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“I feel so miserable without you; it’s almost like having you here.” Stephen Bishop

“He is a self-made man and worships his creator.” John Bright

“I’ve just learned about his illness. Let’s hope it’s nothing trivial.” Irvin S. Cobb

"Don't Drink and Drive. You might hit a bump and spill
a perfectly good drink." unknown

"A fool and his money …can throw one hell of a party." unknown

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by My Charming Friend and "Person of Note", MASTER BATES

"Master" the perfect martini ©

"Twas a woman who drove me to drink, and I never had the courtesy to thank her for it."
-- W.C. Fields

It's an argument that has plagued modern man since the dawn of time. Well, since the early fifties, at least. Just how does one make the "perfect martini"? If you ask ten different martini drinkers, my bet is you'll get ten different answers. Most will be crap. Gentle readers, I intend to put this query to bed, for once and for all. The following is the only way to make the perfect martini. Read it. Memorize it. Become one with it. For this, indeed, is the ultimate guide to the good life.

First off, you'll need a few items:

-- Ice. Lot's of it.

--Properly chilled, stemmed martini glasses (Properly chilled means your glasses should be in the freezer for a minimum of one hour prior to making the martini. To avoid confusion, or disaster, I suggest putting said glasses in the freezer and leaving them there permanently.)

--Vermouth

--A glass pitcher or metal shaker

--Garnish, be it olives, or lemon peel. These are the only things, garnish-wise, that are permitted. Sure, you can use things like cocktail onions, but then it isn't a martini, now is it? The answer is no. It's a Gibson.

--And last, but obviously not least, Gin. Pay attention, dear readers. I said GIN. I did not mention raspberries, chocolate, or anything involving butterscotch. Those drinks may be "martini-like", by virtue of the type glass in which they rest, but the similarity ends right there, buster. And don't give me any of this James Bond crap about vodka. No! That is not a martini, either. Case closed.



Shocking, I know.

Now, on to the main event. Ladies and Gentlemen, let's get ready to RRRRRumble!!!

First, grab the vermouth out of the fridge. It needs to be in the fridge, because it's a perishable item. Take off the cap. Pour the vermouth into the cap. That's all the vermouth you need. Now, take the glass pitcher, or metal vessel, out of the freezer, where it, too, should remain. Now, this is one place where my brother and I go our separate ways. He says to pour the vermouth into the vessel, and coat the bottom half. Then, pour out most of the vermouth, leaving only the smallest pool of liquid in the bottom.

Now, listen to me carefully, people. That's a load of horse pucks. The first thing is to put the ice in, then, and only then, does the vermouth go into the container. You want not only to coat the bottom of the shaker/pitcher, but the ice as well. And as far as leaving a pool of vermouth in the bottom, no matter how small, well...you know what that will get you? A less than perfectly dry martini, that's what!!! So, to recapitulate, in goes the ice (a healthy handful of cubes, at least seven to eight, in my opinion), then the vermouth, swirl, and out it goes, right down the drain. Now, it's not necessary to shake it to death. A drop or two of vermouth is in proper proportion, just not a pool. Capice?

On to the gin, which should be kept in the freezer (another place bro and I diverge). Let's be tasteful here, folks. The contemporary man has been trained by various restaurants and bars that a martini should be somewhere between the size of your noggin and a bowling ball. Nope, nope, nope. Two shots. That's three ounces. No more. Could be a half oz. less, actually. At this point, it depends what type of container is in use. If it's a glass pitcher, you stir. If it's a metal one, you swirl, in a semi-vigorous manner, but not violently. You want the ice friction to cause a chain reaction of cold, but you don't want to bruise the gin. As my brother says, Gin needs to be gently introduced to the vermouth, and there MUST be some ice melt dilution. On this point, he's correct. So, swirl, or stir, depending. Then, put it down, and put your accoutrements away. Find some good music. In my opinion, all this ultra-lounge stuff is fine. Mancini, Julie London, Les Baxter, et. al. I listen to it, too. But, my first instinct is now, and will always be, to go for the Sinatra. Why mess around? After Sinatra, there's Dean-o, then Sammy. After I've exhausted those, then, and only then, will I go for the lounge.

Okay, back to the drink. Swirl it some more. Then, put out something to nosh on. My preference is for good old fashioned cocktail peanuts, spanish-variety if you can find 'em. It was always good enough for Dad, so it's what I go with. I think it's passed on in the genes, actually. Other options are mixed nuts, or even blue cheese on crackers. As long as it isn't things like goldfish crackers, chex mix, yogurt-covered anything, etc., you'll be fine.

Back to the drink. Swirl some more.

