But gradually, over the past 25 years, the once reliable cultural norm has become, to some, a relic of a bygone era. As far back as 1999, news outlets have pondered whether tighter profit margins and declining bar patronage have spelled the end of the friendly freebie. Recently, bartender and writer Rick Paulas suggested in a post on X that the concept had “suddenly died” and wondered, “What happened!” Has the buyback truly gone the way of the $5 boilermaker? And if so, how are bartenders keeping customers coming back for another round? 

Paulas, a bartender at Oak & Iron in Brooklyn, first heard about buybacks while he was still living in Los Angeles, from friends who had spent time in New York. “It was always something that was dangling there as this fable: In New York City, if you go there and get three drinks, the fourth one is for free.” 

But now, he says, “the word buyback has lost a lot of usage.” At his bar, free drinks are “vibes based” and dependent on the sales for the day. To him, the concept lost its charm when social media made these if-you-know-you-know traditions more widespread: “It kind of went away when all the secrets became not-so-secret anymore.” 

Other bartenders cite economic factors for the decline in regularly comping drinks; many repeated some form of the adage “Don’t give away the bar.” Erin Gerety, a Richmond, Virginia, bartender with more than a decade of experience, says that one of her bars, the neighborhood watering hole Home Sweet Home, is “so cheap to drink at that it feels silly to give things away for free.” She hadn’t heard the term “buyback” before our conversation, but she was familiar with the practice in general. “That’s not to say that I don’t occasionally pour a shot a little heavy for a friend,” she clarified. “But I don’t do it very often.” 

For Matt Grimm, a bartender at the famed Chicago dive bar Rainbo Club, the fastest way to ensure you won’t get a buyback is “if you ask for one because ‘it’s my birthday’ or ‘it’s my friend’s birthday,’” he says. “If I buy drinks for everyone whose birthday it was, we’d be losing money.” 

Mike Sternfeld, who works at Shenanigans Pub in Kensington, Brooklyn (where I also work!), has put in nearly 20 years behind the bar. To him, the buyback began to lose its potency when bars began to process credit cards. He recalled the register at the original location of Freddy’s Bar—which was tragically demolished to build the Barclay’s Center in 2010—had just three buttons to ring in drinks: liquor, beer, and buybacks. At that time, he says, it was expected for 10 percent of your “ring,” or total daily revenue, to be buybacks. 

But fees for processing credit cards, along with the costs associated with point-of-sale software like Toast and Square, began to cut into the bottom line. “It costs more to do the commerce, so there’s less room for freebies,” says Sternfeld. And whereas cash-based buybacks leave customers with more money to tip their bartender at the end of the night, credit card freebies have the inverse effect, cutting into the subtotal that most customers will use as the basis for calculating gratuity. 

In the absence of the traditional buyback, bars are still finding ways to keep customers coming back. Rainbo Club will often invite regulars to private events, like its annual Kentucky Derby party, where they’ll give away free drinks and host a backyard potluck. One of Gerety’s fellow bartenders at Home Sweet Home keeps a “prize bucket” filled with dollar trinkets like heart-shaped sunglasses, finger puppets, and lipgloss that she will dole out to particularly affable patrons. At The Jasper, a cocktail bar she also works at, bartenders give out a flat 20 percent friends and family discount, and pour pre-bottled shooters for fellow industry workers. 

For Sternfeld at Shenanigans, the role of a bartender as a social interlocutor is its own reward: “It’s really personality management: You’re trying to get all these strangers to socialize [and] to utilize this space as they want,” he says, “and you’re trying to make a judgment call as to what level they want to interact and how you’re going to make that as comfortable as possible to hopefully get a better tip and to keep them coming back.”

Still, all the bartenders I spoke to say they continue to reward the people who make bars fun, sociable, and safe spaces with free drinks in one form or another, whether it’s a shot for the road or a draft beer on the house. “I think it is a crucial practice. It invites community; it breaks the ice,” says Gerety. “When I see a real slice of humanity, I get to say, ‘Good job, you get a gold star.’” 

