Savoring Life, Writing Through It

Welcome to part one of a deep dive into the French 75 cocktail history—an ongoing investigation that, during my latest archival search, began to feel like that famous, shimmering mirage scene from Lawrence of Arabia. There, vibrating in the hazy distance, was the definitive answer I was looking for. I could almost make out a name, a legendary bar, perhaps even the exact person who invented the French 75. All I had to do was keep moving toward it. Except every time I thought I was getting closer, the truth shifted a little farther away.
Henry created it. No, Harry created it. It happened at Ciro’s. Or perhaps Henry’s Bar. Maybe it was born at the world-famous Harry’s New York Bar. One archival source confidently supplied a date while another offered a completely different one, and somewhere along the line, Champagne appeared in an original French 75 recipe that initially didn’t contain bubbles at all. At one point, I found myself staring blankly at my computer thinking, where is the real story hiding?
What began as a straightforward search for the origins of one of the world’s most recognizable cocktails quickly dissolved into a maze of competing names, conflicting dates, and recipes that looked nothing alike. Many of these claims have been repeated so often across the internet that they have hardened into established, unquestioned facts. Untangling them required serious digging. Old cocktail books, digitized newspapers, wartime accounts, and more internet rabbit holes than I care to admit have all become part of the search.

Just when I thought I had one piece of the puzzle settled, another archival source would introduce a different bartender, another Paris bar, or an even earlier iteration of the drink. Somewhere between Henry and Harry, wartime Paris and an American newspaper, the history I thought I knew began to unravel.
So, where exactly does the true story of the French 75 begin?

During World War I, the Canon de 75 modèle 1897, better known as the French 75mm field gun or Soixante-Quinze, was celebrated for its lethal speed, accuracy, and rapid fire. It was France’s most recognizable weapon of the war, and its terrifyingly potent reputation quickly attached itself to the drinking world.
One of the earliest documented references to the drink appears in a 1915 American newspaper. The report detailed a beverage called the Soixante-Quinze in connection with the famous war correspondent E. Alexander Powell, who reportedly brought the recipe back “from the front.”
This early potion combined gin, applejack, grenadine, and lemon juice. It was a far cry from the elegant, effervescent libation we recognize today.

There was no Champagne, no sugar, and certainly no elegant flute. Instead, we find a heavy-hitting spirit combo carrying the 75 name. What the newspaper doesn’t tell us is who first pulled the shaker out to create it. Powell may have brought the recipe home, but importing a cocktail and inventing it are two very different things.
A year later, the historical trail crosses the Atlantic back to France. In 1916, the British publication The Sphere described the atmosphere of wartime Paris and mentioned a soixante-quinze being served at the American Bar at Ciro’s.

The lively social scene at Ciro’s Bar in Paris, a few years before it became a wartime hub for Allied officers and one of the earliest recorded homes of the ‘soixante-quinze’ cocktail.
Illustration by Sem, c. 1911. (Source: Public Domain / PICRYL)
The account described a drink featuring Calvados and attributed its invention directly to the bar’s “mixer,” though it frustratingly omitted both the bartender’s name and the exact measurements. It is a intriguing piece of evidence because it firmly places a cocktail named after the weapon inside a Parisian bar during the Great War. It doesn’t, however, neatly align with the 1915 American account that predates it. Instead, it adds another layer to a puzzle that was already growing intoxicatingly complicated. Six years later, a published cocktail manual would throw another name into the ring.
In 1922, legendary Belgian bartender Robert Vermeire published his definitive guide, Cocktails: How to Mix Them. Among its pages sits a recipe simply titled the “75” Cocktail, calling for dry gin, Calvados, grenadine, and lemon juice. Once again, Champagne was entirely absent from the glass.

Cocktails How To Mix Them – Robert Vermeire 1922-SCRIBD
What makes Vermeire’s entry crucial isn’t just the formula, but his historical commentary. He noted that the cocktail was highly appreciated in Paris during the war, named after the famous field gun, and was “introduced by Henry of Henry’s bar fame in Paris.” This text provides our first published, contemporary attribution pointing directly toward Henry’s Bar. However, modern eyes must read carefully: Vermeire chose the words “introduced by,” not “invented by.” When attempting to untangle a century-old mystery, distinctions like that matter.

Modern cocktail historians have identified this figure as Henry Tépé, the proprietor of the popular Henry’s Bar on the Rue Volney. It is an intriguing piece of data, but as researchers, we must separate contemporary evidence from later historical consensus.
Vermeire himself only gave us “Henry.” He didn’t supply a surname or declare him the absolute inventor. While Henry’s Bar absolutely belongs in the narrative, his exact role in creating versus popularizing the drink remains a question that surviving archival documents refuse to answer cleanly. As if one unidentified Henry weren’t enough to sort out, cocktail history was about to hand me a Harry.

