From the Memoir Class

The Perfect Martini or Confessions of a Martini Snob

by Bill Hudson

My Pop introduced me to the martini ritual. He was part of the post-WWII generation that enjoyed their cocktails, particularly martinis. Unlike some of his contemporaries, I do not think that he participated in many “three martini lunches”. He normally ate the lunch he brought from home at his desk. Nor, when we were growing up, did my parents consume a martini before dinner – such a practice, given the price of hard liquor, would have offended their frugality. Martini drinking was reserved for parties and special occasions, like visits from my Aunt Mildred, Mom’s twin sister, and Uncle Lee. Uncle Lee enjoyed his cocktails and, as an executive with a large company, was not a stranger to “three martini lunches”. Whenever my uncle and aunt would visit, Uncle Lee would remove several bottles of gin and one of vermouth from his trunk and pre-prandial martinis would flow.

Sometime after my sister and I had left home for college, with the family budget less tight, my parents began the ritual of a pre-dinner cocktail hour. Whenever I would visit, they would enjoy a Manhattan or a Martini before we ate dinner.  After I turned twenty-one, Pop introduced me to the martini.

I remember Pop placing two parts Gordon’s Gin and one part Vermouth in a shaker full of ice, mixing slowly with a spoon until the shaker was well frosted, pouring the now icy contents into small 4-ounce glasses and garnishing with an olive. He handed me a glass and I took a sip and experienced for the first time the delight of this cold beverage flowing across my tongue. I had become a martini lover.

Pop’s 2-1 ratio of gin to vermouth was once the classic recipe for a “dry martini.” Nowadays, when martinis at a bar or restaurant contain a much smaller quantity of vermouth, if any, this two to one ratio would be considered a very “wet.” Martini recipe books recommend a 4-1 ratio for a standard martini and a smaller ratio for a “dry” martini. I now use a 5 or 6 -1 ratio for my martinis.

So much for the nostalgia, here comes the snobbery. Sadly, many today have come to believe that vermouth is unnecessary in a martini. Today, when I order a martini at a bar, I often must remind the bartender to add some vermouth, sometimes receiving disdainful stares as I do so. For young bartenders, the default seems to be to make a martini with gin alone, either because that is what they assume the customer expects or because that is how they have been taught. The ignorance on this score seems immense. Once when I asked a young bartender to add some vermouth, he reached for a bottle of rosso vermouth.  Disaster was avoided only because I somewhat rudely instructed him to put it down and get a proper dry vermouth.

Let me state without equivocation: gin without vermouth is not a martini. Now some may prefer a drink made of ice-cold gin alone, I do not begrudge them that preference, but that drink is not a martini. From its invention around 1900, either in San Francisco or New York City, martinis have included dry gin and dry vermouth. For anyone with a decent martini palate, the subtle mixing of the gin and vermouth give the drink its special flavor. The proportions can vary – that is a matter of preference, but at least some vermouth is essential to the drink. Why the current fashion for so-called martinis without gin? Perhaps it stems from an apocryphal story that Winston Churchill would mix his martinis with gin alone while merely looking at a bottle of vermouth. More likely, the fashion stems from a mistaken belief that martinis derive all their flavor from the type of gin, and there are many available nowadays, so that vermouth does not matter. Or, perhaps, even more simply, for those ignorant of the history of the “dry martini”, adding dry vermouth is thought to diminish the drink’s “dryness”.

Shaken or stirred? I believe that a good martini can be made either way. Most bartenders shake their martinis. This may be to impress the customer with a dramatic flourishing of the ice-filled shaker over the bartender’s head. Shaking also has utilitarian value in a busy bar because it allows chilling the drink more quickly than stirring. When making my martinis at home, I prefer to stir them slowly in a metal shaker filled with ice for close to one minute. This allows some slight melting of the ice which facilitates the merging of the gin and vermouth.  Once the outside of the shaker is well frosted and icy cold to the touch, the martinis are ready to pour. Stirring also prevents a common side effect of vigorously shaken martinis: a layer of crushed ice on the drink’s surface.

Types of gin? We live in an age of proliferation of liquor varieties of all kinds. New specialty varieties of bourbons, rye whiskies, rums, vodkas, Irish whiskies, scotches, etc. are being produced constantly. Many are manufactured in small batches and sold at astronomical prices. The same is true of gin. A visitor to an upscale liquor store nowadays will find a plethora of different brands of gin on display. Most have exotic names and feature equally exotic botanicals to supplement the basic flavor of the juniper berry that makes the liquor a gin. I sometimes like to sample these new-fangled products in a martini, but my preference remains for the more standard brands that continue to dominate the gin market, such as Beefeater, Gordons, Bombay, and Tanqueray, my favorite.  The slight citrus flavor of Tanqueray makes for a very tasty martini.