One such combination merges any classic cocktail with the highball format. Lengthening the Manhattan, White Negroni and yes, even the Martini is fair game. Here are nine recipes to get started with.

Part of a long line of drinks named after iconic plays and movies, the Arsenic and Old Lace gets its title from Joseph Kesselring’s 1939 play and Frank Capra’s subsequent 1944 film starring Cary Grant. The theater connection makes perfect sense given that it was first published in Broadway producer Crosby Gaige’s 1944 book, Cocktail Guide and Ladies’ Companion.

The plot of the black comedy centers a couple of murderous old ladies (the old lace) who believe they’re doing a service to the aging bachelors to whom they serve poisonous elderberry wine (the arsenic). Somehow, the purple-tinted, gin-based drink with crème de violette, vermouth and absinthe (which conjures poison-adjacent imagery) seems to embody the unseen evil in the play’s seemingly innocuous characters. “When people see the purple, they think, Oh no, this is gonna be too sweet,” says Shank. But he values the Arsenic and Old Lace for its complexity, describing it as “floral, bright, elegant, decadent and very, very drinkable.”

Shank first encountered the Arsenic and Old Lace through a former Nocturne bartender named James Sporer who was a connoisseur of old-school Martini riffs. Collaboratively, the bar team at Nocturne pored over lots of different specs, trying them all, settling on one and tweaking it.

The original 1944 recipe calls for three parts dry gin to one part absinthe, with three dashes each of dry vermouth and crème de violette. For their modern rendition, the Nocturne team went for a more traditional Martini build with two ounces gin, three-quarters of an ounce of vermouth, a quarter-ounce of violet liqueur, and just a rinse of absinthe in the glass. They also added orange bitters—an accent many older Martinis feature.

Pechuga is controversial in the mezcal world. And now an emerging subcategory of the subcategory is coming on strong, growing in popularity and helping to redefine—and perhaps complicate—the wider pechuga paradigm. It goes by many names: “destilado con,” “agave spirit with natural flavors,” and even, controversially, “vegan pechuga” (more on that term in a moment). This is a manner of distilling mezcal alongside a chef’s kitchen of flavors and botanicals, fruits and nuts and spices, while omitting the protein entirely. Unless you count the horse-drawn tahona employed by some palenques, no animals were harmed in the making of this product. 

“10 years ago destilado con was unheard of in the United States,” says Fred Sanchez, who imports mezcal as Cultura Maguey and represents the brands Agua del Sol and Yuku Savi. Today there are more than 50 destilado con bottlings commercially available across the U.S. market, and it seems like all the top mezcal producers are getting into the game. There’s vanilla and Papalométl agave distilled by Fabiola Torres Monfil at Zinacantan, delicious “ponche de frutas” Christmas punch from the Parada family at Rey Campero and outstanding Espadin distilled with cactus fruit by Alejandrina & Nicolas Hernandez Aragón for Rezpiral, plus dozens more, including multiple bottles distilled with all the flowers and fragrant herbs of the Dia de Los Muertos ofrenda from Pal’alma, Cuish, Bozal and 5 Sentidos.

It was one of these Day of the Dead bottles that first jumped out and grabbed me, served neat after dinner at the (now temporary closed) Brooklyn fine dining restaurant Ilis. One sip and I was blown away: it was the precise sensation of drinking liquid incense, heavy with flower petal oils and the suspended psychotropic matter of departed souls. The bottle came from Pal’alma, the Mexico City-based mezcal label and tasting room founded by Erick Rodriguez. He’s been working on an ongoing series of annual destilado con releases in Mexico since 2012—today counting more than 30 in total—and started bringing sample bottles across the border for agave spirit events like Mexico in a Bottle shortly thereafter. 

