A small but powerful establishment for a proper Martini amid graffiti in a pretty city…read more
I deferred to the bartender's choice of gin - locally made, an inspired selection - which delivered the juniper fix for which I traveled from a distant hotel, testing man against map in search of a just reward. Being well shaken, it arrived admirably chilled with speared olive triptych served on the side, offering full freedom of garnish choice. I chose one for the cocktail, relegating one as an hors d'oeuvre, and reserving the remainder as my entrée.
Some may have disparaged me as a Martini "snob". I am not, but I admit to being deeply attentive. Not for dickish purposes, but because the human liver is a miraculous wonder, and should not be abused thoughtlessly. And if a Martini isn't as perfect as those my daughter made as an eight year old, then one desperately needs to get one's shit together. I think we can all agree.
Thank you Frank. My daughter would approve.