The martini: Don't mess with perfection

Don't talk to me about saketinis or appletinis or anything else -ini that doesn't involve gin. I don't even recognize vodka martinis.

Served in its distinctive glass -- all sharp angles in profile, all smooth circles seen from above -- the martini is the definitive cocktail as depicted on neon signs worldwide. E.B. White (yes, the author of "Charlotte's Web") called it "the elixir of quietude," and H.L. Mencken pronounced it the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet. Although it is most associated with British gin, like chop suey it is a uniquely American creation.

The martini is commonly traced to a drink called the Martinez served during the California gold rush, but the recipe was standardized more or less in the early 1900s. The traditional martini is made of gin, vermouth and olives, although pearl onions or a curl of lemon rind are permissible. The only thing that varies is the ratio of gin to vermouth, with every martini aficionado having his or her own preference.

The less vermouth used, the more dry a martini is, and no one ever asked for a wet martini. In fact, it seems to be getting drier by the decade.

Early cocktail guides cited a ratio of two parts gin to one part vermouth, but in the play "I Never Sang for My Father," the crotchety old man insists on a ratio of 5-to-1. Today's recipes extend to 10-to-1 and beyond.

Although Robert Benchley thought at least a little vermouth was necessary for visual texture, to alter the watery look of straight gin, Winston Churchill didn't want any inferior vermouth sullying his pure British gin. It was said in mixing his own martinis he would look across the room at a bottle of vermouth while pouring gin right into the glass.

The only other matter at issue on the martini is whether it should be shaken or stirred over ice before serving it straight through some sort of sieve. James Bond, of course, made his "shaken not stirred" a tag line, but in "The West Wing" Martin Sheen's President Bartlet suggested shaking a martini led to more ice chips, producing a watered-down drink, making 007 a wimp. To that I say, "Pooh-pooh." There are few things more satisfying than the sound or feel of a martini being shaken. William Powell's Nick Charles took it a step further, insisting in the original "The Thin Man": "The important thing is the rhythm. Always have rhythm in your shaking. Now a Manhattan you shake to fox-trot time, a Bronx to two-step time, a dry martini you always shake to waltz time."

Whatever, the martini has always been known for its kick. Not for nothing are they called "silver bullets" in the business world, even now that the three-martini lunch has been relegated to the stuff of legend and the '60s period TV series "Mad Men." James Carville once told Forbes magazine: "The ultimate feeling in the world is to be about two-thirds of the way through my second martini with people I like. Anything seems possible." But it's easy to get too much of a good thing. In "Miracle on 34th Street," Mr. Shellhammer makes them "triple strength" for his wife to get her to agree to boarding Kris Kringle. Then there's Dorothy Parker's enduring poem:

"I like to have a martini

Two at the very most

After three I'm under the table

After four, I'm under my host."

No wonder she was such a sought-after dinner guest.

The martini doth inspire verse. Ernie Kovacs' poet Percy Dovetonsils was rarely seen without a (flowered) martini in hand, although it's worth noting that his magnum opus, "Ode to a Housefly: Philosophical Ruminations on a Beastie in the Booze," actually refers to a bourbon highball.

How do I make a martini? I take a cocktail glass and roll it sidewise in the ice-cube tray of the freezer, taking out two ice cubes and leaving the glass. I put them in my single-size shaker and float them in Bombay gin (about a double-shot's worth). Then I add a quick splash of vermouth, just enough to give it a hint of the extra taste. Then I shake it (to more of a cha-cha rhythm, now that I think about it) and pour it into the chilled glass over my one personal innovation: a single jalapeno-stuffed olive, speared with a wooden toothpick. Gives it a nice little sharp bite at the end.

No vodka, no sake, no apple liqueur, no pretense. Don't mess with perfection.