The Luxury Travel Magazine
The Luxury Travel Magazine
It started, as these things often do, not with a bang, but with a drawl.
One of those unhurried May afternoons when London, for once, shook off its damp tweeds and sighed into something finer. The kind of day where the Thames glints like polished silver, where white linen makes its rounds through Belgravia, and where the first corks pop before noon. That was the setting. But the stage truly came alive with Chadwick.
You’d know him if you saw him.
Blue seersucker suit, pressed within an inch of its life. White bucks—immaculate, against all odds. A faint trace of orange blossom cologne in his wake. The horn-rimmed Persols, perpetually making him unreadable. A Panama hat that refused to droop, even after a long lunch at Scott’s or a particularly animated afternoon at The Goring. An ascot, always—but never affected. Chadwick didn’t wear clothes so much as he orchestrated them.
And always, always, there was the drink.
No one’s quite sure which bar got it first. Some claim it was The Connaught, where a rogue bartender in a velvet waistcoat, enchanted by Chadwick’s tales of yachting off the coast of Antibes and half-remembered summers on Lake Como, tried to bottle the man’s essence. Others swear it began at Chiltern Firehouse, after a garden party that ended in a chaise longue chase and a grand toast on the rooftop with the sun sinking behind BT Tower. There’s even a murmured rumour it was born in the downstairs bar at Annabel’s, sometime after midnight, when a jazz trio refused to stop playing and the Negronis gave way to something altogether more elegant.
Wherever it started, the Beau Monde Sling soon became the London summer cocktail.
But what’s not up for debate is this: the Beau Monde Sling is unmistakable. As cool and poised as the man himself. A double shot of St-Germain—elderflower liqueur, —light, floral, unapologetically refined as its origins in the French Alps suggest. Then comes the gin made for a sophisticated cocktail — Oxley gin, cold-distilled and sharply tailored, the only gin Chadwick allowed near the glass. Fever-Tree soda stretches it out, effervescent and never syrupy. Fresh lime, crushed into the base like punctuation. Served not in a rocks glass or coupe—too obvious—but in a tall fluted glass, preferably a Waterford Lismore Nouveau crystal hurricane glass as if the drink were dressing for the occasion too.
And the name? No one’s sure if it was Chadwick himself who coined it or some quick-witted bartender who knew a branding opportunity when he saw one. But once it caught on, it was no longer just a cocktail. It was the London summer cocktail.
Summer in London can feel like borrowed time—fragile, fleeting, a privilege never to be taken for granted. And when the city wakes up to warmth, it doesn’t tiptoe into the season. It erupts. Chadwick understood this better than most. A good summer day demanded celebration, and celebration, as he was fond of saying, demanded libation.
“Dreary weather is for brooding poets,” he once quipped at a rooftop gathering in Notting Hill, “but sunshine belongs to the people who’ve waited all year to be seen.”
And seen he was.
From Mayfair garden terraces to the soft lawns of private members’ clubs, Chadwick was as much a part of summer as strawberries and cream. He breezed—never walked—into soirées and gallery previews, fundraisers for obscure operatic societies, and invite-only fashion launches in converted mews houses. More than once, he showed up at Ascot not to watch the races but to sit in a corner box, drink in hand, and gather gossip like a connoisseur of scandal. And away from London, he could be seen cheering on the rowers at Henley Royal Regatta—always from the Stewards’ Enclosure, naturally—or drifting through a candlelit soirée at Soho Farmhouse in the Cotswolds, where the Beau Monde Sling flowed as freely as the stories.
By the second summer of The Beau Monde Sling’s rise, bartenders across the capital were already tweaking it. One added a basil leaf; another flamed a grapefruit slice while another sought perfection by adding a cucumber twist. But none matched the original, the drink that Chadwick would sip with an arched eyebrow, the corners of his mouth holding the threat of a grin.
The Beau Monde Sling didn’t shout. It charmed.
And so did Chadwick.
Not in the cloying way of men who network or the aggressive warmth of social climbers. Chadwick was from the old school—the kind who had been to the right schools, spoken just enough French to disarm, and knew precisely how much to say at any given time. He could hold court without stealing the spotlight, laugh like he meant it, and disappear before things got dull. He had a gift for presence.
“An icon of the beau monde,” one columnist called him, trying to distill what made him such a draw. But Chadwick, ever allergic to labels, laughed at the description. “Darling,” he’d said, “icon is just a polite word for reliably dressed.”
Still, the name stuck. As did the drink.
Over time, the Beau Monde Sling became a calling card. A bartender would slide one across the bar unrequested, a knowing nod between those who understood that in a city of performative mixology, restraint could be radical. The cocktail didn’t need dry ice or dehydrated fruit. It had elegance—and timing.
That’s the secret to every legendary London summer cocktail. It’s not the garnish. It’s the moment it arrives. The sunlight through cut glass. The faint chill of elderflower. The flash of lime before the gin settles. It was a drink that didn’t chase trends. It embodied them, then walked off before the cameras arrived.
Chadwick and the Beau Monde Sling became regular fixtures at London’s most rarefied events—from the Serpentine Summer Party and the RA’s Summer Exhibition to shadowy jazz sets in Dalston. On one golden evening, as he raised his drink skyward, he murmured, “London behaves so well when it’s drunk on sunshine.” By morning, it was quoted in Tatler.
The ingredients haven’t changed: St-Germain elderflower liqueur, Oxley gin, Fever-Tree soda, fresh lime. But its relevance grows. It’s not just a cocktail. It’s a seasonal cue. A subtle marker that London, however fleetingly, is basking in something worth celebrating.
You won’t find it on tourist menus. It wasn’t engineered for Instagram. It won’t come with a biodegradable straw shaped like a flamingo. But ask the right bartender in the right postcode, and they’ll know what you mean.
As the city stretches back into its summer bones, the Beau Monde Sling resurfaces like a well-kept secret. A quiet classic. An irreverent ritual. And somewhere, just as the last cubes of ice start to sweat into their crystal, someone in seersucker will lift their glass to the man who gave London its most impeccably understated summer cocktail.
A Beau Monde Sling, please.
Always in a fluted glass.
London’s Most Elegant Summer Cocktail
Ingredients:
50ml Oxley Gin
25ml St-Germain Elderflower Liqueur
15ml Fresh lime juice
Top with Fever-Tree soda water
Crushed lime wedge, to finish
Optional: Serve with a twisted cucumber slice or a single basil leaf for garnish
Glassware:
A tall fluted glass, ideally Waterford Lismore Nouveau hurricane or similar—because like the drink, presentation matters.
Method:
In a shaker, combine Oxley Gin, St-Germain, and fresh lime juice with ice. Shake gently to chill.
Strain into a tall fluted glass filled with ice.
Top with Fever-Tree soda water.
Drop a crushed lime wedge into the glass as a final flourish.
Optional: Garnish with a lime wheel on the rim or a fresh basil leaf floated on top.
Serving note:
The Beau Monde Sling should never shout. It should glide. Light, floral, refreshing, and unapologetically refined—this is the drink that defined a London summer.
