Martini Life
Although most of my writing is focused on various aspects of magic, I do plan to reflect some of my other passions from time to time here on the blog, including matters of food and cooking including Italian cuisine and craft pizza, along with baseball, cinema, and of course books. You can find some of those subjects reflected in the old blog, in some years-old posts about such subjects, but for the new blog, today’s entry is my first foray out of the magic space and into another passion of mine, namely, cocktail craft.
Now, I realize that the segment of my readership inclined to stroll through 3000 words about the martini—about having one at Harry’s Bar in Venice, and about several approaches to properly making one—is likely small. And if you are not among that demographic, fear not, magic will be back very soon indeed. But if it happens that you do enjoy this piece, I encourage you to offer a blog comment and let me know. Thanks for your indulgence, and here now for your refreshment I offer you …
Martini Life
Although it was by no means my first taste of alcohol, my first legal drink, courtesy of my dad, was a Tanqueray & Tonic, consumed at one of the oldest and most historic bars in Manhattan, P.J. Clarke’s. (It would later come to be known as Clarke’s Bar – to some – but for us, it was always “PJ’s.”) It was one of my dad’s favorite cocktails, and after-work hangouts, at a time when there was not such a diverse catalog of “premium” brands, and Tanqueray was a relatively new thing in the States.
In fact, my dad and I would return to Clarke’s for my first bachelor party in 1980, where, after I accidently dropped my T&T on the floor, my dad elected to playfully knock the next one out of my hand, at which point I promptly led my group out of the place before the bouncer had second thoughts about our presence. It was one of the kookiest things my dad ever did—utterly not his style to do something physical for a laugh as opposed to the purely verbal at which he excelled—but the shock on my face was probably sufficient reward for him. I’ve been a Tanqueray drinker ever since, but I never developed a taste for martinis. That was a little too spirit forward for my otherwise rather eclectic cocktail tastes.
But today, I come to speak in praise of the martini.
In November of 2018, my partner Ann and I traveled in Italy for a couple of weeks, as part of a lecture tour I was doing. We had, as the saying goes, the time of our lives. I have been to Italy multiple times, but it had been quite some years since my last visit, and it was Ann’s first. We visited Rome and Venice together, with a brief return to Rome, before Ann had to leave, and I went on to several other cities. We have a couple of wonderful cherished Italian friends in Rome and its environs, and while I had travelled in Italy before, I had never had much chance to spend time in Rome. We fell in love with that city and ever since speak of it frequently, dreaming of our next return.
We delighted in Venice, where every moment filled the senses. Sights, sounds, savory food and drink. And while in Venice I knew we would have to go to the famed Harry’s Bar, favorite haunt of Ernest Hemingway, and the founding place of the Bellini cocktail. When we got there, we didn’t order the Bellini, because rather than waste my palate on a sweet treat, I went straight for the other signature Harry’s cocktail, the martini—Hemingway’s reputed favorite there. (Legend has it that another favorite, indeed the cocktail that bears Hemingway’s name, the Hemingway Daiquiri, was created in Havana at the El Floridita bar, not far from the writer’s hotel residence.)
As served at Harry’s, the house martini is a variant of an old martini take known as the Montgomery, for the British general who said he would fight the enemy only if he had fifteen soldiers to their one—reflecting the concoction’s reported ratio of gin-to-vermouth. In reality the Harry’s martini is more like a 10-to-1 ratio, which by any measure would be considered damnably dry. But that’s not what’s truly interesting about it.
We parked ourselves at the tiny bar, as compared to the restaurant, order to have, well, the bar experience. And when I ordered my drink, I was amazed to see what then unfolded. The perfectly, primly attired barkeep opened a sliding top-door cooler in front of him, reached in and extracted a frosted shot glass, already filled with clear liquid, and presented it to me, along with a small dish of olives on the side.
If you will forgive the vernacular … What. The. Fuck.
I would later discover that the price tag for this service was in the neighborhood of about $25.00 US.
But, at least I’d had a martini at Harry’s. But here’s why I’m telling you about it: It was the best martini I’ve ever had—and suddenly, it had made me a martini drinker.