Garnish? There are a variety of appropriate garnishes for a martini.  A small pearl onion makes a “Gibson” martini. For a martini made with Hendricks gin a slice of cucumber compliments well the mix of botanicals that give it a distinct flavor. The olive, of course, remains the typical martini garnish. I like one olive in any martini consumed between Labor Day and Memorial Day, but for the summer prefer a twist of lemon rind for a perfect cool beverage on a hot day. The lemon twist goes quite well with the already citrusy Tanqueray gin.

Martini glass? The proper glass for a martini is the classic funnel shape bowl above a long stem, preferably chilled in a freezer or, second best, chilled by filling with ice and water for a few minutes before use. Martini glasses nowadays hold from 6 to 8 ounces of liquid. These are much larger than the 4-ounce glasses dominant in the heyday of martini culture from the 1930’s to the 1960’s. If you watch a movie from the 30’s or 40’s, in which martinis play a role such as the Thin Man movies or The Philadelphia Story, the martinis are served in these smaller glasses. Nick and Nora could down martini after martini without passing out, as they solved a murder, because they were drinking much less than they would have drinking from the modern larger pours. The 1950s three martini businessman’s lunch may not have destroyed the American economy because our captains of industry went back to work have consumed only 1 and ½ of a modern martini serving.

In the past few years, many bars and restaurants have replaced the classic funnel shaped martini glass with a round coupe shaped glass. This is a disappointing development. Somehow a martini does not taste the same in a glass better suited for chocolate mousse. I have asked several bartenders about why this shift to the round glasses and have received the same answer. It seems that the funnel shaped glasses are prone to break in the glassware dishwashers used in most bars.  For some reason, the coupe glasses are more stable. Happily, our favorite Providence restaurant, although it has joined the shift to coupe glasses, keeps some classic funnel shaped ones on hand for whenever my wife and I come in. Nice to have a place where everyone knows your name.

Vodka?  We are entering true snob territory. Some people like a drink made with vodka and vermouth “shaken, not stirred” a la James Bond. This drink IS NOT A MARTINI!!!  From its inception at the start of the 20th century, martinis were always made with gin. Its popularity rose in the 1920s, during Prohibition – the era of bathtub gin.  Sometime in the late 1950s or early 60s, when more vodka began to be imported to the United States, people began mixing it with a little vermouth and serving it cold in martini glasses. Many call this a vodka martini. This was a grave error. It led to the emergence of further “tini” heresies like the “appletini”, the peach martini, the chocolate martini, and so forth. I do not condemn the pleasure derived from any of these drinks. I celebrate diversity in tastes. Anyone should be perfectly free to mix some vodka with vermouth, fruit juice, or any other liquid and drink it, if one wishes, from a martini glass. Just do not call the drink a martini. “What’s in a name” you might ask?  Precision and suitability, I would answer. The name martini ought to be reserved for the venerable beverage consisting of gin and vermouth. Attaching the name to other beverages, particularly of the vodka variety, sows confusion.

I am not a fanatic. Some of my best friends drink what they call a “vodka martini”. I do not lecture them. When one visits and requests a vodka martini, I am happy to mix one up and serve it with a smile.  All the time, martini snob, that I am, I relish my superiority in secretly knowing that my guest is not drinking a martini. This, of course, is the height of snobbery. It is my sin.

Enough snobbery, back to nostalgia.

My cousin Kay told me recently that whenever my family was due to visit, her father, my Uncle Paul who rarely drank hard liquor, would say: “Kenny Hudson is coming, better go to the liquor store.” He would soon return with a bottle of gin, one of vermouth, and a jar of pimento filled olives. While we visited, my Uncle Paul would happily join in the consumption of the martinis my dad would mix.  Once we departed, any leftover gin and vermouth would go into the pantry to await Kenny’s next visit.

Occasionally, in memory of father, I make a martini just like the ones he used to make: two jiggers of gin and one of vermouth, stirred well, and served in a small 4-ounce glass. As I sip that martini, I remember warm evenings sitting with him on the back patio of my folk’s house in California, looking out at the setting sun shining on the avocado groves in the distance, discussing and solving the world’s problems, and sipping one of his martinis.  Those were perfect martinis.