Only with gin: The Martini

Once considered the true test of the bartender's art, the Martini is now more a trial of patience and will. As "Martini" fast becomes the generic term of the cocktail world, bartenders can no longer assume that those who order it want the classic or even the common. In fact, many imbibers treat the words "martini" and "cocktail" the same - a far greater fall from grace than the nearly lost distinction between a cocktail and a mixed drink. Sadly, restaurateurs and bar owners encourage these misunderstandings in order to sell more spirits - and though I'm sympathetic to their businesses, I can't support a practice that's ruining an American tradition of well-made drinks, each with its own name and preparation.

To put this in better perspective, consider the use of the word "chardonnay" a few years back. When the California wine first became popular, some people assumed that every white wine was called chardonnay (those drinking during the '70s did the same with chablis). Soon, a common request from the mouths of early-evening diners was for a glass of "house chardonnay." The server was left to tactfully decipher whether the client wanted the least expensive chardonnay - about US$5 a glass - or if the modifier "house" was to ensure that the wine didn't cost more than $3. The latter was almost always the case, and if the server guessed wrong, the manager would undoubtedly be called over to discount the check at the meal's end. With Martinis, similar scenes have ended in blows, though it's over preference or principle, not price.

Out of respect for the Martini's heritage, I never assume that guests ordering this drink want it with vodka, despite the American Bartenders Association's report that, sadly, two out of three Martinis are made with the spirit. Regardless of how well I know or like the imbibers, I never allow them the satisfaction of believing they've convinced me that the Martini is anything but a gin cocktail. Yet, as much as I dislike vodka in cocktails, Martinis made with this spirit do at least appear as stunningly clear and well-garnished as if made with gin.

I have little appreciation for the other so-called Martinis cropping up at bars across this country. These drinks - typically made with vodka, flavored liqueurs, distilled essences, or infused fruits - fall close enough to the definition of cocktail, but their unnatural hues and garnishes of melon and candy push them far past the realm of good taste. There are some that are truly throwbacks to the era of the fern bar. Vodka drinks mixed solely with Midori or Amaretto have become the Sloe Gin Fizzes of the '90s, and the telltale sign of someone who really doesn't like the taste of liquor. The pepper Martini, the chocolate Martini, the cranberry Martini, and the melon Martini are all deviations best avoided. As Joseph Lanza points out in The Cocktail: The Influence of Spirits on the American Pysche "The cult of the cocktail has centered on an ecumenical rift between those advocating the consummately dry Martini and those seeking to play havoc with its genetic structure. Being the pampered pet of purists, the Martini has always flirted with at least an occasional violation." But such violations now happen daily. The creators of these drinks lack the confidence to sell a drink by its taste alone, so they tie it to the Martini's name in hopes of gaining credibility and increasing sales. At least his Martini deviation its own name.

If I had my way, all Martini menus would be quite short, with only a few variations on the recipe. In fact, four lines would suffice:

Dry: 1 part Noilly Prat dry vermouth to 5 parts London dry gin

Medium: 2 parts Noilly Prat dry vermouth to 4 parts London dry gin

Wet: 3 parts Noilly Prat dry vermouth to 3 parts London dry gin

Sweet: 1 part Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth to 3 parts London dry gin

Such a menu should state that the Martinis may be garnished with either a lemon zest or an olive, and modern demands would require even me to add the disclaimer: "Upon request, triple-distilled vodka may be substituted for gin in any of the selections." An "exotic" Martini menu would go on to explain that a black olive makes the drink a Buckeye Martini, while an onion transforms it into a Gibson. A dry Martini with a dash to 1/4 ounce of scotch is a smoky Martini, while one with a splash of olive brine is a dirty Martini (endured only because FDR sipped it). The Martinez - arguably the first incarnation of the Martini - could also be included, along with other, slight variations on the proportions of sweet vermouth and bitters. The menu could even mention that the Martinis will be stirred, not shaken, because, as W. Somerset Maugham so elegantly wrote, "Martinis should always be stirred, not shaken, so that the molecules lie sensuously on top of one another." It also helps to keep the drink clear and from becoming overly diluted.

Perhaps if someone coined a more enticing name than "Vodkatini" - the drink's moniker during the 1950s - we would not be faced with this classic becoming the catchall for nearly everything behind the bar (including glassware). Like the drink, the name is hard to top - though the Vesper does come close. At least imbibers of the '50s knew, as Maugham's protagonist did in The Fall of Edward Bannard, that perfection isn't to be outdone: "When I had nothing better to do in the old days in Chicago I used to amuse myself by thinking out new cocktails, but when you come down to brass-tacks, there's nothing to beat a dry Martini."