Then, grab the olives out of the fridge. Take your toothpick and push out those nasty little red pimento buggers. Mount up two olives.

Swirl some more.

Strain the concoction into two martini glasses (I say two because martinis need to be drunk in the presence of beautiful women. The same logic goes for the olives. You use two, as Sinatra put it, so there's one for you, and one for the beautiful gal that's about to walk in the door.) In go the olives. Out go the days troubles.



-----------------------------------------------------
If you drink, don't drive. Don't even putt.
-- Dean Martin
--------------------------------------------------------

Now, a word on etiquette. Martinis are serious drinks, for serious people. Case in point:

As I said before, they aren't to be made with amaretto, or as big as a football, and they most certainly are never, never, never to be drank while wearing jeans, t-shirts, or ball caps (whether worn frontwards, sideways, or backwards. N. O. means no. NO!) Of course, a tux is the ultimate, but not practical for most of us. A dinner jacket is nice. Or, a "loose flowing sport shirt", i.e. a classy, not chincy, hawaiian shirt. Again, that's Sinatra, this time from "From Here to Eternity". But, you knew that already, right? Right!?!? Good. I also suggest you try wearing a fez while making and drinking martinis. It really kicks the whole experience up about five notches. Like these gentlemen:



They look happy, don't they? Know why? Because they're completely stewed to the gills. And, they're wearing fezzes. Life...is good.

You have to remember, the martini is the King of the Cocktails. It's from a different era. A time when men wore hats, and took sauna baths, and not for nefarious reasons, I might add. Look at these guys:

 


Epilogue
----------------

It occurs to me in hindsight, as is always, somehow, the case, that any sort of treatise, or blog, or mandate whatsoever on the subject of martini-making, HAS to include a remembrance of my father. If it weren't for Dad, after all, I likely wouldn't have been drawn to the drink. I most certainly wouldn't have returned to it after my first taste. As I recall, it was likened to something between gasoline and...well, gasoline.

Dad was the quintessential '50's/60's martini man. Sort of a cross between Cary Grant, and Earnest Hemingway, if you will. I still recall with great fondness the days of my youth....

My big brother and I would be on the floor, playing with our tonka toys, or better yet, our beloved G.I. Joe's, in the living room. Dad would come home from "the office", (which, of course, being a marine, was hardly the same as the civilian world), in full uniform, tickle us till we couldn't take it anymore, and then, have a seat. It was then that the festivities would begin.

As quick as you please, off would come the shoes, and before you could say "gin", there was Dad, martini in hand. Mom would put the Hank Williams on the reel-to-reel...his favorite...or perhaps the Roger Miller (huge, at the time), grab the spanish peanuts, and in that one magic instant, the whole room seemed to change. It came alive, somehow.

On one occasion, I must admit, it came alive a little too much. But, that's gonna happen when you try french frying potatoes in the kitchen, and drinking martinis in the living room, concurrently. I still remember the panic, (after, of course, they got us kids out), of trying to hide the "martini evidence". It was base housing, after all. But, in the end, what's a little smoke damage among friends?

Well, Dad passed away this last August, and with him went all that history. He was eighty two when he died, and he still loved his martinis. Although, later in life, he had stopped drinking them "up". Having had the pleasure of his company in restaurants in recent years, his typical drink order would sound something like this:

"I want a beefeater's martini. Now, listen to me... I want it on the rocks, two olives, NO vermouth."

Now, you know, and I know, that ain't a martini. As much as I love a dry martini, it literally has to have some vermouth. Not for Dad. Just wave the bottle over the top, as he would love to say. But, that's how he drank 'em. And, boy did he! It's still a point of pride, and embarrassment, both, to me, that an eighty two year old could drink me under the table without a second thought, and never, even for a moment, seem inebriated.

I must admit, if you're ever in want of a martini, but don't have the time, or perhaps the patience, to deal with the cult of activity associated with normal martini-making; all the pouring in and pouring out, the shaking, etc., then this drink is for you. It's amazingly refreshing, and it really is as easy as all that: grab a low-ball glass, dump in some ice, skewer the olives, and pour approx. three ounces of beefeater's in.

In honor of memorial Day, and Dad, I had one tonight, after work, whilst listening to Hank Williams. I put one of the old vinyl records on the 1960 hi-fi stereo cabinet, the one that I KNOW was somehow his last gift to me. It fell into my arms, straight out of the clear blue, on the exact six month anniversary of his passing. There I sat, beefeater's on the rocks...two olives...hold the vermouth...

"Say, Heeeeey, good lookin', whaaaatcha got cookin'...."

Life was a fine thing....

Thank you, Dad. I love you. I miss you. Have a good sleep. You earned it.