Wednesday, July 23, 2025

Vernors

Vernors isn’t just a soda. It’s a rite of passage. A medicinal myth. A Detroit birthright poured over ice—or, if you’re sick, into a steaming mug.

Golden, fiery, and oddly floral, Vernors is America’s oldest surviving ginger soda, first formulated in 1866. That date alone carries weight: the Civil War had just ended. Lincoln was barely cold in the grave. Detroit was still a modest Great Lakes town known more for shipping than horsepower. And into this world stepped James Vernor, a young pharmacist with a curious palate and an accidental invention.

The story—told with a wink and a shrug—goes like this: Vernor had been experimenting with ginger flavors, looking to craft a stomach tonic with a gentler, richer flavor than the sharp English ginger ales of the day. Then the Civil War called him to serve. He stored his mixture in an oak barrel for safekeeping. When he returned four years later, he opened it and discovered not rot, but perfection—a smooth, bold, vanilla-laced ginger soda with a spicy kick and mellow finish.

The legend may be apocryphal, but the result is real. Vernors is not like other ginger ales. It doesn’t whisper. It snaps. It fizzes with a purpose. That first sip has bite—so sharp it startles, then sweetens like a well-timed joke. Detroiters don’t drink Vernors so much as survive it. And they swear by it.

It became a staple at soda fountains throughout the city, often served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the now-legendary Boston Cooler—named not for the city, but for Boston Boulevard in Detroit. You’ll still find this float served in diners and retro shops, especially in southeast Michigan, where nostalgia is served chilled and carbonated.

But Vernors wasn’t just a soda. It was medicine. Ask any Michigander over a certain age, and they’ll tell you: if you had a sore throat, nausea, or even just a bad attitude, your mom or grandma handed you hot Vernors. Ginger is a natural anti-inflammatory, they’d say. The fizz clears your head. And even if it didn’t cure you, it felt like it should.

Over the years, Vernors changed hands. It’s now owned by Keurig Dr Pepper, and production has moved beyond Detroit. Some diehards swear it tastes slightly different now—less bite, less oak, less something. But the feeling remains. You drink Vernors, and you're not just consuming a soda. You're drinking the memory of soda fountains and corner pharmacies, of Tigers games and Woodward Avenue parades.

Walk into any Detroit grocery store, and you’ll still find it in green-and-gold cans—“Barrel Aged, Bold Taste!”—its mascot, the whimsical gnome, watching from the label with a mischievous grin.

Because Vernors, like Detroit itself, wears its quirks proudly. It is not subtle. It is not universal. It is intensely, unapologetically local.