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Every spring, rhubarb shows up at the farmers’ market and roughly 90% of it ends up in a crumble. Which is fine. Crumble is great. But if you’re the kind of person who reads cocktail blogs at 11pm, you already know rhubarb has a second life — and it’s a pretty spectacular one.
One thing worth knowing before we go any further: stalks only. The leaves of a rhubarb plant contain high levels of oxalic acid and are genuinely toxic — not “upset stomach” toxic, properly poisonous. Most of us who grew up with rhubarb in the backyard had no idea (turns out you can grow up with something your whole life and miss this detail entirely), so it’s worth saying out loud. Stalks only. Now, onward.
Tart, floral, aggressively pink, and one of the first things to grow in an Alberta spring, rhubarb is one of the most versatile bar ingredients you can get your hands on. It brings the same sweet-sour balance that makes a great cocktail tick, it dyes everything a gorgeous blush without a drop of artificial colouring (more on that here), and it plays beautifully with half your liquor cabinet. Here’s everything you can make with it.
Maybe. Here’s the plausible history. Some cocktail writers suggest that a gin-and-rhubarb “Rhubarb Fizz” would have been a natural fit for 1920s speakeasy culture. Here’s why that makes sense: rhubarb, then widely called “pie plant,” was one of the hardiest backyard crops in North America — easy to grow, one of the first plants to produce in early spring, and totally unsuspicious to have on hand. And Prohibition bartenders desperately needed strong, punchy flavours to cover the chemical bite of bathtub gin.
Citrus and sugar syrups were well-documented tools for exactly this. A sharp, vivid rhubarb syrup would have fit right in. Whether someone was actually pouring it at a blind pig in Calgary in 1923, we can’t say for certain — but it fits the era like a speakeasy glove. The modern Rhubarb Fizz (gin, rhubarb syrup, soda) is almost certainly a descendant of that Prohibition-era logic, even if the direct lineage is more lore than documented fact.
Which honestly makes it more fun to drink.
Simple syrup is where most people start, and for good reason — it’s easy, it keeps for two weeks in the fridge, and it works in literally everything. You can go stovetop (chop rhubarb, add equal parts sugar and water, simmer until broken down and vivid pink, strain) or cold-extraction (combine chopped rhubarb and sugar by weight, let it sit overnight — the sugar draws out the juice through osmosis without any heat). The cold method gives you a brighter, fresher flavour. Either way, this is the building block for everything else on this list. For notes on getting your ratios right, this post on dilution is a good companion read.
Shrubs are rhubarb syrup’s more complicated sibling — and once you’ve made one, you’ll wonder where they’ve been all your life. A shrub swaps water for vinegar (apple cider vinegar works perfectly), giving you a tart, complex, slightly funky mixer that bridges sweet and sour in a way plain syrup can’t. Macerate rhubarb and sugar for a few days, stir in the vinegar, give it another couple of days, then strain. It keeps for months. Add it to sparkling water for an instant mocktail, or shake it into a gin drink for something genuinely interesting.
Cordial is the non-alcoholic concentrate version — simmer rhubarb with sugar, water, and a little ginger or vanilla, strain, and you’ve got a dilute-to-taste mixer that makes mocktails effortless. Just add sparkling water and citrus. Done.
Infused spirits are the long game, but worth it. Pack chopped rhubarb and sugar into a jar with gin or vodka, seal it, and give it two to six weeks in a cool dark place. What comes out is a stunning pink, deeply flavoured spirit that works as a base or a modifier. Rhubarb gin especially is something you’ll want to have on hand all summer.
Bitters are for when you want rhubarb’s character without its sweetness — steep rhubarb with citrus peel and spices in high-proof spirit for a couple of weeks, and you’ve got a dash-bottle ingredient that quietly transforms an Old Fashioned or a Bee’s Knees.
Gin is the classic pairing — the botanicals and the tartness were made for each other. Vodka keeps it neutral and lets rhubarb do all the talking. Tequila is an underrated call (a rhubarb margarita is better than it has any right to be). Prosecco turns rhubarb syrup into an effortless spring spritz. And in the NA world, rhubarb is arguably the best friend the non-alcoholic cocktail movement has — its sharpness and complexity do the heavy lifting that alcohol usually provides. We covered the rhubarb-and-gin angle in depth over here if you want to go deeper on that pairing specifically.
This one came together while thinking about what rhubarb actually tastes like — which is, if we’re honest, a lot like the filling of a really good strawberry rhubarb pie. So we leaned into it. The egg white gives you a thick, silky foam on top that turns the most gorgeous blush pink from the rhubarb syrup and strawberry juice. It’s the kind of drink that looks like you spent all afternoon on it. You didn’t.
For a mocktail version, skip the spirit and double the rhubarb syrup. Add a splash of sparkling water after straining and you’ve still got the foam, the colour, and all the flavour — just without the gin. For more ideas in that direction, our Peach and Quiet is another seasonal fruit sour worth trying.
Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Sour
1.5 oz gin (or vodka for something cleaner)
0.75 oz rhubarb simple syrup
0.5 oz fresh strawberry juice
0.75 oz fresh lemon juice
0.75 oz egg white (or aquafaba)
Combine everything in a shaker and dry shake hard for 15–20 seconds — no ice yet. This builds the foam. Add ice, shake again until well chilled, then double-strain into a chilled coupe. The double strain keeps the foam silky rather than bubbly.
Pro tip: a single drop of rhubarb syrup dragged through the foam with a toothpick makes it look like a professional made it. Because now, technically, one did.
Rhubarb season in Alberta is short — roughly May through July, with the best stalks showing up at farmers’ markets and places like Sunterra in June. Grab more than you think you need. Make the syrup. Freeze the rest. You’ll be glad you did come November when you’re three months into root vegetables and desperately need something pink and tart in your glass.
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