I didn’t become an expert on this topic by doing research or writing a book. I did it the old-fashioned way: by drinking. For weeks, months, years, decades. Through many trials and some near-grievous errors, shaken, stirred, and on the rocks (me, not the martini).
This recipe bears no relation to what you may have previously encountered in hotel bars or James Bond movies. It requires neither a jigger nor a two-piece shaker. Though fastidious, it is not fussy.
This is what I believe: martinis should be cold and they should be sipped. They should not be blasphemed with vodka or water. One is enough to get you to dinner. (Most of the time.)
I call it the sixty-second martini not because I am in a rush to drink it, but because that’s all the time you need to prepare for its charm. My motto: gin without haste, enjoy in leisure, no repentance necessary.
Ready to begin? Then reserve a place in the freezer for your bottle. That’s where it should live. Always. Store the olives and the vermouth in the refrigerator. I prefer fresh, green, unpitted olives, each about the width of a thumbnail, and extra dry vermouth. (Later, to reinforce some sense of self-respect, you may wish to experiment with other vermouths, a twist of lemon, or even a slice of cucumber.) You’ll also need a martini glass, preferably stemless.
Now things start to happen fast. Place an olive in the glass. Tip in just enough vermouth to cover the olive. Firmly grasp your freezing cold bottle of gin. Pour slowly and steadily, aiming a thin stream of gin at the olive’s rounded edge. (This is easy with the built-in flow regulator that comes with many brands.)
See how the differing viscosities of gin and vermouth conspire to turn the olive like a little green pig on an invisible spit? That’s Bernoulli’s principle in action—and all the stirring your drink needs. Continue pouring until the liquid reaches a polite distance from the rim of the glass.
That’s it. Your first sip will be a revelation: cooling, healing, and invigorating all at once.
