The Perfect Martini: How to Make It

To be great is to be misunderstood. True of artists, true of cocktails. Take the martini. It can’t get any simpler than mixing 2 ingredients over ice. In spite of that simplicity (or maybe because of it), the mere mention of the word provokes the sort of hair-splitting superciliousness one might expect from a civil war re-enactor.

I’ve certainly waged a few war of words myself. Say the words “vodka” and “martini” in my presence and you’ll get an earful. Dems fightin’ words. But you won’t get me to apologize, because I am one of the martini’s most ardent conservators. In fact, for years I have been on a quest to make the perfect martini. And I just may have finally succeeded.

Use gin, not vodka

My discourse of the martini starts here: it's made with gin, not vodka. This isn’t just a snooty preference; to me, the martini simply doesn’t make sense with vodka. Vermouth, the “other” ingredient in a martini, is fortified wine flavored with botanicals. It’s the melding of the botanicals in vermouth and the botanicals in gin (like juniper berries and coriander) that gives a martini its crisp, aromatic character.

In cocktails, vodka’s role is to bring out the flavor of the other ingredients. It’s why it’s used in cooking. And so in a martini it’s bringing out the flavor of the vermouth, which isn’t a desirable base for a cocktail.

Ah, but vodka drinkers have a solution to this: use little to no vermouth! You know the drill. Pour vermouth in the glass, swirl it around, and dump it down the sink. Or use an atomizer to add a spritz. Or, my favorite, twirl a sealed bottle of vermouth over the glass. I’ve done all of it myself. But here’s the thing I learned: it’s not really a cocktail. It’s just a ritualistic way to drink vodka.

This is not the case with gin. When you start with gin, you will actually want to add vermouth. Which gives you, yep, a martini.

Use a London dry gin

As for what kind of gin to use in your martini, start with a brawny, traditional variety that you could imagine Winston Churchill tipping back. You’ll want a gin that doesn’t shy away from its juniper soul and is scarcely ever drunken neat, excepting dares. That leads us to London dry-style gin, such as Tanqueray, Bombay, Beefeater’s, or Boodles.

There have been a number of recent attempts to “contemporize” gin by making it more affable to palates anesthetized by vodka. But these failing Newfangled gins try too hard to mask the earthy juniper bite with strong floral and citrus notes and come off more as flavored vodkas—which I fear is intentional. To be worthy of a martini, a gin should boldly declare its gin-ness and still have enough character transcend it. That’s why the perfect gin for the perfect gin is Boodles.

Think French for vermouth

Living in Pennsylvania, I have precious few choices for dry vermouth. Until recently, top shelf was Martini & Rossi, the Coors Light of vermouth. That changed when some stores started carrying French stalwart Noilly Prat. NP is far more flavorful than the tepid Italians I’ve had and the best available in the Keystone state. But while on vacation in Savannah I snagged a bottle of Dolin Dry, also French, which is easily the best I’ve tasted. Paired with Boodles, it adds a light, grassy acidity that provides the bass notes to underpin the brusque bark of the gin.

Garnish with a twist

Olives are what most people associate with the martini, but the only thing they bring to the party is a briny snack for your significant other to filch while you’re not looking. Olives don’t add anything taste-wise to the cocktail. A lemon twist on the other hand does, provide a bright citrus note to complement the herbaceous botanicals.

James Bond was never a bartender

James Bond is inextricably linked with the martini, but he has probably done more than any real or fictional person to ensure the martini doesn’t get its proper due. Ever since Bond ordered his first vodka concoction in Dr. No, gin has taken a back seat in for martinis. And his suave “shaken not stirred” prescription has prevented many a mixologist from making a proper martini.

Now, if you’re going to have a vodka martini, go ahead and shake it. But gin should be stirred. I don't put much stock into the oft-cited argument that shaking “bruises” the gin. Doing so supposedly creates air bubbles. Regardless, you want some water dilution in your martini, but not too much; shaking is too much. Stir using a cocktail spoon and you won’t water down your cocktail like a certain British secret agent.

Perfect martini recipe

1. Chill the glass. Fill a martini glass with ice and add water—it chills faster.
2. Make a lemon twist. Remove as much or the bitter white pith as possible.
3. Empty ice into a cocktail shaker. Drain water.
4. Add 3 ounces of Boodles gin.
5. Add 1 ounce of Dolin dry vermouth.
6. Stir with a cocktail spoon for at least 30 seconds.
7. Pour into the chilled glass.
8. Twist the lemon peel to release oils. Rub the rim of the glass. Drop into the drink.

Now, enjoy your perfect martini.

Leave your gin in San Francisco

Junipero gin first came to my attention by way of Mrs. McDrinkerson, who had a measure dropped in her tonic while in San Francisco a few years back. It’s distilled there by the craft-brew pioneers responsible for Anchor Steam beer. Mrs. McDrinkerson liked what she tasted and reported that the locals quite enthusiastically recommended it her.

But alas, I had to wait several years to try Junipero myself, since it has only just become available in Pennsylvania, and only by special order at that.

