The dream is for all markets to go the Spanish way. Certainly 1724 is not attempting to convince UK accounts to replace tonics but offer a better range. “If I was trying to replace Fever-Tree it would be hard. The rationale is to have a whole range of tonics to go along with spirits – a gin & tonic menu,” says Relph. “If they are stocking gins at twice the standard price then they should treat tonic in the same way.”
A widened category that includes a range of qualities, styles and price points could be good news for all, even brands such as Schweppes and Britvic that have become somewhat of a habit for consumers. “If people come back into long mixed drinks because of something new they’ve tried, that can only be a good thing,” says Britvic’s Owen. “With Britvic being such a widely distributed and recognised tonic brand, such a trend can only be positive.”
As gin continues its relentless march forward, there will be enough new pastures for tonic brands to feed from without the need to act cannibalistically. If Spain’s forensic approach to the G&T does indeed cross waters and borders, the attention on tonic will come from all quarters.
The history of tonic water
Tonic water is named for its ability to cure and restore. Hamish Smith charts the background of this remarkable drink
Tonic water, as the name suggests, has helped and saved a great many lives. The first that we know about was the Spanish Countess of Cinchón who, in 1638, contracted malaria while stationed in Peru. As the story goes, her husband the Viceroy of Peru begged the native Quechua people to find a cure. Given the dubious form of the Spanish in the region over the centuries, it was probably less begged, more commanded, but nonetheless the Quechua obliged and prescribed a mixture of water, natural sweetener and ground bark of the Cinchona tree (as it would later be named).
The Countess was up and at it before long and soon word of the ‘Fever Tree’ (ah, that’s where they got the name from) and its quinine-rich bark had spread to Europe.
Initially it was labelled ‘powder of the devil’ by some insightful religious people, and men known as ‘doctors’ duly rejected it, preferring their trusty fever cure of bleeding patients. However, by 1679, King Charles II of England and the son of King Louis XIV of France didn’t much fancy bleeding, went with the bark and were consequently cured of their ‘malaria fever’. Cinchona bark thrived in Europe as a panacea: used to treat malaria, fever, indigestion, mouth and throat diseases and cancer, though with probably varying success.
In what could be an early example of appellation control, Cinchona trees were only allowed to be grown in their native region around the northern Andes – seeds and saplings were outlawed from export. So, as quinine’s pharmaceutical reputation grew and worldwide demand spiralled over the next hundred or so years, the Peruvian and Bolivian economies flourished.
Slavery, war and colonialism were all good fare in those days but stealing some seeds was an unthinkable act. Not until the mid 19th century did the Dutch and British work up the nerve to trouser some and smuggle them cross-border. The British pilferers planted theirs in their colonies of the British Raj (India) and Cylon (Sri Lanka), unsuccessfully, while the Dutch, ever the horticultural devotees (Tulip Mania etc) became the monopolists by the 20th century, having successfully propagated Cinchona in Java, in the Dutch East Indies. Bolivia and Peru’s economies, meanwhile, collapsed, though civil, cross-border and independence wars played a part.
