Tiki was never about the alcohol. Embrace the fantasy.
You can make a lot of arguments about what makes a tiki drink. Some people will tell you it has to include rum. Others will insist that it must feature fresh tropical juice — tropical, and once-considered “exotic.” There is, of course, tiki’s problematic history to contend with, and some might argue that the history is inseparable from, and indelible to, the tiki identity. But for my money, the single most important ingredient has always been the tiny paper umbrella.
Because the only truly authentic thing about tiki is the illusion.
Tiki was fantasy from the very beginning. It was originally concocted in the 1930s by a notorious yarn-spinner named Ernest Raymond Beaumont Gantt, who eventually changed his name to Donn Beach after his Hollywood-based restaurant Don’s Beachcomber became immensely popular. A former design consultant, Gantt knew how to sell a vibe. He decorated the place with objects he’d picked up while working as a sailor in the South Pacific, served American Cantonese food, and invented “Polynesian” cocktails using Caribbean rum, loosely modeled on a drink called Planter’s Punch. As Don was known to say — so much so that it became the restaurant’s early motto, “If you can’t get to paradise, I’ll bring it to you.”
Americans thought it was a true taste of the South Pacific. But that’s Hollywood, baby!
For the average American in the 1930s, how could they possibly know what Polynesia was actually like? Air travel was still in its infancy, reserved for the obscenely wealthy. You could take a boat, sure, but that took days — or weeks. What most people had instead were books, movies and their own imaginations. You could walk into a bar lined with bamboo and thatch, hear artificial rain dripping from speakers, sip a drink served in a ceramic mug carved into the face of a snarling god and pretend — just for an evening — that you were far, far away from your city tenement, your factory job and your daily indignities.
The world was still massive then. Places were unknown. Mystery remained intact.
Tiki offered escape, not accuracy — a dream stitched together from half-remembered travelogues, colonial fantasies and Hollywood set dressing. It didn’t matter that the food was Chinese, the rum Caribbean and the decor an incoherent mash-up of cultures. Tiki wasn’t geography — it was mood, a permission to believe, for a few hours, that life could be lush, indulgent and pleasantly unreal.
Which is why debates about what counts as “real” tiki have always felt beside the point. Tiki has never been authentic in any meaningful sense. It’s a beautiful lie — and it works precisely because everyone involved agrees to suspend disbelief.
That’s also why the idea that tiki drinks must contain alcohol, or that nonalcoholic versions are somehow inauthentic, doesn’t hold up under even slight scrutiny. Alcohol was never the magic trick. The magic was the illusion. The commitment. The willingness to let yourself believe that crushed ice, citrus and a ridiculous garnish could temporarily rearrange the world. Tiki is about creating a pocket of unreality where stress dissolves somewhere between the glass and the first sip. Nothing is real. Everything is real. The drink doesn’t need to intoxicate you chemically if it can send your brain to a far-off magic land where everything is beautiful.
This is especially worth remembering now, as more people rethink their relationship with alcohol but still want the rituals that once came with it. The glassware. The garnish. The sense of occasion. Tiki, more than almost any other drinking tradition, is uniquely suited to this shift because it never depended on sobriety-shattering potency to begin with. It leaned on excess, color, drama and dreams.
Put another way: If you remove the alcohol from tiki, you won’t break the spell. You’ll simply change the mechanism. The fantasy still works. The umbrella still matters. The crushed ice still crackles. The illusion remains intact.
You could, in fact, argue that tiki without alcohol is, in its own strange way, more honest. It acknowledges what tiki always has been: a theatrical production in which the audience participates by ordering something flamboyant and believing in it just enough to feel transported.
As long as you commit to the bit, tiki holds. Dress the glass. Layer the flavors. Lean into the absurdity. Take it seriously enough to be silly. That’s always been the point.
And since tiki has always been about escape, in a world that feels smaller, louder and more relentlessly real than ever, a well-crafted illusion — with or without alcohol — might be exactly what we need.
