A guide to the best Aperols in Bristol

Oh, season of Spritz and mellow fruitlessness, or something like that. I’m pretty certain Keats would have penned an ode to Aperol if he’d ever had the pleasure of tasting this delectable beverage. The sun is out (kind of), exams are done (condolences to med students, your suffering fuels the NHS), and all we crave is an Aperol that won’t drain our overdrafts. Aperol isn’t just a drink, it’s a way of life. And I, your slightly tipsy narrator, have nobly undertaken the Herculean task of taste-testing every Spritz in Bristol. For science. For culture. For content. It was brutal, it was bubbly, but alas, I rise above. So, without further ado, I present my extremely serious guide to the best (and worst) Aperol Spritzes in Bristol, judged on taste, cost, and pure Aperol aura.

Channings

Ah, Channings. The spiritual home of the post-exam pilgrimage. If you haven’t had an Aperol at Channings after handing in your slightly dodgy final exam, have you really lived? The ambience is immaculate. The pub garden is seemingly big enough to accommodate the entire student body and their emotional baggage. Thanks to the Greene King discount, your bank account only winces slightly, and honestly, in this economic climate, that’s a win. The Aperol itself is decent but not life-changing. Come for the Spritz, stay for the social chaos. You will see everyone you’ve ever known. Everyone. That girl from your seminar. Your ex’s ex. A lecturer, probably. It’s not just a pub, it’s a full-body social experience with a citrus twist.

Pazzo 

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Pazzo on Whiteladies is what happens when you cross Aperol dreams with student budgeting sorcery. Two for a tenner? That’s not just a good deal, that’s a public service. If the council had any sense, they’d slap a heritage plaque on this place. And the Aperols? Surprisingly great. None of that watery orange sadness, they actually taste like someone cared during the pouring process. Revolutionary. A solid spot if you want a quality Spritz without sacrificing your weekly oat milk fund. Bonus points if you manage to grab a seat in the sun and don’t spill your drink dodging someone else’s dog.

W.G Grace

I’m sorry, but there are some things in life that just feel wrong. Like putting ketchup on pasta. Or texting “hey, hope you’re well” at 2am. Or, and hear me out, ordering an Aperol Spritz at W.G Grace. Look, we all love Spoons. It’s cheap, it’s chaotic, it’s where dignity goes to die with a £3 pint in hand. But an Aperol here feels… cursed. Like you’ve summoned the ghost of W.G. Grace himself and he’s judging you from beyond the grave with a monocle full of shame. It arrives in a pint glass, probably. The orange slice is MIA. The prosecco? Possibly imaginary. And yet, here you are, sipping fizzy regret under fluorescent lights next to a hen do and a table of newly 18-year-olds celebrating A-level results night. There’s no reason to do this to yourself when two for ten at Pazzo is literally next door.

White Lion

The White Lion is less of a pub and more of a statement. That statement being: “Yes, I will pay £9 for an Aperol, and yes, my parents are visiting so Mummy is paying.” But you know what? Worth it. Because the view? Unreal. You sip, you gaze wistfully, you pretend you’re in an Aperol advert directed by Wes Anderson. It’s cinematic. It’s spiritual. It’s Bristol girlie enlightenment. Sure, your drink costs the same as a small house and is mostly ice, but when the sun hits just right all logic dissolves into the orange mist. You’re not here for value, you’re here for vibes. Possibly also for a soft-launch photo shoot.

Aperol on the Downs

Weirdly, the flavour palette of these Aperols is less Aperol and more… orange Calpol. But nothing says student summer like grabbing a couple of those tiny pre-mixed Aperol bottles from Sainsbury’s and heading straight to the Downs. For less than the price of a single pub spritz, you get a drink, a view, and a front-row seat to the grand Bristol tradition of lying on a patch of grass pretending you’re in Italy. Is the Aperol good? Not especially. It’s fizzy, it’s lukewarm (Sainsbury’s I beg you start keeping the Aperol in the fridge), and it gets the job done. But when you’re sat in the sun with your friends, watching someone try to light a disposable BBQ with a dying lighter and a dream, it somehow tastes perfect.

Arnolfini

The Arnolfini Bar is where I go when I want to feel cultured, hydrated, and just pretentious enough to justify spending £8 on a drink I could’ve made at home. It’s got everything: waterside seating, soft gallery-core lighting, and the low hum of people who look like they’re either curating an exhibition or emotionally recovering from one. Ordering an Aperol here feels academic. The kind of drink Foucault probably would’ve enjoyed if he weren’t too busy dismantling institutions. It arrives in a wine glass that says, “I’m complex,” and is usually poured by someone who looks like they’re in a band. The Aperol itself is quite delectable. Crisp and well-balanced. Come for the Spritz, stay for the breeze, and maybe catch an experimental film about a rotating cabbage upstairs. Or just sit in the sun, sip slowly, and pretend you’re doing something important.

The Botanist

For a brief, beautiful window between 4pm and 8pm Monday to Friday, The Botanist lets you pretend you’re financially stable and casually European. In this day and age, a £6 Spritz is undeniably a bargain. The Spritz is strong, stylish, and served like it’s about to be photographed. You’ll leave slightly tipsy, mildly delusional, and wondering if £7 olives were actually worth it. (They were.)

Home-Made Aperol

You say it’s Aperol Spritz, but what you’re actually making is, as we’d call it in Scotland, wreck-the-hoose juice (hoose being house, for the uninitiated). You’ve ignored the 3-2-1 rule, because numbers are a construct, and instead you’ve created a drink that’s 90% Aperol, 10% vibes, and possibly flammable. No garnish. Just a mug you stole from your uni kitchen in 2022 and some ice cubes that taste faintly of freezer peas. The prosecco? Warm. The soda? Optional. The strength? Biblical. You take a sip and immediately forget your address. You take a second and start saying “ciao bella” to your own reflection. By the third, you’ve begun loudly insisting that you are Aperol. You invented it. You are the Spritz now. And it cost you £1.20. Mint.