How Champagne Became a Party Drink

The unlikely rise of a drink once considered a nuisance because it exploded too often.

Once upon a vineyard in northeastern France, there was a fizzy little mishap that no one could quite control. It came in thick green bottles, popped its corks like an overexcited toddler let loose on a trampoline, and had a pesky habit of bursting when no one was looking. Winemakers in the Champagne region weren’t exactly thrilled. They had set out to craft a lovely, well-behaved still wine, the kind you could serve with poise and pride. But the icy winters of the region had their own agenda. Fermentation would pause as temperatures dropped, only to fire back up in the springtime sun, creating a raucous riot of bubbles inside those bottles. Cue the unintended explosions. It was, quite literally, a sparkling disaster wrapped in shattered glass and ruined wine cellars.

The mess didn’t just stop at breakages and wasted vintages. Entire cellars would go off like poorly timed fireworks. Workers tiptoed through stacks of bottles like they were carrying eggshells on stilts. One goes pop, and the rest follow like a fizzy domino chain reaction. It got so bad they started calling it the “devil’s wine.” Which, let’s be honest, only made it sound cooler. Even the monks got nervous, crossing themselves and muttering prayers before walking into the storage rooms. One overly enthusiastic bottle could wipe out a season’s effort, a gamble no vineyard was keen to make twice. Some monks even tried reinforcing their shelves with wood and straw like wine-cellar bunkers, but the bubbles cared little for such barriers.

And yet, amid the chaos and the shattered glass, a tiny revolution was bubbling. Because sometimes accidents make the best stories. And in this case, the most flamboyant drink. Word of this fizzy madness spread. Not everyone thought it was a tragedy. Some found it fascinating. And some—like the Brits—found it utterly brilliant.

The British, naturally, saw all this drama and said, “How marvellous!” They had a soft spot for the effervescent and a certain tolerance for chaos, especially when served in a glass. Some claim it was their sturdier glass bottles and superior corks that tamed the beast, while others reckon the Brits simply fell for the sheer novelty of it all. A wine that sparkled like a diamond and misbehaved like a cocker spaniel? Irresistible. Add to that the fact that English glassmakers were ahead of the curve on bottle durability, and you had the perfect storm for a bubbly obsession. They didn’t just embrace Champagne—they practically adopted it, writing poems about its sparkle and toasting everything from naval victories to garden parties.

It wasn’t long before Champagne was being smuggled into ports, sold under candlelight, and stashed in manor cellars like treasure. British aristocrats would send barrels back across the Channel and hold grand dinners just to crack open a bottle and watch it misbehave. It became fashionable to serve it with oysters, strawberries, or simply on its own with a side of smugness. It had charm, it had theatre, and more than anything, it had bubbles. And bubbles, as it turns out, were addictive. Champagne began infiltrating British ballrooms, sneaking into country estates, and appearing in scandalous novels penned by ladies with too much imagination and time.

Meanwhile, back in France, Dom Pérignon—the monk commonly and wrongly credited with inventing Champagne—was actually trying to stop the bubbles. His mission was to make a wine that didn’t try to take your eye out. He wasn’t in it for the theatrics. But history has a sense of humour. People preferred the idea of a monk in a candlelit cellar, clutching a glass and gasping, “Come quickly, I am tasting the stars!” Far more cinematic than the dull grind of yeast metabolism and temperature control. Not to mention, much better marketing. That single phrase has been printed on everything from bar menus to novelty T-shirts, which tells you all you need to know about human priorities.

The legend of Dom Pérignon stuck, mythologised beyond reason. The wine began to take on an almost divine quality—heaven in a bottle. Which was ironic, considering how many early bottles ended up as explosions on the floor. But no matter. A sparkling myth was born, and myths are stubborn things. People needed their heroes, and if that hero happened to wear a robe and sandals and fear yeast, even better. His name added a whisper of mystique to every cork pulled.

By the 18th century, the French aristocracy had started to flirt with the sparkle. Versailles couldn’t resist a bit of showbiz, and Champagne, now slightly more stable and less likely to detonate mid-toast, became a favourite at court. It was still extravagant, still hard to come by, and still had that rebellious little fizz. Ideal for powdered wigs, elaborate gossip, and clandestine rendezvous behind the curtains. The pop of a cork could signal everything from the start of a scandal to the end of a duel. Courtiers became connoisseurs, comparing bubbles and bragging about their private suppliers like modern influencers comparing skincare routines.

Soon, it became a status symbol. Having Champagne at your soirée meant you were cultured, rich, and just the right amount of dangerous. It was a drink that danced between elegance and unpredictability, and the upper classes couldn’t get enough. Parties began to revolve around the moment of the pop, the delicate pour, the collective sigh as the bubbles rose. No one really cared what it tasted like. It could’ve been dishwater. What mattered was the fizz, the flash, the idea that you were drinking celebration itself.