I’m hesitant to ascribe a “patient zero” status to any one purveyor of destilado con, and traditions like the medicinal infusion of Sonora mountain agave distillate (Bacanora) with the local uvalama shrub appear to go back generations. (Uvalama is technically a drupe and related genetically to coffee cherry; Bacanora Mazot has a bottling that tastes wonderful served alongside espresso.) But Rodriguez and Pal’alma undoubtedly helped popularize the practice and own considerable claim on helping launch the vogue for this style of mezcal. “I started this trend,” Rodriguez says, in no uncertain terms, “and at first people accused me of breaking tradition, but now everyone is doing it.” 

Fifteen years on from Pal’alma’s first primal yawls towards creating the genre, the “destliado con” mezcal subgenre can be found from Sonora to Oaxaca, Puebla to Guerrero, as open-minded and enterprising mezcaleros and mezcaleras embrace the flavor possibilities of the style. No two producers make their juice the same way, and destilado con as a category is home to a broad cross section of techniques and interpretations. The finished products themselves range from light whisperings of flavor to bold, unmistakable expressions of fruits, herbs and culture. Some distillers suspend fruits and vegetables above the still, the same as they might hang meat for pechuga; others submerge their additions in mesh or cloth, or else add flavor components directly into the still. This total immersion style is the method Pal’alma prefers: all of their destilado con offerings, including huitlacoche, tamarindo and the extraordinary Ofrenda and Limpia Almas bottlings are made by the same mezcalero, based in Puebla, whose name Rodriguez declined to divulge.  

Now, about that term: “vegan pechuga.” It’s divisive—no one in the agave space is opinionless on the topic—and arrives at the discourse with considerable baggage. I first heard it used across the counter at SF Tequila Shop, one of the best agave bottle shops in the country, in conversation with Scott Jeffrey, who helps manage the shop’s vast catalogue and busy web store alongside founder Amandip “Moose” Singh Malhi. “It’s not a perfect term, for sure,” says Jeffrey, “but I think it makes sense to a lot of people, because it makes it clear you’re omitting the ingredient that most people notice first.” It’s worth noting that Jeffrey is a practicing vegan; for him, destilado con or “vegan pechuga” or whatever you call it offers a layer of inclusion and accessibility in line with his own dietary practice. But for others it’s a major eye roll—nearly everyone I spoke to for this article expressed a level of dissatisfaction with the term. “It’s not a term the mezcaleros use,” says Rodriguez. “It means we don’t have the language yet to describe what we have.” 

Though the Absinthe Suissesse was not born in New Orleans, the city has nevertheless adopted it as its own. With roots in Europe and northern U.S. cities, the minty drink has shape-shifted over time, with variations including or omitting egg white, orgeat, various liqueurs, sweeteners and soda water documented since the 1930s. It somehow made its way into the Depression-era book Famous New Orleans Drinks and How to Mix ’Em, and, decades later, the Cure cocktail book. Kirk Estopinal, a champion of the drink, says, “It has a very Mardi Gras connection to me,” adding, “it feels like the kind of drink you want to drink early in the morning.”

Recently, at the newly opened Somssi in New York, I was delighted to see a dedicated “little beverages” section on the menu. I’ve had a mini Martini at happy hour or a shot-sized version of a bar’s signature drink, but they’re just not as common in a restaurant setting, so when I saw them, I had questions. Are they little welcome drinks, to open your palate? Digestifs if you want to linger with one more thing after dinner? Yes, and. 

 “Anytime anybody sees those, they immediately get curious. I’ve been asked so many times already: What is a little beverage?” says head bartender Christian Gray. He says it’s open-ended. Somssi’s little beverages—which are served in various etched, spiked and bobbled cordial glasses sourced in the Midwest by Margaret Muza—are fully composed cocktails, just in a smaller format. And they’re different from those on the regular cocktail menu, which includes a Cognac highball and a Scotch sour made with spruce tips, among others.  “We were mostly excited about the opportunity of sneaking them in at various points in the meal,” says Gray. You might drink one at the bookends of your dinner, sure, but the team might also bring you one while you wait for a dish, or you might want one between courses—consider them Trou Normands of sorts.

