“It’s early Alzheimer’s,” I whined. I’d left the duck breasts I’d planned to grill at home. I’d have to rush to the grocery and buy some more. And they’d have no time to marinate!
“Alzheimer’s jokes aren’t funny,” Dan scolded.
“Chipotle-Grapefruit Duck is no joke either.”
“You know what I mean. And it’s not funny. I know Alzheimer’s. You don’t have Alzheimer’s. So stop it.” As Director of Research at CogniTech, a pharmaceutical company that developed new Alzheimer’s treatments, Dan didn’t find fake whimpering about forgotten duck amusing. “I’ll go get more duck. You start the rest of the stuff.”
Just as Dan was leaving, Chipper burst in. He dropped his backpack on the floor and spouted off. “That train was late – again! So, I missed the 6:30 ferry and had to wait at that bar in Sayville, with their watered-down drinks, and…. Martini! Now!”
“I’ll make you one,” I offered.
“Hell no!” Chipper snapped. “Yours are lousy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your proportions suck.” He stripped off his sweaty T-shirt and sprinted to the liquor cabinet. I admired his moist, wide, delightful lats while resenting his stupid opinion as he reached for the Beefeater.
“They do not! I make the classic martini.” I was huffy.
“If you like a little gin with your vermouth.”
I watched Chipper in speechless rage as he grabbed the cocktail shaker, filled it with ice, poured in a full martini glass full of Beefeater, then added precisely five drops of dry vermouth and stirred wildly.
“If you want straight gin,” I said coldly, “why bother with that silly nod to tradition and just go the W. C. Fields route? I’m sure some perv in the Pines gets off on guys with gin blossoms.”
“Jag-off,” Chipper muttered as he left the room clutching his martini. Chipper had lived in New York for 20 years but reverted to Pittsburgh slang when he got mad.
I was still stewing when Dan returned with the duck and a bottle of Sancerre. He was accompanied by Paolo, who had stopped at BarHarbor, right off the dock, for – yes – a martini, the dregs of which he carried in a red plastic cup. I offered to make him a real martini in a real martini glass.
“Thanks, no,” Paola said. “I’ll make my own.”
“Why? Aren’t mine good enough for you?”
“Good that you brought that up,” he said with business school tact. “I prefer my proportions.”
“Here we go again,” I snarled, then told him about Chipper, who had shut himself inside the room he shared with Paolo.
“It’s actually quite the reverse,” Paolo explained. “You should taste the vermouth clearly. Otherwise there’s no point in adding it.” I watched in piqued fascination as Paolo made a distinctly wet martini.
“Well,” I huffed, “if you want to drink straight vermouth…” whereupon Dan swatted my behind, then shoved the paper bag full  of duck breasts into my ribs. “Shut up and grill.”
This is a Classic Martini; Paolo and Chipper can write their own damn columns:
4 parts Beefeater gin (If you want to use Absolut, fine; just don’t call it a Classic Martini.)
1 part dry vermouth
Fill shaker with ice. Pour liquors in. Just let it sit on the counter to chill – no need to shake. Stir just once, put the lid on, and strain your Classic Martini into the proper glass. Add an olive or a lemon twist; a cocktail onion turns it into a Gibson.
The Madras
Jack Fogg, the CNN reporter, strode into the house with the world-ownership attitude of everyone who went to Harvard. With him was his lithe Indian boyfriend, Samir. They rented a room one weekend a month. “Dude!” said the accent-free Samir, who liked to be called Sammy. Jack smiled his regal hello and bounded up the stairs to their room. I stared at his perky rump as he exited and immediately knew what cocktail I’d make.
“Sammy,” I began. “Don’t you think Jack’s attraction to Indian men and madras shorts is a sign of cultural imperialism?”
“Dude! His diapers were madras. You should see his father, who actually looks like Ralph Lauren.” (“Lifshitz!” Craig cried from the other end of the room.) But don’t give me your crap about ‘cultural imperialism.’ We kicked the Brits’ asses after a century of real-people-suffering imperialism. Besides, Jack takes it, not the other way around. He likes it when I ….”
“What am I missing?” Jack cheerfully asked as he made his second entrance, this time wearing only – I swear – madras swim trunks. His fine Anglo-Saxon chest was hairy.
“Well if, baby, you’re the bottom….” Craig sang out.
Jack shot Sammy a glare that unnerved me to the bone. Not Sammy, who just grinned and said, “Only geeks wear swimsuits.” And with that he stripped off his clothes and exhibited the centerpiece of their relationship.
“Do we have cranberry juice?” I wondered as Jack and Sammy headed for the pool.
Craig was aghast. “Why on earth, after a spectacle worthy of Chi Chi LaRue, does your geriatric mind turn to cranberry juice? Kielbasa and Crisco, yes; but Ocean Squirt?”
“Sorry,” I replied. I did groove on Sammy’s body – Jack’s too – but I was getting sloshed on Absolut on the rocks without the rocks, my default drink when I was down. It had been a rotten week. The publishing industry was crueler than ever, my latest book proposal seemed dead in the water, I was wildly depressed, and Jack was so successful….
“I’m going to make Madrases,” I slurred, “to celebrate the colonials’ revenge. So Jack likes India inside and out: how totally Harvard! But I hate Ocean Squirt. I like 100% juice, even if it’s mostly apple.”
“Thank you, Consumer Reports.” Craig’s eyes turned skyward. “Give him two perfect asses and two six-packs – 12! a case! – and he’s earnestly comparing juices. Well, the cupboard’s bare, too, so I’ll go down to the harbor and get some. I’ll pick up more OJ as well.”
“No pulp!” I shouted as Craig lumbered out. I thought morosely about Jack Fogg’s lickable chest, Sammy’s breathtaking body and the futility of the human condition, especially mine.
“Snap out of it, Eddie”, Jiminy Cricket scolded. “Go get the right glassware.”
The Madras is a more complex Screwdriver: vodka, OJ, and cranberry juice. It’s great stirred together, but you can layer it like a Tequila Sunrise. Here’s how:
1 part Absolut
1.5 parts cranberry juice (ignore my pickiness; use what you like)
1 part orange juice (the no pulp kind if possible)
Fill a tall glass with ice, and add the vodka. Give it a stir. Pour in the cranberry juice and let it settle. Then attempt to float the OJ on the cranberry juice by pouring it gently onto the back of a spoon, which you have inserted into the glass at the top level of the OJ. If you fail the first time, drink the ruined cocktail and keep making and drinking them until you get it right. Then drink it.
Ed Sikov is the author of Dark Victory; The Life of Bette Davis, and other books about films and filmmakers.