… today I will discuss a subject of monumental importance. Alcohol. More specifically, THE MARTINI.
Where shall I begin in telling the tale of my love affair with the big M. I think college is a good place to start. Junior year, or rather, the long, languid summer between junior and senior year, the best summer for all students, that time when you aren’t yet concerning yourself with jobs and degrees and graduating and responsibility but yet have enough clout under your belt to finally kick back and enjoy the Big Easy … or if you’re not in NOLA, then, your own little version of it.
My own summer (Shove It) was spent languishing in State College, Pennsylvania. I had two female roommates (wasn’t I lucky? … oh wait) — and we spent most of our time, aside from working — well, ok, they worked, I sort of just laid around — listening to bands like G-Love and Special Sauce (or something like that) and smoking and drinking. Yes, college. That was the life. ‘Keep it copacetic’ was our anthem (WordPress is telling me I spelled that wrong. WordPress is dumb.) and we lived under that motto to the fullest degree.
So it was that some girl who would later be known as Claire called me up one day out of the blue. Who she was I had no idea, but she wanted to drink and for that I am grateful (then, and now) so we hit up this swank bar on the corner or Allen Street, this place called the Allen Street Grill and we met up with this bartender named Lawrence who, within a year, would take his shirt off for us — okay that’s beside the point — and we had these fantastic half-price martini’s. I do have a point, you see.
Claire apparently knew me from my humble origins working as a cashier at one of the local college cafeteria eateries that serviced the psychology grad students and the business big wigs – a job somewhat more classy that slinging food at the actual dorm cafeterias. I was allowed to sit and study or read in between checks, and the checks were brought to me by waiters, all I had to do was ring them up – I didn’t have to deal with the customers at all. At nights. Lunchtime was when the HRIM students ran the show and at those times, yes, I had to haggle with the regulars about the cost of soda and bottled cranberry juice.
So she and I shared our stories over alcohol, and we grw quite fond of Lawrence serving it to us, so much so that we continued our trend — every Sunday night we went to the bar at about 9 and then, after a few, maybe four, or I think our record was 6 each, we would then head, maybe stumbling somewhat unsteadily, down to the club downstairs. The Grill was on the second story of a hotel, actually, and there was a nightclub below it, alongside a gay bar. The gay bar sometimes came into play if one of us had to use the bathroom and therein lies madness and exceedingly fun times.
Our martinis were of all kinds — Cosmos, Dirty, something called Vampires which were red, and blue, we flipped through just about every possible, conceivable martini there ever was in our 3 years of patronage. After Lawrence left there was a nice girl with a huge black braid named Nicole who made our Cosmopolitans the way I like them, Chicago style, very very pale, mostly just a lot of Stolichnaya and a spritz of cranberry with a lemon twist and the visible, faintly, ice chips floating on top after being poured from a vigorous shaking.
Gimlets, orange blossoms, all kinds. Too many to remember and all so delicious. I feel sorry for people who say they never drink because alcohol “lightens the heart and gladdens men’s minds” – you can read that in the Bible, thank you – and to deny yourself that is to feel sorry, indeed, deep, deep down. Claire and I, we made a sport of it, really. We never outdid ourselves, but we tried it all. Scotch, bourbon, vodka, gin, any possible kind you could think of, we drank it.
Now I should caution you, don’t ever mix a martini with anything that has cream in it. Unless it’s a Grasshopper, which is just fantastic after dinner, with desert, or just on a hot summer night. Most bartenders with any kind of class will be able to make you one but some may scratch their heads. If what you get doesn’t come out looking like green milk, then, you’ve just got a bad bartender! Also, if you like nice after dinner drink, try ordering a Stinger. That’s brandy and beware brandy will KNOCK you on your butt if you aren’t used to it!
Okay so where was I? Alcohol. Gladdens men’s hearts and all that jazz. Speaking of jazz, if you ever have the chance, do yourself a favor in Chicago and go to a REAL jazz lounge — the kind with dark leather chairs and lots of smoke — light up a nice strong cigar or pipe, and just sit back with a classic gin martini and sip on it and enjoy the sound. There’s just … NOTHING … quite like it. It’s a beautiful experience.
Barring your opportunities to do that, here’s a terrific article on the ‘perfect martini’ (there is no such thing and this article proves precisely why, and why we are infatuated with the idea) :
The Perfect Martnini
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