New Amsterdam gin, New York. Photo by Kelly S. Kurt
Nothing self-promotes better than a Martini. All the Manhattans and Negronis and Americanos simply fade—I drink around them, nostalgic for liquors by other names, of other colors, but otherwise nonplussed. In the end, it’s gin. Like great cars and acts of law, a Martini is, quite simply, made. Therefore, it is an event that requires great finesse and equally great aplomb. I can’t say that I only ever shake or stir, always measure vermouth, never change gins. If I’m in a mood to shake, my Martini will inevitably include shards of ice. If I strongly desire the coldest Martini this side of Reykjavik, I stir. Both agree with me, as it were.