THE SIP OF THE CIVILIZED
I have always enjoyed alcohol. Ever since I snuck sips of my parents’ scotch or crème de menthe, or New Year’s champagne, and up until about fifteen minutes ago, I have enjoyed alcohol. Rarely do I overserve myself, at least not since my last wedding, as I don’t deal well with hangovers, and I absolutely will not stir heavy machinery into the mix. So, though my liver may be the worse for wear, I have, as Churchill said, “taken more out of alcohol than it has taken out of me.” Although wine is fine (I’m more a Burgundy guy than Bordeaux), cocktails are my jam, and I’m fanatical for the classics, especially… martinis. And I should say right up front that I identify as a purist and hold no truck with the horde of “-tinis” out there, especially the dreaded “espressotini,” which manages to destroy not one but two perfectly serviceable beverages at the same time.
Just needed to put that out there.
Many of those who view the martini as liquid class in a glass were led to the elixir by heroes of the silver screen or the silver pen, depending on the generation, I suppose. Hemingway wrote of martinis, as did Patricia Highsmith and T. S. Eliot. And then there’s Dorothy Parker, who reportedly proclaimed:
I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I’m under the table,
After four I’m under my host.
Ah, to have partied with Ms. Parker. Many other martini-ists were inspired by sixty years of James Bond films, in which Agent 007 ruined many a martini by employing vodka and then (shudder) shaking it. And then there was Mad Men, which brought all kinds of cocktails back into vogue, not the least of which: the old-fashioned… itself a discussion for another time. My own obsession with martinis was born from another, perhaps unlikely place: the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, aka M*A*S*H. Didn’t see that coming, did you?
The character of Hawkeye Pierce, as portrayed either by Donald Sutherland in the Robert Altman film or Alan Alda in the long-running CBS series, represented (to the young me) integrity, competence, compassion, and a complete and utter disregard for authority, something that resonates with me deeply. Hawkeye is essentially a teenager with sewing skills, a still, and better comebacks than three Bond films back-to-back. Above all, even in the olive-drab squalor of the 4077, Hawkeye, and his buddy Trapper John, and later B. J. Hunnicutt, enjoyed martinis in actual cocktail glasses… a lot of them. And although I prefer “wet” martinis (meaning with a proper amount of vermouth) over “dry” (meaning either thimblefuls of vermouth, or even just vermouth rinses, where vermouth is swirled in the glass, then dumped before the gin is added), a speech that Hawkeye gave in the officers’ club (tent) sticks with me to this day:
I’d like a dry martini, Mr. Quoc, a very dry martini. A very dry, arid, barren, desiccated, veritable dust bowl of a martini. I want a martini that could be declared a disaster area. Mix me just such a martini.
What sorcery was this? How can a beverage be dry, yet still be a beverage? What would that taste like, and why can’t I be as cool as Hawkeye? Without having had the benefit of ever tasting a martini (I was, after all, fourteen at the time), I was nonetheless hooked on the culture of it, the kind of rakish aristocracy of it, and when not much later I found a shaker and two traditional, conical cocktail glasses at a yard sale, I bought them and set them up in my room on a little rattan tray I bought at Pier 1. They sat, heralding the coming glories of adulthood, throughout high school, which I graduated from a month before my seventeenth birthday, having still never tasted a martini. I was then robbed of satisfaction when, in 1980, Georgia raised the drinking age to nineteen.1 I finally qualified for the martini club on July 30, 1981, at which time I put on a suit, drove my crappy Ford Maverick down into Atlanta, went to the top of the Peachtree Plaza hotel, which houses one of those fancy rotating bars where the whole room spins before you even get a drink, and ordered myself a martini. I remember it arriving with two olives, though none had been requested. I set the olives aside and gingerly lifted the glass, nodded knowingly to Hawkeye, and drank. And…
… I hated it. It was undrinkable, though of course I choked it down because I’d spent five bucks on it and didn’t want to look like a child. But rest assured, it was terrible… like iodine stirred into gasoline with a holly branch. Fortunately, the olives were okay. Still… disappointing.
