Death of the Martini?
“I'd like a dry martini, Mr. Quoc, a very dry martini. A very dry, arid, barren, desiccated, veritable dustbowl of a Martini. I want a Martini that could be declared a disaster area. Mix me just such a Martini.”- Hawkeye Pierce, M*A*S*H
I took a seat at the bar of a brand-new restaurant in San Jose, California, taking in the scent of new polyurethane on the bar and fresh paint on the walls, admiring the gleam of surfaces that would become dull and worn all too soon. It was a steakhouse and while most steakhouses tend to be wastelands for culinary originality and creativity, my carnivorous urges were calling. The portions are usually insane (no human should be eating 64 ounces of meat in a single sitting) and no vegetable “side” is served without being violated in some way (you can't get corn, but you can get creamed corn, you can't get spinach, but you can get creamed spinach, asparagus must come smothered in hollandaise, etc), but I must respect a place that focuses so purely on flesh.
I was also after a cocktail; a Martini, to be exact. It is the iconic, quintessential cocktail. The shape of the glass sculpted in neon serves as a beacon to where cocktails are being served.
I've never quite understood why Martinis and steaks go together so well. Perhaps because each is a celebration of a single “master” ingredient enhanced only by a dash of other ingredients and exposed to extreme temperatures to hone and enhance that core flavor. In the case of beef, a bit of salt, pepper and the right combination of high and low heat to create a scarcely-cooked collagen-softened interior and a complex, crusty, charred exterior; the perfect marriage of raw (or "rare") and cooked. Likewise, a Martini is Gin or Vodka (a much bigger discussion), vermouth, and a dash or two of bitters. That combination of minimal ingredients, like salt and pepper on a steak, don't need to be present in abundant quantities, but they do need to be present.
I've never quite understood why Martinis and steaks go together so well. Perhaps because each is a celebration of a single “master” ingredient enhanced only by a dash of other ingredients and exposed to extreme temperatures to hone and enhance that core flavor. In the case of beef, a bit of salt, pepper and the right combination of high and low heat to create a scarcely-cooked collagen-softened interior and a complex, crusty, charred exterior; the perfect marriage of raw (or "rare") and cooked. Likewise, a Martini is Gin or Vodka (a much bigger discussion), vermouth, and a dash or two of bitters. That combination of minimal ingredients, like salt and pepper on a steak, don't need to be present in abundant quantities, but they do need to be present.
I ordered a Martini made with Ketel One vodka. The bartender poured what seemed like 11 ounces of vodka into a cocktail shaker, filled with ice, capped it, shook it for a whopping third of a second, then removed an enormous Martini glass from a freezer and poured my “Martini” into it. I'd been in the restaurant for all of 5 minutes, and already two things had gone terribly wrong.
First of all, the only universally-agreed upon ingredient in a Martini is cold. Shaking alcohol from a room-temperature bottle (outside of the Ice Hotels) for 5 seconds in ice will not lower the temperature sufficiently nor dilute the spirit adequately. Some claim Martinis are best made in sterling silver cocktail shakers “because silver is a good conductor of heat”. Knowing little about physics, I do know that cold is not leaving the shaker, heat is entering it. However, because of that conductivity, silver also conveniently and coincidentally tells you when the Martini is ready by becoming too cold to handle. Silver also manages to develop frost on the outside while stainless usually just gathers condensation. Shaker materials aside, he needed to chill that drink longer. Much longer.
Secondly, he didn't put any Vermouth in the shaker or in the glass. Vermouth wasn't involved or even mentioned. Somehow, this single ingredient has been gradually reduced to the point of extinction. Having omitted one of the only two (or three) tangible ingredients from a delicate, century-old recipe, one can hardly consider it the same thing.
In the glass before me, fresh from the freezer, was a bowlful of vodka, served with a bit of flair and a pair of skewered olives. He stood triumphant with his hands on his hips and gave me a slight nod to indicate that the ceremony was over. Unfortunately, I then had to ask him where the hell my Martini was. He seemed puzzled.
“What you have there is four shots of barely chilled vodka which is hardly a ‘cocktail’.”
