Hopefully, I am far enough behind the martini trend of whenever ago to not look like part of it with this post. I would hate to start appearing relevant.
But how long can I be silent on an issue this close to my heart–an issue that affects so much of my life? The answer is “However long I have been to this point” but of course, you would not have guessed that before you started reading this paragraph, and it is cruel of me to toy with you so.
Right then. Martinis. The blessed nectar of suave.
Everyone loves to say that how they like a martini is the only way to have one. They are all wrong, except me. Painful wine-bore wannabes get quite prescriptive about the proper and ultimate recipes for this drink. And those impressed by any drivel issuing from creepily white teeth atop a v-shaped torso and beneath a fauxhawk–particularly those who don’t already know what they like–will rush out and Buy Things in order to re-create an experience they have never had, as described by someone paid to tell them about it.
I give you the truth, unvarnished, from over OK teeth atop an appley torso, beneath the diminishing remains of an unkempt mop. I give the truth to you from someone who has experienced many many martinis.
There is no objective measure of how “good” a martini is. It’s like anything else–you figure out what you like, and no-one else can tell you.
You use some gin*, some dry vermouth and some olives. When you like how it tastes, and you suddenly feel wittier, prettier and much less shittier, it’s a good martini. I have cool friends who like ’em very very dry, wet n’ dirty, icy icy and dirty, and all stops in-between. All are correct, though not as good as they way I like them. Because I rule.
I’m not going to tell you my favorite way to make a perfect martini for me. BECAUSE IT DOESN’T MATTER TO ANYONE BUT ME. This would be the case even were my teeth straighter and my hair better. Even were I getting paid.
While we are on the topic, I must add this:
Things made with these same ingredients plus flavorings are not martinis.
They are some other kind of cocktail. That’s not to say that they can’t be good (some are excellent), but they are not the same thing just because they share ingredients. Bread pudding is not called simply “bread.” When two cars get crushed together, they are not called “A car.” Paula Dean is not called “A dozen drag queens” just because they contain about the same amount of makeup and hairspray.
Look at it this way (I dare you): If Oprah cooked and ate Cameron Diaz, Oprah would not suddenly be Cameron Diaz just because she contained Cameron Diaz.
As an aside, Oprah cooking and eating celebrities is about the only thing that they could show on OWN that I would ever watch. I doubt I would sit through the part where they clean and dress the celebrities though. That would take HOURS.
Where was I? Oh yes. Gin, dry vermouth, olives. Mix as you will, and serve. And I’ll have whatever you’re having, so make two.
*I, of course, have no cool friends who like martinis made with vodka, but that’s not meant as a judgment in any way on those who drink vodka martinis. We need people like that in this world, otherwise the hallways would never get swept.
Spam sez “Please Help me.“