As the 19th century popped into view, Champagne began to strut like it belonged on stage. The grand maisons—Moët, Veuve Clicquot, Bollinger—weren’t just bottling a beverage anymore; they were bottling a dream. Champagne became the liquid equivalent of a standing ovation. A drink for winners, romantics, performers, and the delightfully deluded. It didn’t matter if you actually had something to celebrate. If you had Champagne, the celebration would manifest itself. Marketing campaigns in this era took it global, tying the drink to opera houses, racecourses, and royal coronations. It got poured into cut-crystal glasses in palaces and smuggled into speakeasies in flasks. It became the great equaliser of ambition.

There were ads, posters, and jingles. Glass manufacturers jumped on board, designing sleeker vessels. Artists illustrated flutes, nymphs dancing in vineyards, cherubs cradling bottles. Champagne wasn’t just a drink anymore—it was a fantasy. And it sold. People wanted magic in a glass. They wanted sparkle, spectacle, and the illusion that something better was always just one more sip away. Champagne promised all of it—and occasionally delivered.

It even slid into politics, with leaders toasting everything from peace treaties to suspiciously profitable trade deals. Across Europe, across the ocean, across class lines—it slinked into the social fabric like a glittering guest at every table. And with that came clever branding: prestige cuvées, grand labels, vintage years. Each bottle began to tell a story. Mostly exaggerated, but who’s counting? Even failures began to feel a little less tragic with a glass of bubbles in hand. Recessions, heartbreaks, election losses—Champagne turned them all into footnotes in a very sparkly novel.

Then came the parties. Big, bold, and unapologetically extravagant. Gatsby’s roaring jazz-soaked soirées had fountains of the stuff. Studio 54 gleamed with sequins, mirror balls, and Champagne towers that defied logic and basic health and safety. In every moment where subtlety was thoroughly ignored, Champagne flowed. It sprayed across podiums, gushed from podiums, got poured over heads and down dresses. It became synonymous with decadence, a liquid cheerleader for all things excessive. People drank it when they were happy, when they wanted to appear happy, or when they just fancied a little sparkle in an otherwise dreary Tuesday.

Sports stars started baptising their victories with it. Podiums got stickier. Races ended in Champagne rainstorms. Musicians adopted it, both in lyrics and in greenroom fridges. Reality shows made sure someone was clinking flutes by the second act. If something was popping off, there was a cork involved. And sometimes, actual popping. It worked its way into pop culture like a persistent earworm, showing up in films, sitcoms, rap videos, and even cooking shows. A bubbly omnipresence. There’s probably a bottle in the background of at least one Renaissance painting if you squint hard enough.

Even the glassware evolved to suit its new icon status. From the dainty coupe—allegedly modelled after Marie Antoinette’s breast, because of course—to the slender flute and the modern tulip, each iteration promised a better bubble experience. And somehow, people cared. Champagne had become a lifestyle, not just a libation. Sommeliers discussed bubble size with straight faces. Collectors waxed poetic about terroir and ageing. Instagram swirled with golden fizz under fairy lights. The drink had become a performance, and everyone was invited.

Somewhere along the way, the stuff that once caused cellar explosions and monk-induced migraines became the ultimate symbol of joy, indulgence, and the occasional terrible life decision. Today, it’s hard to imagine New Year’s Eve without the pop of a cork and the inevitable squawk as someone realises the bottle was pointed at Aunt Linda’s new hairdo. Fireworks in the sky, sparkles in the glass, and probably someone trying to sabre a bottle with a kitchen knife. Or a shoe. Or, if things are going really well—or very badly—a lightsaber replica. Champagne, like all good icons, adapts with the times.

It shows up at weddings, launches, victories, and even quiet evenings when you tell yourself that life’s too short for flat wine. The flute, the coupe, the magnum—each glass a tiny celebration in itself. It’s not just about the drink anymore. It’s about the pop, the fizz, the shimmer, and the shared grin that follows. It’s about memories, mishaps, and the gentle chaos that lives in every bubble. It’s about feeling like the moment matters, even if the only thing you’ve achieved is surviving a Tuesday with your dignity mostly intact. It’s the sound of something beginning. Or something ending. Or just something fabulous.

So here’s to Champagne: the former problem child of French winemaking, once too explosive to be civilised, now the undisputed queen of the party. A toast to the bubbles, the accidents, the myths, and the Brits who took one look at a detonating bottle and said, “Now this is what we’ve been missing.”

And long may it pop, preferably away from the curtains and close to the heart.