In the little we know of Materialists, the forthcoming film from Past Lives director Celine Song, Dakota Johnson plays Lucy, a successful matchmaker who is herself perennially single and jaded about love. When an as-yet-unnamed suitor (Pedro Pascal) approaches her at a wedding and asks to buy her a drink, Lucy’s response is not so much a request as a challenge.
“Sure,” sighs Johnson, with that hypnotically flat delivery that saw her named worst actress at this year’s Razzies. “Coke and beer.”
Coke and beer. Coke – and beer? Coke and beer! Who is she, this Lucy? And why is she not like other girls? I have rarely been so taken by a trailer. Is this where I’ve been going wrong, I wonder, in dating and in life?
I’ve always liked the idea of having a signature drink order. It seems to mark you out as a person of taste and distinction – someone with a history, who knows things. Medium house red says basic, cheap, vaguely health-conscious. Coke and beer, on the other hand, feels provocative, intriguing and a bit peevish, maybe in a sexy way. “Yeah, so what??” it says, and “Of course I really like it. Why would I order a drink I don’t like?”, and “I picked it up in Chile/Belize/Adelaide.”
As drink orders go, it’s quirky to the point of abrasiveness, skirting the line between making yourself memorable to bar staff and really pissing them off. Lucy is clearly daring Pascal’s character to question her taste, or prove himself bold enough to order this strange brew.
But Coke and beer isn’t just a neat bit of characterisation. These days, social media is always coming up with bananas new beverage blends. On TikTok, if a drink has more than one ingredient, it’s a cocktail. And on online forums, recipes for preposterous and often highly potent drinks are traded like urban legends, at once universal and hyperlocal.
In the name of finding my own distinctive signature drink, I set out to try as many as I could stomach in a week.
Coke and beer
While the Materialists trailer does not show Johnson actually mixing her Coke with beer, her plans to combine them are made clear from the half-pint of lager that arrives served in a pint glass.
My first question is about logistics. How do you actually order a Coke and beer, without making it a whole “thing”?
On my way to the pub on Monday night, I plan to play it cool. “Half-pint of lager, pint glass, topped up with Coke,” I repeat under my breath. But as soon as I walk in, though the pub is mercifully empty, my nerve fails me.
“What can I get you?” says the bartender. After some back and forth, she puts aside her misgivings and gamely pours a half pint of Krombacher, then points the Coke gun.
A head of foam instantly balloons like a mushroom cloud, the clear gold of the beer darkening into a roiling, opaque mess. “I feel bad charging you for this,” she says.
And yet, it isn’t that bad.
It’s even weirdly familiar, like a stout with a sugary kick. I finish the whole thing.
That said, I can’t imagine ever ordering it again. It doesn’t actually afford any of the cool points implied by Dakota Johnson. The hospitality industry exists to serve, and my bartender was very accommodating. But it is a fallacy that the customer is always right; there are rules, customs and conventions, many unspoken, that we are well advised not to break. Far from making me distinctive and desirable, merely ordering this drink put me on the wrong side of polite society.
Coke and red wine
Unlike Coke and beer, Coke and red wine is considered a legitimate drink, at least in Europe. In Spain it’s known as kalimotxo (or rioja libre); in Germany, Roter Colaschoppen; and in Slovenia, bambus.
This makes it easier to order one. My bartender seems to brighten, too, figuring that we are back on solid ground.
The first sip goes down like sangria: refreshing and sort of novel. However, it lands increasingly heavily as you go on. I can see that a Coke mixer might make a bad red wine drinkable. But it certainly does not make a decent wine better.
Even the benefits of halving my alcohol consumption are very obviously offset. I’m not a regular soda drinker and the caffeine and sugar hits me harder than the booze; I am awake until 1am with a churning stomach.
It may be a more socially acceptable order, but if you are keen to try Coke and red wine, my No 1 tip is: don’t have it directly after Coke and beer.
White wine and Sprite
My insides are no more stable the next day. Even after twice brushing my teeth, my mouth feels like I’ve been sucking on cotton towel.
I head to a different pub to try my next combo: white wine and Sprite. I assume that it will be more palatable than red wine and Coke, but when I request it the bartender unmistakably wrinkles her nose.
I was right, though: the sugary citrus of the mixer softens the house white’s harsh edge, and, in a tall glass with ice, it passes for a legitimate, even classy drink. I could see this combination being an easy way to slow your roll at a boozy summer barbecue, or an alternative to a lager top or shandy as a hair of the dog.
Chocolate milk and white rum
Milk forms the basis of a vast and ever-changing category of viral drinks, assumedly because it is readily available and also a good source of protein. On The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, the titular women enjoy “dirty sodas”, mixing caffeinated and carbonated beverages with creamy and/or syrupy ones.
The most popular combination, which has spread to TikTok, is Dr Pepper and milk; I am reliably informed that it is “meant to curdle”. If I am going to drink this, however, I want some booze to take the edge off. Teenagers apparently favour Malibu mixed with milk (flavoured and not), as featured in the Paramount+ show Yellowjackets.
