The martini: as New York as a Yankees Cap is or a black caw-fee to go. Roger Sterling’s and Carrie Bradshaw’s signature cocktail. From the comforts of a leather booth in a wood-paneled bar, the perfect antidote to the chaos of Midtown Manhattan.
Service industry lore attributes the martini's origin to The Knickerbocker Hotel, in the year 1911. Its close relatives include the Cosmopolitan, the Manhattan, and the Gimlet. The Espresso Martini, a British distant relative, emerged in the 1980s.
Bare-boned, the martini includes up to three ingredients, although the omission of any (but the booze) is entirely customizable. Gin or Vodka? Vermouth? Olive juice? Filthy. Twist or Olives? None? I don’t like salad in my drink either. Shaken? Stirred.
The martini has survived because it is the best accessory. To not be seen holding a slim stem, V-shaped goblet, is harder than to actually drink one. It’s chic to stomach a martini, and Samantha Jones to stomach three. There’s a whimsical piety to someone whose taste buds have evolved so resiliently that they don’t need sugar to mask the abomination that is straight liquor.
A martini, like a cigarette, is one of those incredibly sexy things that are out to kill you. We might agree that smoking is disgusting, if exhaling a cloud of smoke weren’t so alluring. And a martini might taste like gas station vodka if it were served in a mug. But a martini glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, is enough to give anyone cinematic sex appeal.
JG Melon, Fanelli’s, and Minetta Tavern are some of my favorite places to have a martini. JG Melon opened in 1972, Fanelli’s in 1847, Minetta in 1937. All far older than I am. Yet even on a Wednesday night, in the middle of October, five decades after JG's opening, there’s a crowd outside: kids, people with kids, people who very recently were kids, all with their names scribbled on the host’s waitlist. Meanwhile, downtown, trying to score a table at Fanelli’s on any summer’s day is like winning $1 on a $2 scratch-off. The swamp ass is worth the ice cold martini. Crosstown at Minetta’s, don’t even. Get on the ‘Notify’ list instead. The chilled glasses are worth the wait. I have never walked by any of these places and seen them sparse, let alone empty.
On a friend's recent visit, we met at Fanelli’s, our usual spot for dirty gin martinis under $20. As she ran her olives along the rim of her glass, Shiri, a bonafide Midtown-er now living in Tel Aviv, turned to me. “I don’t understand how anyone can fuck this drink up,” she said. It was the first time in months she’s had a decent martini. She had to fly across the world for it.
The martini will be the New York City's drink for as long as people drink them. I pledge allegiance, to the martini, of the City of New York.
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