Never Done: Drank a martini
Tshuve: Sewed a pillow for a friend
About ten years ago I tried to learn to drink. I would go to bars, and ask bartenders about different drinks, and then choose one, and then tip well. I wanted a bar repertoire, because I was getting bored with my usual seltzer and lime, and I wanted to like some alcoholic drinks. I wanted to be one of those people who could just know what they wanted when someone asked, "What would you like?" I knew some things I didn't like. I didn't like drinks that are too sweet, and I didn't like drinks that are too strong, and I was afraid to try tequila, and the one time I had a gin drink I did something I regretted. I learned that I like things with elderflower, and I like peach bellinis at brunch (somehow not too sweet) and I like a drink that a bartender once made me that has puzzled every other bartender I've asked for it: equal parts dry vermouth and sweet vermouth on the rocks with a twist of lemon rind. The best drink I ever had was with friends in the bar of the Fontainbleu in Miami, and we got the recipe from the bartender. It's called the Emerald:
1 inch chopped cucumber
1 oz chopped kiwi
2 oz fresh pressed apple juice
3.75 simple syrup (when I made it for myself I cut this in half)
juice of 1/2 lime
1.5 oz vodka
shake hard with ice
strain
But you can't exactly go into a bar and order a specialty drink from the Fontainbleu. (But you know what you can do? You can sneak into the pool area of the Fontainbleu and go swimming in every single one of the swimming pools.) So ultimately I did not develop a repertoire, and about 85% of the time someone offers me a drink I still ask for a seltzer with lime. It's hard to explain; I just freeze up when someone asks me what I would like. The chatter in my head goes something like this, "Try to remember the name of a drink. Any drink. Try to remember something you liked. You're taking too long. Just order some wine. I don't really want wine, I want to order a drink drink." And then I ask for seltzer and lime.
In all those years of experimenting (I didn't go out that often -- we're talking maybe a couple times a year) I never ordered a martini. When I made my big list of things I've never done, it was early on the list. For weeks now I've been thinking about stopping into a bar to order one, but always had a reason to keep my wits about me -- either because I had work to do or other pressing matters. Then the day came when I had done it all. I had crossed off (literally) 26 items from my day's list, the last thing being that I made a pillow for a friend out of beautiful fabric and the duck down from a torn ancestral pillow. I had dinner ready in the fridge, and all I had left to do was pack for a trip. The time had come!
I texted Josh, and asked him if he wanted to meet me at Johnny Macks, the bar near our apartment (which is also the bar where I drank the regretted gin) and, being the amenable person that he is, he agreed. I explained to the bartender that I had never had a martini, and she was intrigued. She asked if I wanted it to be gin or vodka, and because I had done my homework earlier (I had read the martini wikipedia page) I didn't freeze up, and I said that I'd probably like it better with vodka, but wasn't an authentic martini made from gin? She said it was. I was doing so well! Then she asked me, "What kind of gin would you like?" And I just looked at her and said, "I don't know!" I asked her what kind she thought I should have, and she sold me on Tangueray No. 10, which I have just read is "the only gin distilled with handpicked fresh fruits and botanicals, including white grapefruits, oranges and limes -- along with gin's signature juniper and coriander and a hint of chamomile." OK, that sounds amazing. I'd like it with seltzer and lime please.
I sat back, pleased with myself, but before I was out of the hot seat, she asked if I wanted a dirty martini. I knew what that was -- but I wasn't actually sure if it was considered original or not. But I like olives, and I thought I might like the way the olive juice would dilute the alcohol content, so I said yes, and relaxed for good. Josh decided not to order anything because we both knew I was not good for the whole drink. As I watched her chill the gin, and pour olive juice into a glass, and trickle the vermouth out of a tall bottle, I was taken with the alchemy of a bartender's life -- mixing liquids while keeping her eye on everyone, chatting, greeting, and fending.
When she presented me with my drink, I said the Shehekhianu as if it were a new fruit I was tasting, not yet knowing about all the fruity components of the gin. And finally, I tasted my first martini. It was surprisingly salty. Very ginny. But smooth, and clean, and crisp tasting. I sort of liked it. I took another sip. I still sort of liked it. I ate a gin-soaked olive, and I loved that. Then Josh took a sip, and he thought for a moment, and then said, "It tastes like sea water." The next sip I had tasted like sea water, and I wasn't quite as fond of the martini anymore. The next sip I had really tasted like sea water, and I shuddered. I didn't really like the martini anymore. I tried one more sip, but it was all over.
I couldn't tell if I was reacting to the memory of gulping sea water instead of air, or if the martini just plain stopped tasting good. But once the suggestion was set in my mind, I couldn't get it out.
I usually love to swim in sea water, but there have been times when it's just felt wrong. Wrong when I swallow it by accident. Wrong when I feel seasick from the waves (this has happened to me more than once!) Wrong when the waves are strong, and I am tired. Wrong when I am far from shore, and any of these things are happening. But the narrative that goes on in my head is usually a narrative that tells me that I should be enjoying myself, because I like swimming in sea water.
So there's the metaphor. It's about trusting my own instincts, and discerning among conflicting facts and feelings and pressures and other people's inputs to come up with the answer to the fundamental question -- what do I want? Right now, in this moment? Regardless of what I have wanted at other points in my life? It's a question that many women have trouble answering -- having so often been trained to take care of other people's wants and needs and feelings -- and fittingly it's the question that Nancy Schwartzman explores in her film about sexual consent, The Line.
It's a little embarrassing, but I'm going to tell you all the forces that worked on me. I felt some pressure to finish it, for the Never Done project, to experience what it would feel like to drink an entire martini. I also felt some pressure to drink the entire drink, because I was paying for it. I also felt some pressure because I didn't want to disappoint the bartender. (Wow.) And then, of course, I was focusing on why I stopped enjoying it instead of simply acknowledging that I no longer did.
Later, after I got home and was packing for my trip, a little tipsy from six sips of martini, I was glad I hadn't had more. This morning, writing this, I am glad I was able to identify and ignore the pressures, and figure out what was right for me. I often find it useful, when tackling a Big Life Issue, to pinpoint cases when I succeed, and to break it down to understand it, so I can then try to recreate the success in harder situations. I am hopeful that the next time someone asks me, "What do you want?" I will be able to identify and ignore the forces that make me want to freeze up, and take my time to decide what I want, and then say so.
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