***
In 1980 I decided to change careers. I’d given up the private phone company I had started with a few friends and run for a few years, and I was ready for my third career, which turned out to be my final choice in such things, to become a magician and professional creative, specializing in all creative things magic and a few things beyond. After taking a year off to lock myself in the practice room, and going slightly mad in the process, I needed a way to help pay the rent, so I took up bartending. What the hell, I’d always loved the culture of bars, and I’d heard vaguely of this American tradition that originated in Chicago in the 1930s known as Magic Bar. So I signed up for bartending school.
I got very lucky, and my instructor turned out to be a fastidious and expert bartender who worked at a high-end authentic Tuscan restaurant in Manhattan. Steve Warren knew not only the craft of bartending but also much of its resplendent history. When he riffed on the details of his passion and expertise, I would scribble furiously in my notebook. It was forty years ago when he explained that, “Most people think that the cordial you put in a Stinger is called Drambui. Actually, that’s just the label, the maker. Drambui is best considered a ‘spiced Scotch.’ And its correct name is Prince Charles Edwards Liqueur.” (That was 35 years ago and I did not have to check the bottle to write that just now.)
I recall a sadly misguided student raising his hand. “Will this be on the test?”
Sometimes it is truly impossible to understand people.
Steve and I hit it off immediately, as fellow food nerds with a passion for pedantry. We would hang after class, and at his restaurant. I was truly fortunate to have him as my first guide into mixology. He set the high standard of the obsessive, a standard I admire and identify with.
One of the many little details of bartending practice that I learned from Steve was his approach to the dry martini. This was the 1980s, and “dry” was the key. But for Steve, so was precision and attention to detail. His method was to wash out an empty bottle of Worcestshire Sauce or Angostura Bitters, and then refill the bottle with dry vermouth. (He used this technique with other liqueurs as well; it would work well today for cocktails that call for an absinthe “rinse,” however a small spray misters is the preferred tool used by most craft bartenders these days.)
Steve’s formula was 8 drops of vermouth in a “dry” martini (about an eighth of an ounce or less), 3 or 4 drops for very dry, and 1 drop for extra dry.
The procedure was detailed and precise. Upon ordering, you first setup the martini glass with ice and water to chill. Pour 1-3/4 ounces gin into the glass mixing cup. (In those days I was trained to do timed freehand pour—1¾ oz. would be a mental seven-count—however this is frowned upon today by craft bartenders who measure everything precisely in jiggers, as I now do at home, except for highballs or a single spirit on the rocks.) Then add the requisite number of drops of vermouth to the cup. Add a scoop of ice, and stir with the barspoon handle—however, there are further details to attend to in this process.
Upon adding ice to the cup, wrap your hand firmly and flatly around the glass—don’t hold it just in your fingers. The warmth of your hand helps to melt the ice—which is to say, chill the drink—while your hand also clearly detects the rapid drop of temperature. Stir for about 18 seconds—at which point that rapid temperature plunge will suddenly level off, a readily detected phenomenon. This is the point at which you want to quickly pour the drink, as additional stirring will “bruise” the cocktail, by adding excessive water, which will end up floating at the top of the cocktail. Worse still—never shake a martini, which harshly bruises the drink, leaving unsightly ice chips floating at the top. (There is no bigger James Bond fan than I, of the movies and the books, but Ian Fleming didn’t know bupkis about cocktails or guns.)
So when the optimum low temperature has been reached, you now spring into action. Dispose of the spoon and toss the strainer into the cup, which you retain in one hand while with the other you retrieve the glass and toss its contents in the sink. Swiftly setting the glass in front of the customer, you drain the entire contents of the mixing cup into the glass, without hesitation. It’s amateurish to gradually pour the drink, at risk of overflowing the glass. The expert completely inverts the cup with a flourish, raising it a few more inches as the contents empty, demonstrating the confidence that the measurement is perfect.
At this point the garnish is added to complete the drink, be it olive(s), onion, or lemon peel; in the latter case the lemon twist is, well, twisted, in order to express the lemon oil on the surface of the drink.
I recall Steve’s explanation for the popular rise of the expressed lemon peel finish. During Prohibition, “rotgut whisky” and “bathtub gin” were real things, and the lemon twist was something to help cover the smell as you brought the drink within smelling range of your nose.
And so, this is how I learned to make a proper martini. (By proper, we mean, (a) with gin, and (b) straight up. As magician Bob Sheets used to say, a “martini on the rocks” is just a fancy-named “excuse for a double shot.”) A drink I enjoyed making, and took some pride in serving back in my bartender days, but one I never took part in myself.