I decide to go home to make this one. The bartender hadn’t been able to hide her disgust at Sprite and wine (Sprine?); I can’t bear to ask her for chocolate milk. I pick up a bottle on my way, and make do with what I have in my kitchen: cheap white rum.
The word that comes to mind is “grim”. The rum seems to dirty the chocolate milk, like dragging a mink blanket along a gravel path. Malibu may have worked better here, with the coconutty flavour tying things together. But this combo reminds me of the adolescent determination to get drunk at any cost.
After two sips, I pour away what remains of my glass and retire for a fitful sleep.
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Orange juice and espresso
I wake to a text from a friend I’d run into at the pub, referencing my Sprine: “Hope you enjoyed your nasty little drink.” When I set out to find my signature order, this was not the reputation I’d had in mind.
After breakfast, I decide to claw back some self-respect with a drink I’ve seen on the menu of some trendy London cafes: orange juice and espresso. In 2018, the magazine Bon Appétit endorsed what it called “the spritzy americano” as a “straightforward, refreshing, lively way” to start your day.
How bad can it be, I reason, if people are charging five quid for it?
Quite bad, as it turns out. I usually find OJ too sweet, but the shot of espresso doesn’t help here; it only muddies it. Sometimes it’s served with soda water (or tonic), which does make it more palatable, if you can look past the foamy head – but it’s no more enjoyable. It might be on the cutting edge of coffee trends, but it still tastes like dishwater.
Apple cider vinegar and prosecco
My next drink, at lunchtime, seems similarly credible, spun by the website Delish as an “autumnal” alternative to a mimosa: champagne and apple cider vinegar.
Whether two ingredients make a cocktail is debatable. Delish suggests dressing it up with a cinnamon-sugar rim, caramel syrup and/or apple wedges. Alone at home, on my third consecutive day of drinking, I skip these steps.
On my first go, the ratio is off; the cider vinegar burns my throat, reminding me why it is widely used as a cleaning product.
The second time, I am heavier handed with the prosecco, and it’s not bad. The shot of vinegar successfully shaves off some of the screeching sweetness and deepens the flavour. I wouldn’t rule out having this again, as a low-sugar substitute for orange juice or to temper some cheap bubbles.
Scotch whisky and coconut water
My friend Richard Godwin, a cocktail writer and author of the Spirits newsletter, suggests I try this Caribbean staple – reportedly as ubiquitous and defining in Puerto Rico as the piña colada. He says it is best served “from an actual coconut, in the actual Caribbean”.
I have to make do with a central London pub and, when I wind up in a Soho boozer on Wednesday night, I’m not surprised that they don’t have coconut water among the available softies.
But I’ve come prepared. I order a whisky on the rocks, then subtly top it up from a meal-deal carton of Vita Coco I’d stashed in my bag. My friends politely pretend not to notice.
This turns out to be the most elegant of my drinking forays so far: simple, refreshing and distinctly tropical. Should coconut water catch on as a standard mixer (and why not?), I’d definitely order this again.
Corona Sunrise
The Corona Sunrise, which went viral on TikTok in the summer of 2021, is similarly festive. You drink a mouthful of Corona, then top up the bottle with a shot of tequila, a splash of orange juice and a dash of grenadine syrup.
With viral beverages, looks can be more important than taste; the chief appeal of this one is clearly its pretty peach colour, but when I try this at home on Thursday night I am charmed, despite myself.
The recipe requires only minimal effort, yet it transforms the humble Corona into a proper sundowner. I can’t imagine ordering it out – maybe from a gen Z, seemingly TikTok-savvy bartender? – but it is surprisingly cheering as an elevated after-work beer.
Of course, it is very sweet, and deceptively high in alcohol. But if I was looking to prioritise (visual or alcoholic) impact, I’d certainly opt for this over a Cheeky Vimto.
Healthy Coke
Ordinarily, I try not to drink alcohol more than twice a week. By Friday, day five, there’s a persistent pulsing in my abdomen; my mind keeps going to Dumbledore quaffing the Drink of Despair.
I opt for something lighter: sparkling water and balsamic vinegar, also known as “healthy Coke”.
This went viral in 2022 after a TikTokker claimed it “tastes just like a Coke”. I cannot emphasise this enough: it does not. It looks like Coke, kind of – but it tastes like fizzy salad dressing. It does tell you something about my week, though, that it goes down relatively smoothly.
It dawns on me that many of these viral drinks were born of necessity, devised for novelty, or both. Social media isn’t a test kitchen, labouring to find the next best beverage. It’s mostly young people looking for attention online.
So, too, with Materialists’ Coke and beer. I realise, too late, that it may not have been a serving suggestion – or even necessarily serving the narrative – so much as a bid for virality, to create a “social media moment”.
A signature drink order may lend intrigue – but you do have to actually drink it. After a week of experimentation, my takeaway is that the dubious distinction isn’t worth the social violation, laboured explanation or, often, stomach-churning aftermath. In conclusion, I’ll stick with the medium house red, thanks – hold the Coke.