Back home, I packed up the glasses and the shaker along with other totems of my youth and got myself to college, where I learned to appreciate Jägermeister and peppermint schnapps, though never together. (I still like Jäger, but only served at room temperature. As for schnapps, I can never, ever drink that again… ever.) The martini remained dead to me, though, I admit, each new Bond film tempted me to rethink my entrenchment. Flash-forward twenty years to a steamy day in July 2004, two full decades after that first martini. I found myself standing in a bar in New York City, waiting for the then president of Food Network to arrive and buy me lunch. The lady next to me at the bar had a martini and it looked so good that I decided to give it another try. The bartender asked what kind of gin I wanted. I saw a big bottle of Bombay, with a little drawing of Queen Victoria on it, and, since she kind of reminded me of the then president of Food Network, I went with it. He then asked me if I wanted an olive or a twist, and since I was hungry, I went with the olive. I watched him stir the concoction (up until that moment I assumed all martinis were shaken), then strain it into a chilled cocktail glass, which he set before me on a dainty napkin. I hesitated, then took a sip, and was immediately reminded of Frederic Henry’s line from A Farewell to Arms: “I had never tasted anything so cool and clean. They made me feel civilized.” I finished three before the tardy executive showed. I don’t remember lunch at all.
Where had I been? What had happened over those decades to change my tastes, or my taste buds? Maybe that first drink, way back when, had been made with bad gin? Or crappy vermouth? After all, it was a rotating bar, and therefore a tourist trap. Doesn’t matter. Here I had finally tasted heaven and, having seen the light, decided to make an exhaustive study of the martini in all its iterations. I’m happy to report that, in the name of research, I have drunk them all, and enjoyed most. I do have a few things to say on the matter however, and although these are but opinions, which you are free to disagree with, I kindly ask that you hear me out.
Okay, let’s break it down.
The Gin
I know, some of you prefer vodka martinis. My own loving wife prefers them, dirty in fact, but I do not, and this is my book. It is generally accepted that gin comes in seven distinct styles: London Dry, Plymouth, Navy Strength, Old Tom, Genever, Sloe, and New Western, the first three being the only ones I’d consider for martini inclusion. London Dry gins, typically around 47 percent ABV (alcohol by volume) are clean, austere, and juniper-forward and they’re my choice for martinis. Plymouth gins, from Plymouth, England, are their own style of gin, but there’s only one distillery left in Plymouth, and it just so happens to be Plymouth Gin, which is more citrusy than London Dry gins and is my choice for Negronis. Then there are Navy Strength gins, which are distilled to a whopping 57 percent ABV, and occasionally a bit higher. My favorite (Ki No Bi), is from Kyoto, Japan, and since it’s so strong, I use it in gin and tonics, which are usually too light for me. I usually keep a few London Dry–style gins around for martinis including Beefeater, Beefeater 24, Fords, and Bombay Sapphire, my default when company comes to call. I keep as many of these as possible in the freezer because I want my martinis very cold, but I also want them very strong.
The Vermouth
Ah, this is the most misunderstood of the martini components and, frankly, one of the most misunderstood potables, period. Oddly, many martini drinkers will fuss over the gin, but when it comes to choosing a vermouth, they just say, “Whatever.” Whatever, indeed! That’s like fussing over the perfect imported pasta only to dump a jar of Ragú all over it. Vermouth is wine, flavored by a variety of spices and herbs (the lists can be long and tightly guarded), and then fortified, meaning it’s had a neutral spirit added to it to up its alcohol content. Occasionally sugar is also added. Vermouths can be red or white, savory, dry, sweet, or anywhere in between. Elizabeth and I enjoy vermouths on their own as well as in cocktails, so we keep a dozen or so specimens on hand. Although the trend in the US is to fabricate martinis with French vermouths like Dolin or Noilly Prat (which was the name of one of T. S. Eliot’s cats… very practical), I prefer Italian versions, particularly those made by Bordiga. I lean heavily on their extra-dry white vermouth di Torino, but then back it up with a splash of the slightly sweeter bianco. That’s right, I drink two-vermouth martinis, at least when I’m at home. If you’re just starting out with martinis, I suggest you settle on one gin, but try mixing it with maybe three different vermouths, just to get the hang of things. (That would be three vermouths mixed individually in three different martinis, not all mixed together into one.) And remember, unless you go through it at a rate of, say, a bottle every couple of weeks, you should keep your vermouths refrigerated after opening in order to protect their aromatic qualities and prevent oxidation. And again, cold spirits make for colder drinks.