***
So, back to Harry’s Bar in Venice. When the bartender delivered my drink, I’d never seen a martini served in what was essentially a straight-sided double shot glass. And as some time went by while I observed him at work, I was equally astonished at the method of preparation, when the bartender eventually had to mix up a fresh batch.
He opened up a big bottle of Tanqueray and poured it into a pitcher. He poured in some dry vermouth. And then he doled out the result into the slightly oversized, signature shotglasses, which were assembled in groups on trays. He then opened the top-loading cooler beneath the bar and, rotating the stock to bring the coldest glasses forward and make room for the new ones in the back, inserted the new glasses in place.
Serving involved opening the cooler, pulling a glass, and delivering it. Olives came separately.
I’ve read that the original recipe was to pour straight gin into the shots, and then when ordered, the bartender would add a barspoon of vermouth atop, give it a quick stir, and serve. But that’s not what I recall seeing.
The entire operation seemed crude and heavy-handed; I sensed it would have made my mixology mentor’s skin crawl.
But the final result was, as stated, superb.
The conclusion I drew from this was that it was all a function of temperature. The Harry’s procedure delivered a drink that was positively frosty. The minimal surface area of the cocktail, once served, slowed the natural warming process.
So not long after I returned home, I made myself a Tanqueray martini in the usual way—stemmed glass and all, we’re not in Venice and I’m not an animal!—but I went out of my way to make certain the drink was as cold as I could possibly manage. This included stirring the mixing cup contents a bit longer than had long been my habit—not a lot longer, but about 25 to 35 seconds, after which there’s simply no change of temperature and you are truly watering the drink.
As it turned out, the result was quite pleasing. Remarkably, Harry’s Bar had, after decades of Tanqueray & Tonics, made me a martini drinker.
However, I also added some current research in service of updating my thinking about the thing. And that means checking in on my two favorite sources for expert mixology advice and recipe guidance.
Source one is my pal, Jason O’Bryan, one of San Diego’s most expert mixologists (along with several others I’m pleased to know). I met Jason when I first moved to San Diego some twelve years ago, and he had designed the cocktail menu at the first craft cocktail bar in my neighborhood, North Park, which within a few years would be crowned one of the hippest neighborhoods in the U.S. … for which I daresay Jason’s work was partly responsible. Jason helped me catch up with the current cocktail scene, and we’ve remained in touch as he has gone on to work for some of the top cocktail havens in San Diego.
About a year ago, Jason began writing a regular feature for the Robb Report about cocktails and mixology, and his series is absolutely fabulous. Not only is he a cutting edge bartender type, but notably, remarkably, the boy can write. Every article is a pleasure to read because he’s smart, expert, witty, and stylish. You can see a list of some of the articles here—jump in with anything that interests you: https://muckrack.com/jason-obryan-1/articles
But to cut to the chase (and without a chaser), here’s Jason’s take on the martini:
https://robbreport.com/food-drink/spirits/how-to-make-the-perfect-martini-3-different-ways-2927363/
As a sidebar, you might note Jason’s remarks about the use of the word “vodka” in conjunction with the word “martini.” In the Robb Report, he’s being polite. In his now somewhat ancient personal blog, “On Drinks and Drinking,” he is a tad more direct. See: https://drinksanddrinking.com/about/ I happen to agree with Jason’s comments regarding vodka. And while I am hoping readers will comment on this blog essay, please—let’s keep it to real martinis, in other words: gin. (Deal with it. I’m not trying to stop you from drinking vodka. I’m only trying to stop you talking about it here.)
Anyway, after consulting with Jason, I quickly adopted his recommendation for vermouth, and his preferred formula—which involves Tanqueray, Dolin’s vermouth, and a proportion vastly different than the 80s version that my mentor Steve taught me. These days, with quality vermouths on the market, the philosophy has changed, and while there remains wide variance, Jason’s modern choice of a 3:1 ratio really speaks to me, and is not at all unusual on the current scene. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.
