The Lobby Bar is sumptuous, with a bar top that accommodates a Parthenon’s worth of marble, and banquettes that are cozy and velvety. Amor came properly dressed in a vest for the occasion, while I had hastened off the Amtrak in my country garb. The Dukes Martini was assembled tableside—the ingredients presented on a foldout stand—by a young server skilled in the pouring arts. When it comes to the purist’s dry Martini, there are two things to remember. First, there is a mantra that Amor himself has coined: “Crisp, clear, and cold.” The Lobby Bar follows these directives by freezing the glasses, as well as the gin or vodka. The second is the “vermouth rinse.” In this maneuver, the composition I usually turn to for a dry Martini—one part vermouth to five parts gin—is almost entirely done away with. The vermouth is conscripted only to coat a rather enormous glass and is then tossed away before the gin or vodka, which has been primed with a dash of salt-water solution, is poured. (I have been told that at the original Dukes the vermouth was ignominiously tossed onto the carpet, whereas at the Chelsea it is merely splashed into a tiny glass of olives, perhaps later to be lapped up by an alcoholic dog.) Notably, no ice or shakers are used and the alcohol is neither shaken nor stirred, creating a ninety-five-per-cent undiluted Martini, which, at this volume, functions as a kind of uncontrolled insanity.
I read that and immediately found myself thirsting for a Martini.
Shteyngart and Towles begin drinking. Shteyngart writes,
The first Martini, essentially a vermouth-coated container for what I eyeballed to be two and a half to three shots of juniper-noted, grapefruit-evoking Tanqueray No. Ten gin, immediately put us in a mood. The mood was a good one. I cannot remember whether it was Amor or I who said “I’m feeling very chummy.” Perhaps we both said it. The Dukes Martini came with an array of garnishes, of which I found the lemon peel most conducive to the juniper crispness of the Tanqueray.
Then they each have a Dukes Martini with Ketel One vodka. After that they order shrimp cocktails and split a B.L.T. sandwich to fortify themselves for their third drink, an 1884 Martini. Shteyngart describes it superbly:
This beast is premade with two types of gin—Boatyard Double Gin, from Northern Ireland, and the New York Distilling Company’s Perry’s Tot Navy Strength Gin—which clocks in at a ridiculous 114 proof. This dangerous concoction is then fat-washed with Spanish Arbequina olive oil, after which it is frozen and the olive oil’s fat removed, while vermouth, lemon liqueur, a house-made vetiver tincture, and a few dashes of lemon-pepper bitters are added. A lemon peel is then showily expressed over the glass tableside and a very briny Gordal olive and a cocktail-onion skewer are plopped in. Although more sizable quantities of vermouth and other pollutants are at play than in the classic Dukes Martini, the over-proofed gin does a lot of the talking and one is soon very convincingly drunk.
The Chelsea is just the first stop on this sybaritic binge. Another night Shteyngart goes to the Gotham Restaurant with his friend J. Smith-Cameron. She likes the place because of the bartender, a guy named Billy. They each have a Vesper (“a drink that de-Balkanizes the conflict between vodka and gin by combining both, with a splash of Lillet Blanc serving as the Holy Spirit”). This is followed by two Gibsons. Then Billy mixes them a Martinez. Shteyngart writes,
The cocktails are related, but after the crisp minimalism of a Gibson, the Martinez is akin to encountering a violent early hominid in a downtown bar. Sweet vermouth and maraschino are conscripted alongside the usual gin. Billy uses Carpano sweet vermouth, which, to my palate, provides hints of bitterness instead of overwhelming sweetness. It went down as easy as a Martinez can, and J. and I were now thoroughly drunk. Gotham’s kitchen was closed, so we headed across the street to get burgers at the Strip House to buffer our stomachs. When we left, an hour later, Billy had also crossed the street to get a drink at the bar. There he was, with his sleeves still rolled up, saying goodbye to the evening.
That “It went down as easy as a Martinez can, and J. and I were now thoroughly drunk” made me laugh.
Another night, Shteyngart goes to Tigre, on Rivington Street, on the Lower East Side, with his friend Adam Platty. Shteyngart writes,
Tigre is one of the most beautiful bars of recent vintage that I have seen. Windowless, it glows like a jewel box, and the striking semicircle of the bar is not unlike that of the U.N. Security Council, though studded with booze. Platty remarked that “all these bartenders look like Jesus,” and our handsome open-shirted server so resembled the Lord that I couldn’t help but hum, “Oh, come, let us adore him,” under my breath. The highlight of Tigre’s Martini menu is the vodka-based Cigarette, which Platty immediately qualified as “smoky as fuck.” “It’s old-fashioned, like if you smoked a cigarette while having a Martini,” Jesus told us, which is absolutely on point. Austria’s Truman vodka is shot into flaming orbit by an inventive liquor made by Empirical, the Danish distillery, and named after Stephen King’s pyrokinetic character Charlene McGee, which presents on the tongue as a flavorful burst of smoked juniper, hence the feeling that a draw of nicotine and tar can’t be far.
That last sentence is inspired, combining words (“Truman vodka,” “flaming orbit,” Empirical,” “Stephen King,” “pyrokinetic,” “Charlene McGee,” “smoked juniper,” “nicotine and tar”) I’m sure have never been combined before. Reading Shteyngart’s piece. I started to feel tipsy. I wasn’t drinking, but it felt like I was. I was getting drunk on his Martini-drenched prose.
Shteyngart attends other bars as well: Sunken Harbor Club (Immortal Martini); Dante (Dante Martini); Temple Bar (Plymouth Martini); Bemelman’s Bar (Tanqueray Ten); Le Rock (Au Poivre, Super Sec, L’Alaska, In and Out). It’s quite a Martini marathon! I enjoyed it immensely.
Postscript: Another source of pleasure in Shteyngart's piece are the jazzy, glamorous photos by Landon Nordeman. They enhance the text magnificently.
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| Photo by Landon Nordeman, from Gary Shteyngart's "Shaken and Stirred" |
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