Junipero claims to the first of the “new gins,” by which they presumably mean the small-batch variety that riff on London drys.

I’m wary of the new gins.

I’m quite happy with the old gin. And the recent incarnations self-consciously try to set themselves apart from the classic recipe. They throw in left-field botanicals and go crazy with the citrus flavors. Sometimes this has surprising results (see Hendrick's and its cucumber and rose petals), but more often they seem faddish and overcooked (see the highly regarded Bulldog).

But I had high hopes for Junipero. For one, “juniper” is in its name. The juniper berry is gin’s raison d’être—otherwise it’s just funny-tasting vodka. And yet, newfangled gins tend to downplay the juniper to prove it aint your father’s gin.

Thankfully, Junipero is true to its name. It’s bold and has some of the high heat you’d find in standard-bearer Tanqueray. Still, it gets a little jiggy with the citrus—thinking grapefruit here. And it just didn’t come together for me. It struck me as very similar to Bluecoat—softer but not as well balanced. Advantage Bluecoat.

In the end, it was not worth the wait. If it were $15 at my local hooch shop I would pick it up occasionally. But as a special order at more than twice that, this San Francisco treat is a one-and-done.

Hendrick's: Waiter, There's a Cucumber in My Gin

It sounded like a bad idea. Surely a gimmick, maybe a joke even. A gin infused with cucumbers and rose petals? Really now. I suppose this is what leprechauns and fairies mix with their tonic. Why not add lavender and chamomile while you're at it.

Yeah, when I first came across Hendrick's gin I was not interested. I prefer my gin with the crisp juniper bite that polite society recoils from. If you're going to go messing with the botanicals in gin, try eye of newt or toe of frog, something that reminds me I'm not drinking tea. But cucumbers and roses? I prepared myself to hate it.

But I didn't. I quite liked it surprisingly enough.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised. Cucumber actually complements gin quite well. Drop a slice in your Tanqueray and you'll see that even your London drys have a hint of cucumber underneath all that evergreen. Hendrick's tones down the juniper and puts the spotlight on the cucumber to give it a nice clean taste. It's floral without being flowery. It's light on its feet, but since it's a hearty 88 proof you'll still respect yourself in the morning.

And if it makes you feel any better, it's distilled in Scotland by people who know their way around a pot still.

Hendrick's Cocktails
Hendrick's makes a splendid martini with a whisper of vermouth. But -- and this is critical -- you must garnish it with a cucumber. I thought at first that that was gimmick too. When I read that mixologists in Hendrick's employ insisted on the cucumber garnish I rolled my eyes. OK, I get it, I thought. Hendrick's is distilled with cucumbers. Throwing one in your martini would make as much sense as tossing juniper berries in your Tanqueray.

But, again, I was wrong. A slice of cucumber made the vegetal essence of the gin explode. It made me feel as though I was sipping a distilled green salad. If that thought repulses you, you haven't tried Hendrick's.

Same for mixing with tonic. Forget the lime (although that will do it a pinch). Garnish with a cucumber and you'll rediscover the G+T all over again.

Cucumbers Pull a Seat up to the Bar
And it's catching on. I can recall ordering a Hendrick's martini a few years ago and when I insisted on the cucumber garnish I got a perplexed look from the waiter, followed by a dozen wooden-match-sized slivers floating in my glass. When the Fenix in Phoenixville first opened, I dispatched the waiter to the restaurant next door for a cucumber slice. Now they keep them at the bar. Another example of my conscientious imbibing making a difference.

You're welcome.

Take that London: Bluecoat American Dry Gin

My first experience with gin had every chance to be perfect. I was in Manhattan, decked out in a tuxedo, flush with a corporate credit card. Three female colleagues accompanied me to a bar in the theater district and I grasped that the occasion called for something with a measure of elegance and sophistication. I ordered a martini.

So far so good.

But I was a young pup, my tuxedo was rented, and the credit card wasn't mine. Plus, it was before five in the afternoon -- and there's a whole other story about why I was the only one in formal dress.

See, I made a rookie mistake: I did not specify a brand of gin when ordering and was served up something distinctly bathtub in origin. Stupid tourist, the bartender no doubt said to himself. Needless to say, it was ghastly. I didn't even finish it.

Tragically, I stuck to vodka martinis for the next decade.

I suspect most people have a similar introduction to gin. Otherwise, how to explain why you don't drink more gin?

But there's hope. It's a good time to drink gin. Especially when a dandy one is now distilled locally in Philadelphia.

I speak of Bluecoat American Dry, a complex gin that appeals to educated and virgin palates alike.

It strikes a nice balance of being citrusy without being sweet. The juniper bite is dialed back to make it smoother than the London drys. It has a nose that is chemically clean like a high-end spa -- no kidding, smell it. I usually like a good bit of vermouth in martini, but with Bluecoat I keep it to a whisper. I'm sure it mixes well, but it's so damn good I don't want anything competing with it.