When I was last in London, a city that has in the opinion of many become the number one city in the western world for craft cocktail bars, I came across a number of cocktail bars that were essentially specializing in gin and gin only, offering a dozen or many more brands. That fact notwithstanding, I did buy a bottle of Monkey 47, a pricey and abundantly herbaceous spirit distilled in Germany, and I enjoyed it. In fact I can’t see using this gin for much else other than a martini, so that all it’s many complex herbal notes can be, well, noted. But while I do like it, ultimately I have returned to Jason’s default recipe, made with Tanqueray and Dolin’s vermouth. This is now my martini of choice.
Garnished with, I should add, pimento stuffed olives from Filthy Fruit.
But having said all that, my research was not yet done. I also turned to my currently favorite website for cocktail lore and guidance, namely, punchdrink.com. Punch Drink has an incredible wealth of content, and so the thing you want to do to begin with is to search on “In search of the ultimate … “ and then fill in the last word as the name of your favorite or exploratory cocktail. Need a place to start? Here’s my recommendation:
https://punchdrink.com/articles/in-search-best-negroni-cocktail-recipe/
https://punchdrink.com/articles/in-search-of-the-ultimate-best-daiquiri-cocktail-recipe/
Why these two suggested starting places? If you go to the best craft cocktail bar in your vicinity and start out by asking the bartender what, in truth, is their favorite drink … they probably won’t tell you. This is not their fault. They’re in the business of selling drinks, and they’re not about to start talking to you about Campari if your ideal of a cocktail is a vodka and cranberry.
However, if you do manage to earn your barkeep’s trust—an effort I highly encourage you to undertake, but make no mistake, among the best, you have to earn your access to truth—most bartenders will eventually confess that their favorite drink is a daiquiri, and that whether or not it rates as their personal favorite, it is often what they will order in order to quickly judge a new bartender’s skill set and taste—much as a French chef wants to see you make an omelette, or an Italian might ask you to make Penne Pomodoro.
And if they don’t tell you that the daiquiri is the greatest cocktail ever invented, then they’ll probably name the Negroni. I wouldn’t argue in either case, because for me, it’s too close to call.
Anyway, punchdrink.com is a great resource, and I absolutely love their “In search of the ultimate …” series, and explore it frequently.
So if you want to pursue your martini research a tad further, on Punch Drink you’ll find this:
https://punchdrink.com/articles/in-search-of-the-ultimate-best-gin-martini-recipe/
That piece is well worth reading as it briefly addresses the evolution of the modern martini from the “dry” days that I described earlier—of barely a few drops of vermouth, or in some cases, a mere wave of the vermouth bottle over the glass, with no further contact—into the modern approach which in some cases may entail a vintage 50:50 ration of gin to vermouth! That said, while it’s interesting, the chosen formula presents 3½ ounces of gin to a half ounce of vermouth, and while I wouldn’t kick this out of bed, it’s a boozy concoction to say the least, and not, I would suggest, what most of us are quite looking for.
While there is a quantity of martini-related articles to be found on Punch Drink, two that inquiring minds are likely to find sooner rather than later are:
https://punchdrink.com/articles/ultimate-best-freezer-frozen-pre-batched-martini-recipe/
https://punchdrink.com/articles/dirty-martini-recipe-cleans-up-olive-brine-cocktails-dante-nyc/
The first addresses home formulae for “pre-batched martinis” which, if you think about, is in actuality what you’re getting at Harry’s Bar in Venice. The second article addresses the “Dirty Martini.” Now, I like olives more than the next guy, but when you start pouring brine by the spoonful into your martini, you’re no longer concerned with the subtleties any of the other ingredients, so just pour your Beefeaters and Martini & Rossi, dump the olive juice in till it’s cloudy, and enjoy. I’m not going to argue you with you but with the powerful presence of the brine, the rest of the drink has rolled over and surrendered before it ever gets to your lips. (However, if you want to experiment with a barspoon of brine or less, that can sometimes make for a nice addition.)
And so, here we are. What have we learned?
That the martini, properly prepared, is a cocktail classic for good reason, and properly prepared includes the colder the better. Now go read Jason O’Bryan’s preferred 3:1 version of Tanquery and Dolin’s, and then have one.
Before I sign off, here’s a nice story about a Harry’s Bar experience:
https://punchdrink.com/articles/lessons-from-historic-harrys-bar-cipriani-restaurant-venice/
And here’s a picture of the Harry’s martini glass: https://oddviser.com/italy/venice/dry-martini
I’m happy to receive your questions and comments. At the risk of the obvious cliché: Cheers!
