The word may not be dying, but its meaning is.
SL doesn’t get out much, but we graced a couple of parties last Yule, and to toast each occasion we ordered a martini.
Our first barman winked, which probably meant either Fine choice, sir! or I know that drink! Then he grabbed a rocks glass and into it poured an inch of liquid from the olive bin.
We were startled, but we suppressed a choke. Um, we said gently, could we get one without the juice? We finally worked the man down to gin on the rocks (he could not be trusted with Vermouth).
Another night, another publican, another try:
Not a dry one, you know? Put a little Vermouth in there if you would. She did, and liberally. But shame on us for not watching more closely. Back at table we discovered she had poured sweet Vermouth. You can go a lifetime without that, we assure you. SL at its post.
We are not a curmudgeon. We loathe Andy Rooney. But yet we require a martini now and then, and we expect a bartender to know the genuine article. Yes, even after a decade of chocolate, fruit, shrimp, sherbet, olive juice and other perversions. Possibly two decades (possibly we missed one).
The drink is clean and classic, so pay attention:
Gin and dry vermouth four to one, ice cold, straight up, olive.
You might wish to say it aloud. And one more thing: There’s no such thing as a vodka martini.
Posted by stronglanguage
Posted by stronglanguage