12 Ramune Soda Flavors, Ranked

The older I get, the more my enjoyment for sippable treats grows, and so do my refreshment options. In nearly every cash wrap, I'm tempted by increasingly cutely branded beverages whispering for me to coil my grip around their brightly colored vessels. But I've sampled some true duds (Mtn Dew Code Red, Coke Blak, and Hint Water, to name a few), so to spare myself, I mediated on which of all my carbonated buddies comes through most often and came up with one answer: Ramune.

My relationship with Ramune dates back to elementary school when our family's Japanese exchange student gifted me the blue bottle, the name of which translates to English roughly as "lemonade." Though my recollection of Ramune only recalls a sprinkling of lemon notes mingling with other ethereal whiffs of cotton candy, orange blossoms, and tropical effervescence, I think of the soda fondly and admire its ability to produce an entirely new genre or craving into the world of soft drinks despite its clunky translation. 

A Japanese concoction sold in iconic Codd-neck bottles might be best known for the blue marble its fans must unleash into the bottle's neck before sipping. Found in most Asian supermarkets and ramen restaurants, I've recently spotted Ramune in 7-Elevens, conventional grocery stores, and even movie theater concession stands. Since Ramune premiered in 1884, its catalog of flavors has ballooned into a dozen options (that I could find), and to double-check my own opinions, I audited each flavor and ranked them all below, from worst to best.

I'll never comprehend how artificial peach flavoring lures anyone its way. Containing none of the stone fruit's seductive qualities, fake peach, without fail, always reeks of overwrought sweetness and never tempts me into a second taste. I know gummy peach rings enjoy their share of devotees, but I have never encountered a peach-packed soda, candy, or even alcoholic beverage I've found acceptable.

And unfortunately, I added Ramune's peach entry into the catalog of peach-flavored "treats" I hope rots in hell because rotting is exactly what peach Ramune tastes like. It's almost as if no one at Ramune's recipe development team has ever had the extreme pleasure of pressing their incisors into the flesh of an authentic, tree-grown peach and instead were forced to use a can of soppy, school-lunch peach cocktail as their guiding light. So peach Snapple, peach Ciroq, peach Jolly Ranchers, peach Jelly Beans, open your gates for the newest member of peach-flavored flops I'll never again even glance at.

For transparency's sake, I want to disclose that artificial pineapple never appealed to me. Not even the lightly-colored Haribo Goldbear — the most acceptable of all pineapple candies — can sway me from my firm stance that no fake flavoring can capture the clashing sensation of a perfectly ripe pineapple.

So, before punching down the marble sealing Ramune's pineapple bottle, the foreboding feeling of an inescapable letdown settled in. Shockingly yellow, the coloring even seemed to warn me against our compatibility. A small sniff invited perfumed, dense, tropical notes to fill my nose. The bottle's opening could convincingly stand in as an air freshener or Y2k-esque body spray.

My tongue agreed with my snout's instincts when pineapple flavoring flooded my tastebuds. Blindingly sweet, dense, and sapping, pineapple Ramune served no function as a refreshment and required several sips of water to unglaze my tongue from its specter.

Why lychee fruits were plucked from the vast bucket of tropical offerings and adopted into mainstream produce vernacular like bananas, avocados, and guavas remains beyond my purview. But in the past 10 years, I've seen the ruby-tinted drupes (fleshy fruits with hard pits like peaches, apricots, and cherries) represented everywhere, from candy aisles to martini bars.

Like most fruits from tropical climates, lychees carry a distinct ripeness; their juicy flesh has always reminded me of a grape about to turn. Even more pronounced in artificial form, the sheer aroma of a lychee candy jostling in a friend's mouth can cause me to take a 10.

Regrettably, even the fine folks at Ramune headquarters tumbled into the pitfalls of the fruit's popularity and submitted a subpar bottle. Lychee Ramune woefully brought to mind times when I accidentally sprayed perfume near my open mouth and inadvertently caught a stray misting on my taste buds. Once the marble clinked into the bottle's neck, thick, obvious aromas dominated the atmosphere, and after sipping, cloying, overwrought floral notes took over my tongue. Realistically never a contender for the top five of this list, lychee Ramune plummeted to the near bottom because of its blatant artificiality and appeal to the fruit's scent over its flavor. 

The bombastically dyed orange sodas served at sleepovers and pizza parties of my youth still conjure recollections of camaraderie and excess, though, as an adult, the sweet sting of the citrus sodas fatigue my aged palette. So, when I noted Ramune's undyed interpretation of the vitamin-c-rich fruit, my aspirations for the drink ticked upwards substantially.