The Ice
As with all cocktails, ice matters, even if you’re not planning on serving one of those glacier-clear, mega cubes that are all the rage. Ice is there to chill things, yes, but just as important, some of that ice is going to melt into the drink and that water is going to soften things just a bit… take off the jagged edges, if you like. It won’t be a lot of water, but it will be enough, so flavor matters. If your tap water tastes bad, use filtered water for your cubes. And resist using ice that’s been hanging around the freezer for a while, as ice is notorious for bonding with molecules from other foods you may be storing nearby, like frozen fish. Use good water and new ice… that’s my rule. Oh, and you’ll need enough to fill your mixing glass at least halfway, for two drinks.
The Bitters
Many classic (read: old) martini recipes call for a few drops of bitters, specifically orange bitters, and I support this message. There are a lot of great citrus bitters out there from Buddha’s hand to bergamot to grapefruit, but I prefer good old Angostura orange bitters. Clean, simple, easy to find. But, no more than two drops per drink. I know that doesn’t seem like a lot, but to my taste, it’s enough to kind of marry the aromatics of the gin to those in the vermouth. I don’t martini (verb) without bitters. It’s just not done.
The Garnishes
Being a traditionalist, I will limit this discussion to four items: the lemon twist, the olive, the cocktail onion, and my favorite, the caperberry.2 The lemon twist should be fairly self-explanatory: it’s a strip of the outer peel of the lemon, a couple inches long, twisted gently to open up the oil glands, and then gently traced around the rim of the glass before the liquid is introduced. Afterward it is left to sink to the bottom of the glass. It is not set on the side of the glass like a shrimp cocktail! The twist is my go-to, but if I have any doubts as to the quality of the vermouth or the skills of the bartender, I may request an olive, which can mask many a sin. I prefer Castelvetrano olives in this case, with their pits still intact. These should be allowed to simply sink to the bottom, sans harpooning. As for Spanish olives stuffed with pimentos, they’re great marinated in olive mixes or sliced on pizza, but not in martinis. Those, I must decline. Ditto blue cheese–stuffed olives, which aren’t good for anything in my opinion. As for cocktail onions, aka pickled pearl onions, they’re legit martini finishers. Remember the scene in North by Northwest when Cary Grant sits down for the first time with Eva Marie Saint in the dining car of the 20th Century Limited? If so, you may recall that Grant’s Roger Thornhill orders a Gibson, which is simply a martini with a cocktail onion. (Also, notice it’s served in a smallish glass, very civilized.) Cocktail onions are available in most quality liquor stores, but you can also pickle your own, as frozen pearl onions are typically available in the frozen foods aisle. Seek out recipes on the World Wide Web.
Now we come to my personal secret martini weapon: the caperberry. These are the actual fruits of the caper plant, what the flower buds we call capers become if they are left to fruit. The berries, with stems intact, are brined and jarred and are easy to find in the pickle aisle of most megamarts. The flavor is somewhere between a mild caper mixed with an olive, but somehow brighter, with a touch of astringency that I think rides a perfect line between the olive and the cocktail onion, but with a bit more umami. If you haven’t tried one, I strongly suggest you seek them out.