And it's cheap -- under $30 -- with plenty of elegance to go with a well-fit tuxedo. So you needn't be afraid of gin anymore. Drink up.

-tini: The Most Abused Suffix in Drinkdom

I recently noticed a colleague of mine sipping an interesting drink at dinner. Its glass announced itself as a -tini drink, but it was not of the fluorescent-colored, overly garnished variety that plaque our drink menus. In fact, it looked like seawater. I was intrigued. I was told that it was a French martini. The drink wasn’t bad; I have since made a couple myself. It was not, however, a martini.

The Cosmo, also not a martini, FYI.

In recent years, "martini" became an umbrella name for vodka-based cocktails served in a fancy glass so bars and restaurants can charge $11 a pop for them. Which is curious because gin, not vodka, is the base for a true, classic martini. Vodka is favored for -tini drinks because of its neutral taste, whereas if you used gin the cocktail might taste as though there was liquor in there. In other words, it would taste like, well, a martini.

I drink both vodka and gin martinis, oftentimes in succession. It’s a matter of preference. But the real deal foe me is gin and vermouth. What makes a martini is how the dryness of the vermouth tempers the juniper bite of the gin. I advocate the term vodkatini when subbing vodka for the gin because they are completely different drinks.

Now that we know gin makes a proper martini, there are plenty other conundrums still to consider:

Ratio of gin to vermouth? Classic recipes usually have a ratio of three parts gin, one part vermouth. I prefer six to one with a London Dry like Tanqueray. For cleaner, new-style gins I prefer something close to what Hemingway called “The Montgomery.” Named after a British Field Marshal, Papa’s drink had a 15 to one ratio, which purportedly the battle odds Montgomery favored.

Shaken or stirred? Stirred. (Sorry James.) You’re not mixing a can of paint. Too much shake causes ice particles to dissolve in the drink, watering it down. The idea is to get the drink as cold as possible. A better way to achieve this is to ice the glass too. Then use a cocktail spoon to give it a vigorous stir for 30 seconds or so. You'll still get some dilution, but not too much.

Olive or twist? I have always been an olive guy, but since getting a zester, I have favored a twist. It really brings out the citrus notes. Twist gets my vote with gin, olives with vodka. Matter of preference.

Bitters? Many believe bitters are essential and some classic recipes included orange bitters. I like it, but mostly I don’t like anything mucking with the gin taste.

Most important thing is to keep it simple when it comes to a martini. Besides, if you have a few, they will cause plenty of complications.

Tang 10

Those who have sat at an adjacent bar stool have heard me rhapsodize about the sublime gin that is Tanqueray. It is for me the quintessential gin, never apologizing for its juniper bite.

But those that don't share my admiration think it tastes like Pinesol. (My standard reply: Let's talk about why you're drinking Pinesol.)

So a decade or so ago, along came Tanqueray No. 10. It's light on the juniper berries (the Pinesol, if you will) and heavy on the fruit. I once read it described as "fruit forward" and that's just about right.

I don't like Tang 10. See, it tastes like bubble gum. And once I made that connection I could never take it seriously. Honestly, taste it and tell me if you don't agree (Mrs. McDrinkerson concurs).

The biggest crime is that Tang 10 costs more than the regular version. It's so not worth it.

Stick with the original or try Plymouth if you prefer something smoother.

"I don't drink gin" is not an acceptable answer.

Fighting Scurvy Since 1793: Plymouth Gin

Those not enthralled with gin inevitably wrinkle their noses at the Christmas tree taste. Well, bah humbug. That taste comes courtesy of juniper berries and you can't call it gin without them. But how much juniper is used in the distillation varies with the gin.

Usually it’s the London dry variety, like Tanqueray, that turn people off gin as a drinkable spirit. And by drinkable I mean straight or close to it. To my taste, the London drys beg for tonic. But they don’t work so well in a martini.

Enter Plymouth, the juniper-lite gin.

Hardly a new kid on the block, Plymouth was supplied to every ship in the Royal Navy beginning in the early 1800s so sailors could mix it with citrus juice to prevent scurvy. Those who know me are familiar with my staunch anti-scurvy stance. I simply won't stand for it.

Plymouth tempers the Pine-Sol taste of the junpers with other botanicals that make it quite smooth. It has a light, citrus character that comes from its lemon and orange peels, the latter of which is the sweet variety as opposed to bitter orange peels used by most other gins.

Plymouth makes a great martini. I liked Tanqueray No. 10 when I first tasted it because it was smoother and more martini-friendly that the original. But I now suspect that Tang 10 is merely a Plymouth homage. I’ll stick with Plymouth. Consider that it is priced the same as regular Tanqueray ($23.99), and five bucks cheaper than Tang 10.

One controversial note: Plymouth claims that it was the gin used in the original dry martini recipe published in 1894. But Old Tom gin (which gave the Tom Collins its name) is often cited as well. Once we rid the world of scurvy, I would advocate some research dollars being allocated to solving this mystery once and for all. Let's do it for the kids.