It always brings a smile to his face when your friendly bartender hears, “I’ll have a Grey Goose martini but I want it dirty… I mean really, really dirty!” because she says it with an almost feline growl and a facial expression last seen on Salome while twirling her considerable assets around King Herod. Because what she’s really, really saying of course when she lays on the words really, really is, “I’m really, really, really being naughty!”
But the irony of this whole scenario doth speak… the dirtier the martini the weaker the drink and the less naughty “dirty girl” is probably going to be. For it doesn’t take a chemist to tell you that the more olive juice you darken the glass with the less you have of the stuff that makes you naughty. So to carry this logic to its “nth-est” degree… I could make you a downright filthy martini but all you’d be drinking is something best served on a salad.
Ah, but once the drink has been served and the smile from those thoughts leave his face, your friendly bartender becomes saddened for a moment… not just because our “dirty girl” makes him feel like Humbert Humbert to her Lolita (she’s terribly young and I’m terribly not) but because of the bigger picture out there… the demise of the sacred martini.
Once revered as a work of art in the best tradition of collegial and civilized imbibery, whose only variations were “wet or dry”, “shaken or stirred”, “twist or olive”, “on the rocks or straight up”, it has now become chilled Snapple for adults. There are so many fucking concoctions out there (apple, chocolate and orange to name just three of probably hundreds) that the word martini no longer has any meaning. It’s just a designate at the end of the order announcing, ” I’m drinking out of one of those grown-up glasses Bogart used to hoist.” But it’s an insult to that very vessel as I see it… like pouring raspberry Kool-Aid into Grandma’s good crystal. Like furnishing a Tudor estate with Pier One Imports.
And one more thing while I’m at it, (from a pain-in-the-ass perspective), your friendly bartender is tempted to charge in addition to ten for the drink, five extra bucks for fucking labor. Why? Because some of these tropical olio’s involve five or six pours, three or four moves and a back flip in pike fucking position. Just what your Un-friendly bartender needs when it’s two deep at the mahogany and he can’t catch up.
So I guess what I’m really saying is… if “dirty girl” didn’t look so damned adorable when she asks me to, “make it really, really dirty,” I’d think about hanging a sign outside saying NO FAKE MARTINIS!