The Hardware
Although the traditional, conical cocktail glass is a beautiful expression of the Wiener Werkstätte tradition of avant-garde Austrian design, it’s absolute crap to drink from… a total slosh fest. Just try walking around a party with one even half full sometime. Good luck. Also, it’s just so… expected. To me, the proper home for any martini is the rather demure (4 oz.) Nick & Nora glass, an eggcup-shaped cocktail glass variant named for the famously sloshed couple of the Thin Man films of the 1930s and ’40s.
Not only is the volume of the N&N reasonable for most humans, its steeper sides make for safe transport from bar to mouth. I keep two in the freezer at all times. (If there’s not a Nick & Nora in the place, go with a standard champagne coupe in a pinch.) You’re also going to need a cocktail mixing glass, not a shaker, or if not that, then some kind of narrow pitcher, even a wide-mouthed mason jar will do in a pinch and should be embraced if you’re wearing overalls and getting ready for a screening of Deliverance. You’ll also find a strainer of some type to be useful, either a julep strainer or a “Hawthorne” strainer.
In my experience, Hawthornes are better when paired with a cocktail shaker, while juleps work better with mixing glasses, though they do take a little practice, as the shovel end goes down inside the glass and is held in position by applying opposing pressure on the handle. You could also use a small culinary hand sieve to strain, but you’ll need to be very careful not to dump the ice out in the process. I’m speaking from experience here.
The Method
Okay, let’s put this “Bond, James Bond” business to bed. It has been suggested by those who ponder such matters that 007’s signature vodka martini “shaken, not stirred” broke with traditional ingredients and accepted methodologies for two reasons. First, Bond’s creator, Ian Fleming, may have felt that, back in 1953, when Casino Royale was published, vodka was a more exotic choice for a globe-trotting secret agent than English gin. As for the method, shaking produces a very cold drink, but also one that’s fairly diluted, as so much of the ice is broken during the process and tiny flakes tend to pass through the strainer into the glass, where they melt and dilute matters further. This might be a good thing if you happen to be a spy trying to keep your wits sharp. Personally, I don’t think a cold glass of water lightly flavored with gin and vermouth sounds very appetizing. But then, I don’t have a license to kill.
So, your gin is freezer-cold, the bottle already frosting on the counter. Chilled vermouth is standing by. The Nick & Nora, and the mixing glass, are fresh from the freezer and ready for action. Enough ice goes into the mixing glass to go halfway up the side. If you’re making more than two drinks, you may need more. Using a bar measure or small liquid measuring cup, dose three ounces of the gin (per drink) into the glass followed by one ounce of the dry vermouth and a splash of the bianco, if you’re using it, and I strongly recommend that you do. So yes, this is a 3:1 martini; I realize that a 5:1 or even 6:1 ratio is more common these days, but I do what I do, and this is how I do it. I follow now with the two drops of orange bitters per drink. Then the stir. I don’t use a spoon for this, as it can chip the ice, not to mention conduct heat from hand to drink. Instead, I use a large wooden chopstick, big end down. I know… renegade. I stir ten times in one direction, then ten in the other, then strain the drink into the glass. If I’m going with an onion, olive, or caperberry, I add them to the glass before straining. The lemon goes in afterward… I don’t know why, it’s just what I do. Rituals are important.
The martini should be consumed immediately, as it’s not getting any colder just standing there. Also, I suggest you hold the glass by the stem, again to help maintain the chill. To drink, kind of toss yourself back, rakishly, across the sofa or banquette. Pick up the drink, smile your smoothest smile, and say, “Ah, Mr. Bond, we’ve been expecting you.” And then hurry up and drink before Radar’s voice blares out over the loudspeaker, ordering us all back to the OR.
- 1 Georgia would go on to boost its legal drinking age to twenty in 1985 and then twenty-one in 1986, so after nineteen I stayed comfortably ahead of the curve.
- 2 Sorry, but I don’t consider pickled okra, jelly beans, Parmesan cubes, or katsuobushi flakes to be valid martini garnishes. Call me a snob.