A LITTLE more than a century ago, someone at Heublein Brothers had a brilliant idea. Why not make cocktails for the home?

At the time, mixed drinks were made by professionals. If you wanted a drink, you went to a bar, just as you went to a barbershop for a haircut. But in 1892, Heublein introduced a line of bottled cocktails. ''Serve Club Cocktails,'' one advertisement went, ''and your friends will wonder where you gained the art of mixing.''

With time, making a cocktail at home became a manly art, like grilling steaks in the backyard or operating the television remote control. Men were expected to have a repertory of at least a dozen cocktails, including a couple of oddball drinks for shock value, and a fully stocked bar.

Cocktails were something you were expected to know about, and have opinions about. When G. Selmer Fougner, in his drink column for The New York Sun, asked readers to send in their recipes for the Ward 8 back in the 1940's, he got more than 500 responses.

Somewhere along the line, Americans lost the knack, myself included. But I got it back. One life-changing day, in the early 70's, I attended a party given by a suave Italian art teacher at the University of Chicago, where I was a graduate student. The host greeted his guests with a tray of cocktails, cherry-red Americanos. I loved the drink, a mixture of Campari, sweet vermouth and soda with a slice of orange. It's still one of my favorite aperitifs. But even more than the drink, I loved the idea. Cocktails on a silver tray -- that was life as it was meant to be lived. I made a silent vow to go out and do likewise.

Now, when my wife and I entertain, we spend most of our time on the food part of the menu, but we always make room for the cocktail. The idea is this: guests should stand no more than five minutes without being offered a tray of drinks. One Christmas it was the bamboo, made with dry sherry and French vermouth. It's one of the oldest cocktails in my repertory, and believe me, it made an impression.

These days, it might be a pousse rapière (Champagne with a splash of orange Armagnac liqueur and threads of orange zest) or a champagne cocktail, a 20's favorite that I still think is a brilliant tactical response to cheap sparkling wine. You simply put an Angostura-soaked sugar cube in a martini glass, top it up with a so-so sparkler and garnish with a twist of lemon. Suddenly, you're a hero.

AS a historian of the cocktail, I can't help lecturing. I like to trot out a drink with a pedigree and expound on it. If it's a cocktail that lost its popularity for no good reason, all the better. That's why my current cause is the Bronx, a kind of complicated screwdriver. Along with gin and orange juice, you add equal parts dry and sweet vermouth. It's a drink that ranked up there with the Manhattan and the martini in the 1890's.

Prohibition was its downfall. Because it disguised the shortcomings of bad gin, the Bronx became so popular that eventually everyone tired of it. By the time liquor became legal again, the Bronx was out. Purists blamed it for opening the door to fruit juices in drinks, an invitation for abuse by college kids with ukuleles.

Well, the Bronx deserves a second life. It has a great name, and the ingredients can be found in even the leanest home bar. It has class. And it tastes great. There is also a Brooklyn cocktail, by the way. But that's another story.


1 1/2 to 2 ounces gin

3/4 ounce fresh-squeezed orange juice

1/2 ounce dry vermouth

1/2 ounce sweet vermouth

Pour ingredients into an ice-filled shaker. Shake and strain into a chilled old-fashioned glass. Garnish with a twist of orange peel or with half an orange slice.

To make a Bronx Terrace, leave out the sweet vermouth; substitute the juice of half a lime for the orange juice. Garnish with maraschino cherry.

Yield: 1 cocktail.

Photo: A 1920's magazine advertisement for Heublein's prepared cocktails.