To meet those varied needs, the drinks are versatile. The Countermand, for example, is a mini reverse Martini that’s vermouth-forward, so it’s a good starter cocktail, but it’s also refreshing and aromatic, making it slot well later into the evening. For the bar team, the format also makes drinks that could feel “cumbersome,” as Gray puts it—like that reverse Martini, which, in full-size, some find cloying—more appealing. The Campus Queen, based on a drink called the Brunch Box, might turn away non-beer-drinkers, but Gray says in the tiny glass, without the weight of ounces and ounces of pilsner, a surprising number of guests love the drink. His take is punched up with grapefruit oleo saccharum and alpine amaro. The most popular little beverage, meanwhile, is the Cherchez La Femme, a shaken mix of Clairin, mango and lime.

One of the most interesting ways people are engaging with the format is alongside a classic cocktail. Gray says he’s seen guests drinking the full-sized, house Martini intermittently with the Countermand. “That was fun because they could explore the flavors, their similarities and differences,” he says. Others are drinking them alongside wine or sake from the extensive beverage program. The approach reminded me of an online trend that seems to have stuck (I still hear people referencing it IRL): drinking three drinks at once, “one for fun, one for energy, one for hydration.” And why not? The small glasses offer a more-affordable price point (and lower net level of booziness). 

Could this convert the cocktail-curious into studied drink enthusiasts? Or open the hearts and minds of the “I only drink wine with dinner” crowd? I think it could, at least a little bit.

The joke, a play on “Hell if I know,” is the namesake for McCabe-Johnston’s take on an Americano, an eye-catching riff with a beet-dyed hue, and, in place of the customary lemon peel, a clever garnish. Inspired by a Campari jelly that McCabe Johnston had seen at Shapes for a Name in London, he makes a similar ingredient, but uses it as a filling to make what looks like a pimento pepper-stuffed olive. On paper, like the joke, it’s a little nonsensical. But in reality, it works. “Sure, I thought it was hilarious, but it also makes sense in terms of how it is received on the palette,” he says. “The bitter and salty play well [together].”

The jelly itself is fairly easy to make. McCabe-Johnston simply brings Campari to a simmer quickly (which is important to not lose aromatics), then whisks it with agar-agar. After chilling for about two hours, the Campari jelly can be sliced, turned into different shapes and even placed in squeeze bottles for later use as a paste, which McCabe-Johnston says works well on a cracker or on the rim of a cocktail glass. For the Elephino Americano, he cuts the jelly Campari into small cubes to stuff into the olives.

A third-generation bartender, McCabe-Johnston points to his mother Carrie McCabe-Johnston’s work in the kitchen at Nightingale, which she owns alongside Jakob’s father Jasha Johnston, as the reason behind his culinary-driven ethos. That background is on full display in this drink, where a sesame oil wash adds texture and an unconventional base spirit, aquavit, “acts more as a seasoning,” he says. A bartender should be “constantly thinking about balance of flavor,” he says. “The best bartenders are thinking about drinks like chefs think about food.”

If you’re part of the alphabet mafia, all of this probably makes sense. Like me, you’ve probably been keeping up with the heated online discourse around the beloved Pride month event. For the uninitiated: Twinks vs. Dolls is a tongue-in-cheek competition hosted by Singers bar between trans women (dolls) and lithe gay men (twinks) who compete in several rounds of events — most famously, the cigarette race that first made the event go viral — until one team is crowned the winner by a panel of judges. Writer Tobias Hess aptly called it the “physicalization of the queer digital hyperbrain,” because no one does unhinged parties and cooked memes quite like the team at Singers, a community space that also speaks to the new aesthetic ethos of the contemporary queer bar. “Singers is just sexy,” an attendee in a rhinestone thong, Fendi kitten heels, and a cropped T-shirt reading No Pain, No Pain told me when I asked why they were attending the event this year. “All the other Pride month stuff gets so corporate and cringe.”