Anyone researching the French 75 will inevitably cross paths with Harry MacElhone, the titans of 20th-century bar culture and the mastermind behind Harry’s New York Bar in Paris. His name is frequently credited with the cocktail’s birth, but the primary texts tell a more nuanced story.

By 1926, MacElhone’s own Harry’s ABC of Mixing Cocktails included a recipe for the “75” Cocktail. His version called for Calvados, dry gin, grenadine, and a dash of absinthe. The lemon was gone, and Champagne had still not arrived.
Image: Harry MacElhone-Alchetron
This drink belonged firmly to the earlier, non-sparkling family of 75s. MacElhone’s connection to the recipe is undeniable, but it is not documentary proof that he stood behind the bar and birthed the sparkling drink we pour today. Over decades of storytelling, those granular distinctions simply evaporated.
It is incredibly easy to see how the historical wires got crossed. We have a Henry at Henry’s Bar and a Harry who ran the most famous American bar in Paris. We have Ciro’s serving a version during the war, all unfolding within the tight-knit, gossipy ecosystem of Parisian cocktail culture. Add a century of casual retellings, and it is a short leap for Henry to become Harry, an introduction to become an invention, and a legendary bar to be crowned the definitive birthplace. The simplified version makes for a clean marketing story; the messy historical record gives us something far more fascinating.

The most interesting thread linking these early iterations is the complete lack of wine. Whether it was the gin and applejack of 1915, the gin and Calvados of 1922, or the absinthe-spiked version of 1926, none of them sparkled.
That narrative shifted completely in 1927 with the publication of Here’s How! by Judge Jr. (the pseudonym of humorist Norman Hume Anthony). There, printed in black and white, was a drink explicitly called the French 75, and Champagne had finally entered the picture.

The 1927 recipe called for two jiggers of gin, one part lemon juice, a spoonful of powdered sugar, cracked ice, and enough Champagne to fill the rest of a tall glass.

It is remarkably close to the French 75 we recognize today, although its tall, ice-filled presentation is a long way from the modern flute presentation that has since become associated with the cocktail.
The little note at the bottom of the recipe makes the distinction wonderfully simple: club soda gives you a Tom Collins; Champagne gives you a French 75 and, I would argue, a considerably better outlook on life.
This is the milestone where the name and the recognizable sparkling formula finally aligned in print. Yet even this discovery leaves the biggest question unanswered: who first decided that the earlier 75 needed Champagne? By 1927, the French 75 had arrived on the printed page, but the person responsible for putting those bubbles in the glass remains frustratingly out of reach.
When I first began writing this piece, “Who invented the French 75?” felt like the ultimate destination. The deeper I go, the more convinced I am that pinning it on a single name misses the point entirely.
What we are looking at is not a singular light bulb moment, but a beautiful convergence of histories:

Perhaps the French 75 had a single creator. A century later, the surviving evidence simply doesn’t allow us to name that person with confidence. What it does reveal is a journey. And finding where those separate trails meet on the palate is infinitely more satisfying than forcing history into a neat, packaged answer that the archives simply don’t support.
After all this digging, I have accepted that the French 75 isn’t going to give up all of its secrets easily. An old menu answers one question and raises two more. A newspaper article introduces a character but leaves out the plot. Recipes evolve, bars close, and memories dissolve into folklore.

My research is far from over, especially now that I know how many versions of French 75 history are still being repeated as fact. There are more early recipes to track down, conflicting stories to untangle, and undoubtedly a few surprises still waiting to surface.
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That 1927 appearance in Here’s How! is also why 2027 will mark the centennial at the heart of the first International French 75 Day. Earlier drinks carried the 75 name, but the 1927 recipe is the earliest documented version I’ve found in French 75 history that brings together the French 75 name with gin, lemon, sugar, and Champagne in the form we recognize today. One hundred years later, on May 29, 2027, the inaugural International French 75 Day will celebrate that anniversary and the remarkable journey the cocktail took to get there. And after this much historical digging, I think I’ve more than earned the right to stop researching for the evening and make one.
Want to know how all of this research turned into an international cocktail day? Read The Unexpected Creation of International French 75 Day for the story behind the idea, why May 29 matters, and how one cocktail became a much bigger project than I ever expected.
Thanks for reading and joining me as I continue digging into French 75 history. I’d like to know what you think: who deserves the most credit for the French 75, or after more than a century of conflicting stories, is its true creator destined to remain a mystery?

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.
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.
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