Make Mine a Martini

Bolt that door! Of course, the burglar chain, too. You're in the bigs now, guy: They come through the walls with jackhammers. Bolt it? Christ, weld it shut. Hey, come on. If easy were all you wanted, you would have stayed in Des Moines, right? You got through the day, didn't you? That's more than a lot of people in this town can say--probably more than a lot of people in this town want to say.

Relax a little. Take off that wet coat; paw through the mail for a minute. Bills. Bills and special offers from a computer that spelled your name wrong. A postcard from Mom: Why don't you ever write? The home is lonely. Your brother's practice is doing wonderfully. Yech!

Now, hold on; take a deep breath. Frankly, I'm worried about you. You let them know it's getting to you like that, they'll go into a feeding frenzy and you'll be dinner. Let's face it--you need help. The way you are now, you might as well chew ground glass or pop some slop into a microwave. Ulcer City. You need surcease; you need nurturing.

You need a martini.

Oh, sure, I know what you're thinking: a martini. That's what advertising executives in cocktail lounges clutch in one hand while they wedge popcorn in their faces with the other and try clumsy come-ons with a bored waitress named Rita. Forget that sour memory. You've never had a martini. I'm not talking a cup of cheap gin splashed over an ice cube. I'm talking satin, fire and ice; Fred Astaire in a glass; surgical cleanliness; insight and comfort; redemption and absolution. I'm talking a martini.

Enough talk. Let's get going. Come on, follow me. No mysteries, just simple attention to detail.

First, ice--lots of ice. Fresh ice. Hard ice. Crack a bunch of it, I said; this is no (concluded on page 208)martini(continued from page 124) time to stint. Use the back of a spoon. Fill that flagon half-full. Good. Speaking of flagons, spend a minute picking your container. Silver is the best thing, but clear glass will do nicely. Avoid base metals. Under no circumstances are you to so much as touch that trashy shaker with the painted-on cocktail recipes that came with the bar set Betty Lou gave you last Christmas, just before she dumped you for the programmer. It's cheap and vulgar. So was she. Send it to her for a wedding present, together with that set of coasters shaped like jockstraps that say, for your high balls. This is a mood as much as a drink. Aesthetics are critical.

Take your glass: thin stem; straight, flaring shoulders; deep, wide, conical bowl. Not the kind with the thick sides and the knobby stem. You know the kind I mean: Bacall stared at Bogey over this glass. Art deco in all caps. You learned how to pronounce panache so you could describe this glass. Rinse it; place it in the freezer.

Now for your vermouth. Measure it into a little silver jigger or a liqueur glass and from there pour it into the awaiting chalice. Measure it, I said! One ounce--no more, no less. That's right, one ounce, none of that eyedropper stuff--you're making a martini. You're looking for a drink, not an ice pick between the eyes.

OK, now the gin. Since you are going to taste this stuff, it should be aromatic. That means it's well flavored with juniper berries and a host of other exotica. Don't just slop it in, measure it. Remember what I said about the vermouth. Three ounces, no more. That's right, three--not ten, not seven, not five--three. Three to one, maybe four--never more. Within that critical range, the gin, the vermouth and the ice marry, and their union yields something that is at once all of them and none of them--a true martini. The vermouth and the ice bevel the edge of the gin, leaving only the aromatic, crystalline purity. The gin neutralizes the bitter unctuousness of the vermouth. Make it right and you'll have learned something about putting harmony back into your life--and face it, you could use a little. Any fool can dribble gin over ice; only a gentleman can make a martini.

Stir it. Stir it good and hard. Water is essential to a properly made martini. Water comes from the melting ice, so you have to stir it. Five or ten good swirls. Or shake it--forget that "bruise the gin" nonsense. The only danger is overdoing and thereby overdiluting it. Your mounting anticipation should check any steps in that direction!

Now take your glass out of the freezer. It's beautiful, isn't it? All frosted and clean-looking. Hold it by the stem, take your strainer or the spoon you used to crack the ice, place it over the top of your mixing vessel and pour. Not to the very top, because you don't want to have half your martini run down your chin. You quit being déclassé five minutes ago.

You're ready for the last touch: a very thin inch-and-a-half section of freshly sliced lemon peel. Hold it over the top of the glass--perhaps two inches distant--and twist gently, then drop the peel into the martini. Notice I said lemon peel, but I'm flexible--use an olive if you prefer. Be creative. A tiny onion can be nice, too. The ones imported from Holland are best. Good straight, too. (Technically, this moves us out of martini and into gibson--there, now, I've added two drinks to your repertoire.) Each variant--lemon, olive, onion--adds a subtle shading of its own. You pick. After all, it's your life, isn't it?

There. You've made a martini. Not many people can say that, so your day is looking brighter already, and the best is yet to come. Don't drink it yet. You'll have enough left in your pitcher for a second martini; but if you let it sit, it will turn into gin-flavored ice water. So strain the residue into a clear-glass container--preferably one you keep solely for this purpose--and place it in your freezer.

Now, at last. You have two choices. You may take that first, incredibly gratifying, sip and feel your troubles peel away like the layers on an onion. Sip away (sip, I said--you're out of the boilermaker league now, so act as if you've got a little class). Alternatively, you may take the drink--preferably on a small silver tray--out into your living room, put on some Mozart, sit down in a comfortable chair and let the cares of the day slough into the past. That's the ticket. Say, you do know your way around, don't you? Don't touch that TV; don't read that mail; if you read anything, fine, as long as it's fiction or verse written before 1900.

Aaah! Ohhh! Yes, yes, yes. Right there. Oh, God, don't stop. Was it good for you? You never knew it could be like that, did you? Next time, try it in the bathtub, with that same book and a little quiet music. Or in front of a crackling fire. Maybe even with a friend (double the recipe). Maybe even with a friend in the bathtub. Sure. That's it. A friend. Why not? Tomorrow, you'll make a friend. You'll see. Tonight, you've already got one--that's you, you bon vivant. Cheers.

"Make a martini right and you'll have learned something about putting harmony back into your life."