollmann), along the historic SS12 Brenner Road in South Tyrol. The distinctive red building is easy to spot as you pass through the village, making it a convenient lunch stop if you’re traveling through the Isarco Valley on your way toward Val Gardena or exploring this part of the Dolomites.

Parking

One of the things I appreciated about stopping here was how easy it was to park. Designated spaces are located just steps from the restaurant, so we didn’t have to spend time navigating narrow village streets or searching for somewhere to leave the car. After a morning of driving and stopping for photographs, that was certainly a welcome change.

Thank you for coming along on another part of our Dolomites road trip.

I hope this little detour through Colma has given you a few ideas for exploring South Tyrol, particularly if you enjoy discovering local food, history, and places that don’t always receive much attention in the usual travel guides.

Have you visited South Tyrol, or discovered a restaurant during your travels that turned out to be much more than somewhere to stop for lunch? I’d enjoy hearing about it in the comments.

And if you ever find yourself leaving Italy with a bag of pretzels riding shotgun, just know you’re in good company.

About Elaine

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