It’s been a long search, but I think I’ve found my drink.
It started with easy glasses of merlots in college or shots of vodka stinging with notes of jet fuel and ice.
I evolved into an affected post-grad sophistication of cosmos and the occasional apple martini. I’m still a little ashamed, though I find some redemption in that I’ve never done a keg stand or a body shot, and that I’ve never even considered a red bull and anything.
And then came the era of ampersands. Gin & tonic. Vodka & Cranberry. 7&7. And when I was feeling dirty, jack & coke. Made even better with a side of tater tots, mini corndogs and camel lights. Just once a year. Maybe twice.
But after years of uncertainty at the bar, I’ve found my drink: A dirty martini. Very dirty. With Hendricks.
It’s strong, but classy. That briny salt offsets a bone-chilling cold gin in a something of an elegant balance. Well, elegance with just a hint of an edge. A dash of punk rock. An eyebrow raised. Little ice crystals floating on top, cloudy and a bit bruised, a little rough around the edges, yet still smacking clean. Clear. Oh, and to order it The fact that it’s one of the sexiest damn drinks to order doesn’t hurt much either. Very dirty indeed.