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Nonalcoholic Planters Punch
You don’t necessarily need to rely on zero-proof spirits to create the illusion of a rummy tropical punch. Using Earl or Lady Grey tea adds bright sparks of citrus oils on top of bitter, grounding tannins, while raisins and dark brown sugar suggest dark rum’s warmth. To really commit to the bit, don’t skimp on the garnish.
¾ cup boiling water
½ cup dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons dark raisins (about 20)
1 bag Earl Grey or Lady Grey tea
1½ cups chopped fresh or frozen pineapple, plus wedges for optional garnish
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice (from 1 lime), plus lime wheels for garnish
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
2 to 4 dashes nonalcoholic aromatic or orange bitters (see where to buy)
Ice
Seltzer or club soda
Grenadine, homemade or store-bought (optional)
In a heatproof cup, stir together the water with the sugar until dissolved. Add the raisins and tea bag, and let steep for 5 minutes. Discard the tea bag.
In a blender, combine the tea mixture with the chopped pineapple, lime juice, ginger, nutmeg and bitters, to taste, and blend on high until smooth, about 1 minute. Strain and refrigerate until chilled, about 1 hour. You should have about 2½ cups. (Discard the solids.)
Fill four tall glasses with ice, and divide the punch among them. Top with a splash of seltzer and, if using, a drizzle of grenadine. Garnish with a lime wheel and, if desired, a pineapple wedge. For more tropical vibes, add a paper umbrella, along with a straw, and serve.
Servings: 4 (makes about 2½ cups punch)
Substitutions: For fresh or frozen pineapple, use canned pineapple. For dark brown sugar, use light brown sugar. Can’t have caffeine? Use decaffeinated tea.
Make ahead: The base needs to be prepared and chilled at least 1 hour before serving.
Storage: Refrigerate the base for up to 2 days.
Nutritional Facts per drink (generous ½ cup), without seltzer | Calories: 138, Fat: 0 g, Saturated Fat: 0 g, Carbohydrates: 37 g, Sodium: 0 mg, Cholesterol: 0 mg, Protein: 0 g, Fiber: 1 g, Sugar: 33 g
— From food writer Allison Robicelli
• • •
Nonalcoholic Blue Hawaiian
The appeal of this nonalcoholic tiki cocktail is how straightforward it is. Built like a traditional Blue Hawaiian, it uses zero-proof rum and blue curaçao syrup to mimic the alcohol, with tropical fruit, coconut and citrus for legitimate sunshiney vibes.
Don’t forget to festoon your drink with a paper umbrella.
Crushed ice, plus ice cubes
2 ounces nonalcoholic rum, such as Lyre’s Dark Rum Alternative
2 ounces pineapple juice
1 ounce cream of coconut
½ ounce (1 tablespoon) fresh lemon juice (from ½ lemon)
⅓ ounce nonalcoholic blue curaçao syrup
Pineapple wedge or maraschino cherry, for garnish
Fill a Collins glass with crushed ice. In a cocktail shaker, combine the rum, pineapple juice, cream of coconut, lemon juice and blue curaçao syrup. Fill the shaker with ice, seal it and shake to chill and dilute, about 15 seconds. Strain into the prepared glass, garnish with the pineapple wedge and/or a maraschino cherry, add a paper umbrella and serve.
Servings: 1 (makes 1 drink)
Substitutions: For lemon juice, use lime juice.
Where to buy: Nonalcoholic blue curaçao syrup, from brands such as Torani and Monin, can be found at well-stocked supermarkets and online.
Nutritional Facts per drink | Calories: 187, Fat: 5 g, Saturated Fat: 4 g, Carbohydrates: 37 g, Sodium: 17 mg, Cholesterol: 0 mg, Protein: 0 g, Fiber: 0 g, Sugar: 28 g
— From food writer Allison Robicelli