However, the experience of drinking orange Ramune can only be described as a mild, anti-climatic letdown. If the drink was unquestionably bad, I could've moved on faster. But, as if taking my note on American orange sodas to heart, Ramune turned in a meek, mousey, flimsy flavor that kept me returning to the bottle not out of ardor but to sus out any graspable tasting notes. More akin to 7-Up, orange Ramune taught me to be wary of what I wish for.

Though I'm aware of the musky funk most melon-flavored productions possess, I still have occasional cravings for a Melona ice cream bar and even welcome a splash of Hulk-green Midori in my cocktail from time to time. Regardless of the varietals in the melon world, it seems every melon-enhanced edible borrows its tasting notes from a honeydew.

Unlike the majority of melon fruits I grab at the grocery, Ramune's melon boasts distinct and fragrant melon notes, and if anything, it veers a little too candy-like for my taste. Lacking the balance found in the original Ramune, the melon bottle in no way could be accused of avoiding its assignment. The absence of subtlety accompanied by the overtly sugared overtones held Ramune's melon flavor from sailing but will surely please hardcore melon fanatics. Also available in a resealable aluminum bottle, melon Ramune might be better enjoyed mixed into a punch or cocktail where the liquid could work harmoniously with other flavors.

Like a handful of Ramune bottles, the blackberry offering is a collaboration with a manga or intellectual property I openly admit flies over my head. As someone who has gone on record for purchasing food items based on cute collaborations with well-known characters, the presence of "Jujustu Kaisen" characters initially threw me; coupled with blackberry's offputting color, I was hesitant to force Ramune's marble into the nectar. Deep violet to the point of appearing black in the bottle, Ramune's blackberry emits a nearly death-metal affectation before unsealed. 

Like a goth-adorned teenager with a heart of gold, the butch pretense only exists to conceal blackberry Ramune's delicate core; subtle and only expressively brambly on the nose, Ramune's blackberry flavor leans on the overly dyed hue to help convey its message. It leans more like a slightly heavier remix of Ramune's inaugural flavor. I would've recalibrated the flavoring of blackberry if I clocked in at the Ramune office because the beverage tastes nearly nothing like its inspiration.

A shade of blue that immediately brings to mind the Blue Man Group or Avatar, any American soda enthusiast would assume blueberry Ramune is a blue raspberry delight. Blue foods (and drinks) set off a little alarm in the back of my brain, simultaneously warning me of how overtly artificial they are and enticing me to bring them to my lips.

However, once the fine print on the bottle registered, I feared it would taste like the baked-good imitations of blueberry á la Nutrigrain bars, Pop-Tarts, and even Japan's own Hi-Chews, which all seemingly emulate blueberry muffins instead of the bush-grown berry.

I'm happy to report Ramune dodged my concerns and instead turned in a drink that, although not strongly inflected with blueberry tones, avoids any pitfalls of the aforementioned edibles. Reminiscent of 7-Eleven's Slurpees, Ramune's blueberry bottle contains a frosty, cooling undertone, and (maybe my brain is too easily bullied by visual suggestion) a palette not dissimilar to blue raspberry Icee's and Dum Dum lollipops. The only legitimate drawback to blueberry Ramune is its mismeasured flavor approximation to its inspiration.

A conundrum in the beverage world, grape-flavored items run the gamut from muscat-toned sharpness like Korea's Sac Sac juice to jammy, sugar-flooded sodas like Fanta. The scope of grape beverages reflects the difficulty in nailing down a monolithic depiction of the fruit's flavor.

Happily, Ramune's grape bottle swerves into the more complex realm of grape-tasting edibles. Soft and cheerful, with a bouquet of dimensions ranging from floral blossoms to dried fruit, grape sashays any cough-syrup comparison with grace and seeming ease. As if to reflect its objective, grape Ramune avoids bathing in an unnecessary purple food dye and instead remains just as crystalline and translucent as Ramune's signature soda.

While grape can't quite surpass the drink's founding flavor, I would happily go halfsies between grape and an original Ramune if any of my friends wanted to try the wine-like drink without forfeiting a chance to sip the O.G.

One of the most promising of the Ramune clan, grapefruit sodas across the board tend to hit the bullseye in my books; Squirt, pamplemousse La Croix, and Jarritos all show incredible marksmanship and find their target's aim. So, while I anticipated the uncorking of the baby blue marble, I wondered if I expected too much from the sunshine-colored soda.

Before plopping the oceanic-hued globe into grapefruit Ramune, I vowed to judge the beverage on its own merits and not my expectations. Though the scent of the beverage unquestionably radiates grapefruit tones, the taste landed on perky, cheerful, summery notes. The bottle's aggressive hue might mislead its potential drinkers into expecting a Fanta-like experience, but its contents reveal a sunny, genial beverage with subtle sweetness and immaculate balance.

