How We Ruined Classic Martinis

Things are tough, I get it. You gotta cater to those folks who get all their suggestions from twentysomethings on TikTok, and the trends they are a-changin’ all the time.

But all this wheel-reinventing in the food world has been wearing me down. There’s a reason why people always say “the classics are that way for a reason.”

I don’t want another person telling me how one place makes a slice of pizza differently than my longtime favorite—and that I have to wait half an hour to try it. I don’t want a new, gentrified spin on pickles. And I especially don’t want somebody telling me that there’s a martini that I need to try. It’s a martini. You either know how to make a good one or you serve me a glass filled halfway with cold vermouth, a drop of gin, and so much olive juice that I’ll need to hook myself up to a banana bag to rehydrate after one sip.

These days, everywhere I go tries hard to sell me on their martini. One place swears they make the coldest in town; another has a variety of vermouths that they ask me to select from. Meanwhile martinis have gotten dirtier than ever. (Oh, yours is “filthy.” Ha ha.) It used to be so simple to order a martini. Now I have to put thought into it. Isn’t the purpose of a martini, as with meditation, to give one’s thoughts a break?

I like my martinis on the dry side. Sometimes I like a twist, other times a little dirty. And much to the chagrin of my snobbier friends—friends who maybe don’t have the Eastern European DNA that courses through my own veins—I often order mine with vodka. I stick to the spirit that kept my ancestors warm on many a cold Ukrainian night.

But I won’t argue if somebody tries to tell me the house martini is best with gin. I’ve had martinis in some of the best restaurants in the world and in some of the worst. What I’ve learned (with the brain cells that alcohol hasn’t obliterated yet) is that as long as the person making the cocktails understands the proper order—a little bit of vermouth, vodka or gin, and some ice—then I’m not going to complain about whether they shake or stir it. As long as it’s cold and in my glass with a couple of olives, then I’m a happy boy. If you ask me any more questions beyond that, or make me do more thinking about my order, then there’s a good chance you’ll see me melt down right before your eyes.

Some variations on the cocktail do stand out in my mind: I’m certainly not the only one who thinks Dukes in London is the closest thing I’ve found to the cocktail’s apex, but the empty bar that my wife and I wandered into in Tokyo’s Ginza district wasn’t far behind. The bartender wore a white tuxedo, and the care that he took to make the thing was impressive. He listened closely to the ice clinking against the glass as he stirred, using the sound and feel as his barometer for whether my drink was ready or not. The martini that they’ll make for you tableside at Maison Premiere in Brooklyn is excellent, and to a Chicago guy like me, rolling up to Gene & Georgetti for a martini before my ribeye, and then another when the main course comes out, is the peak of existence.

The truth is that even if the venerable old steakhouse did a passable version of the cocktail, I’d still say it was spot-on because I love drinking a martini in a steakhouse, and—last time I was there—they still serve the drinks in those deep, V-shaped glasses that a goldfish could comfortably live in. Bartenders don’t want to hear this, but sometimes it’s not about how they make it; it’s about where you’re drinking it.

I sound like the scumbag movie producer Jack Woltz in The Godfather when I say I’ve had ‘em all over the world, and to this day the ideal martini in my mind was one made by a kid. He didn’t talk much, and I’m not sure where he learned to bartend, but Timmy Lupus from The Bad News Bears used a large shaker to make his version of the cocktail, and I like to think his two-handed pour was part of the preparation and not just because he had tiny child fingers. The drink was clear, he popped a few olives in there, and he served it in a four-ounce coupe glass. I trust the opinion of the baseball team’s manager, Morris Buttermaker—played by Walter Matthau—that that martini was “superb.”

And if Walter Matthau approved of that martini, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be able to top it.