To his credit and despite his youth, he instantly understood what I meant. The twin-decade gap in our ages was quickly bridged by our mutual understanding that a cocktail is the careful blending of several ingredients, not the preponderance of one. Then, he said something that terrified me.
“So many people these days like a really dry Martini. In fact, the official recipe for a Morton's Martini calls for no vermouth.” I nearly fell out of my chair.
My first exposure to Martinis was the show M*A*S*H and their in-tent still. I now realize that what they made was unlikely to resemble gin but may have been closer to vodka. Regardless, i was fascinated by the ceremony of preparing them, the requisite and important olive, and their constant quest for the “driest” Martini possible (though I had no idea what that meant at the time.)
I'm not sure if M*A*S*H was somehow to blame or if bartenders simply got lazy or the drinking public became indifferent, but somewhere along the line, the goal has become to put as little vermouth as possible in a Martini while still retaining its “cocktail” status. This generated such useless products as vermouth "misters" and silly (and messy) procedures like swirling Vermouth in the glass and discarding it (in restaurants, typically on the floor.) I'll grant that the original recipe (something like 3 parts gin to 1 part vermouth) was a tad heavy, but I'm a firm believer that a good recipe is born out of thoughtful testing and consideration, not stumbled upon. Something just short of magic happens when the balance between vodka or gin and vermouth is achieved with bitters to add that extra level of complexity. Done correctly, the individual ingredients cease to exist and a new substance created.
First of all, the only universally-agreed upon ingredient in a Martini is cold. Shaking alcohol from a room-temperature bottle (outside of the Ice Hotels) for 5 seconds in ice will not lower the temperature sufficiently nor dilute the spirit adequately. Some claim Martinis are best made in sterling silver cocktail shakers “because silver is a good conductor of heat”. Knowing little about physics, I do know that cold is not leaving the shaker, heat is entering it. However, because of that conductivity, silver also conveniently and coincidentally tells you when the Martini is ready by becoming too cold to handle. Silver also manages to develop frost on the outside while stainless usually just gathers condensation. Shaker materials aside, he needed to chill that drink longer. Much longer.
Secondly, he didn't put any Vermouth in the shaker or in the glass. Vermouth wasn't involved or even mentioned. Somehow, this single ingredient has been gradually reduced to the point of extinction. Having omitted one of the only two (or three) tangible ingredients from a delicate, century-old recipe, one can hardly consider it the same thing.
In the glass before me, fresh from the freezer, was a bowlful of vodka, served with a bit of flair and a pair of skewered olives. He stood triumphant with his hands on his hips and gave me a slight nod to indicate that the ceremony was over. Unfortunately, I then had to ask him where the hell my Martini was. He seemed puzzled.
“What you have there is four shots of barely chilled vodka which is hardly a ‘cocktail’.”
To his credit and despite his youth, he instantly understood what I meant. The twin-decade gap in our ages was quickly bridged by our mutual understanding that a cocktail is the careful blending of several ingredients, not the preponderance of one. Then, he said something that terrified me.
“So many people these days like a really dry Martini. In fact, the official recipe for a Morton's Martini calls for no vermouth.” I nearly fell out of my chair.
My first exposure to Martinis was the show M*A*S*H and their in-tent still. I now realize that what they made was unlikely to resemble gin but may have been closer to vodka. Regardless, i was fascinated by the ceremony of preparing them, the requisite and important olive, and their constant quest for the “driest” Martini possible (though I had no idea what that meant at the time.)
I'm not sure if M*A*S*H was somehow to blame or if bartenders simply got lazy or the drinking public became indifferent, but somewhere along the line, the goal has become to put as little vermouth as possible in a Martini while still retaining its “cocktail” status. This generated such useless products as vermouth "misters" and silly (and messy) procedures like swirling Vermouth in the glass and discarding it (in restaurants, typically on the floor.) I'll grant that the original recipe (something like 3 parts gin to 1 part vermouth) was a tad heavy, but I'm a firm believer that a good recipe is born out of thoughtful testing and consideration, not stumbled upon. Something just short of magic happens when the balance between vodka or gin and vermouth is achieved with bitters to add that extra level of complexity. Done correctly, the individual ingredients cease to exist and a new substance created.
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