A little thrown off by the bottle's "Bloody Grapefruit" label since no other Ramune flavor received a signifier or descriptor before announcing its fruit flavor; I kept wondering if it was perhaps a muddled translation of "blood orange," and I desperately yearned to know with certain the flavor's intent. 

Not only does strawberry Ramune taste like the world's most perfect berry on a mild summer day, but it also manages to somehow taste pink. Gently floral and like a droplet from a squat, juice-packed June-bearing strawberry, Ramune's blush-toned drink reminds its sipper of the high highs a strawberry can reach when savored while in season and not from a sad, plastic carton.

Almost a reflexive flavor to any candy or soda varietal, strawberry appeals to the populous and often smacks of Starburst-like flavoring (Crush, Fave Reds), making it at once crowd-pleasing and simple. However, strawberry Ramune's preference for a pink shade points to the soda's tranquil, delicate interpretation of the fruit at peak freshness. Bringing to mind memories of U-Pick farms, Ramune captures the aerated quality of berries in nature as opposed to being forced into a wrapper. 

If sparkling rosé tasted like strawberry Ramune, I'd tote around a brown bag poorly concealing a 750-milliliter bottle of the substance so often I'd get fired from every job and ruin every relationship I cherish. Thankfully, I can imbibe on Ramune's completely booze-free strawberry soda whenever I'm anywhere other than security check at an airport.

Easily the bottle I was most drawn to, I saved Ramune's yuzu soda as a little reward for sipping halfway through this list. A little murky and textured, a passing glance at yuzu Ramune suggests juice particles settle at the bottle's floor, but a closer examination shows the appearance is only a reflection of the soda's sunny yellow wrapper. Only a momentary setback for the citrus soda, Ramune's rendition of yuzu soda handedly wrangles the hallmarks of the wrinkly Asian fruit.

Soft, coy bubbles met my nose as I whiffed the soft drink and immediately recognized yuzu's tropical bounce, along with Ramune's signature feather touch. Despite the pitfalls discussed at the top of this list, I still consider Ramune a brand that practices restraint in its flavoring techniques, and yuzu (along with a handful of others) proved this exercise into the entirety of Ramune's offerings worthy of my effort.

Once on my tongue, yuzu Ramune jumped to the near top of my list. Perhaps the most natural fit of all Ramune's offshoot offerings, yuzu lends itself to Ramune's soft luxury. Properly tart, the drink also brought to mind infused yuzu sake and soda cocktails and would likely lend itself to a cocktail effortlessly — aside from pouring with the meddlesome marble blocking the bottle's mouth. Like cherry Coke, Parmesan Goldfish, and mint Milano cookies, yuzu Ramune nearly stands eye-to-eye with the brand's pioneering product.

I didn't set out on this fructose-soaked journey only to end up where I started, but like Odysseus, my travels eventually led me back home. The trivials I faced — even the pineapple and peach low points — revealed how, despite my constant searching, I've already met my ideal soda. 

Cirtusy, nimbly tropical, Ramune's proprietary recipe rightfully proves why the beverage's popularity continues to soar and multiplied into a dozen derivatives — most of which I vouch for. Like the choreography of K-Pop's greats, Ramune's juxtaposition of citrus, sweetness, and tutti frutti notes all move in perfect synchronization with one another sans the threat of one note dominating the pack. 

I'll go to my grave insisting Sprite's short-lived Sprite Remix was greenlit based on the phenomenon of Ramune breaking through to U.S. markets. Though the Americanized rendition lacked the original Ramune's mist-like melon undertone and sly bubblegum glimmer for finishing notes, no other soda in my multitudinous repertoire reaches the peak of my tongue's pleasure centers in quite the way Ramune can.

So, to all of Ramune's sisters and brothers, it was a pleasure meeting you, but I can only pass my final rose to the original.

Like any of my ranking articles, I spent the better part of a week tracking down and tasting all of the flavors of Ramune. To avoid fatiguing my palette, I only sampled up to four bottles in one sitting, being mindful to wash away the previous Ramune's contents with ice-cold water. To not taste similar flavors (all the citrus, all the berries) in the same set, I tried to break up the sodas. I also saved the original flavor for the finale of my research to force myself to conjure its taste as I drank Ramune's newer varietals and to guarantee I wasn't overhyping original Ramune in my mind.

I noted any personal aversions to particular artificial flavors (pineapple, peach, lychee) and sought to temper my rankings based on my enjoyment of each drink with the admission that I do find some flavors offputting. I also dinged any Ramune bottles slightly if they toted themselves as a fruit they couldn't quite articulate despite their pleasantness.