A Cocktail for Stanley Tucci

Editorial note: This was originally written – and very nearly completed – on May 29th, 2022, two days after Tucci’s video was posted. For reasons obscure even to me, I did not publish it at the time. Upon review in February 2024, I have added photographs and the third footnote, and made minor edits for clarity. Otherwise, this is a faithful representation of my original thoughts on the topic:

Stanley Tucci recently posted a charming Instagram video of him making cocktails for his Searching for Italy crew. I enjoyed watching it, as I’ve generally enjoyed his pivot to culinary travelogues and his high-profile interest in mixing cocktails at home. This video, in particular, lends itself to the kind of objectively unnecessary (and lengthy!) academic analysis that I know my readers crave – in no small part because it concerns the Martini, that most analyzed and most analyzable of classic cocktails. What follows is a case study I simply couldn’t resist undertaking, which concludes with a recipe recommendation for Mr. Tucci and anyone with a similar taste in cocktails.

(Before proceeding, I recommend watching the above video in its entirety. It’s a hair under six minutes, and would be very enjoyable even if it didn’t provide a pretext for me to discuss mixological theory.)

Tucci’s Martini technique is as follows: First, he pours dry vermouth into a mixing glass with ice. All told, he stirs it for about 20-25 seconds. Then he strains off the liquid, the goal having been to just slightly flavor the ice with the vermouth. He then adds gin to the remaining ice and stirs for another 20-25 seconds (throwing appropriate shade at James Bond for taking his Martinis shaken).* Then he strains it into stemmed glasses, expresses lemon peels over the top, and then drops the peels in.

Cocktail recipes should suit the purposes for which they are intended. A Tom Collins is meant to be refreshing and sat with for a while, so we serve it in a big glass with lots of ice and emphatically more seltzer than gin; an Earthquake is a slow sipper and a reminder that Lautrec could drink us all under the table, a challenge as much as a beverage, so we serve it bone dry and at room temperature.

Tucci says several things that suggest the purpose for which his Martini recipe is intended:

“You don’t want to have too much vermouth…you don’t want to overpower the gin.”

“Now this has sat, because what you don’t want is for the drink to be too, as they say, ‘hot.’”

“Taste the alcohol, but you want that to be something that is subdued.”

“You’re going to get all the flavors of the gin, with a hint of the vermouth.”

Between these statements and the technique he used, we can do a little triangulation to get to the intent behind the drink.

It would appear that Tucci is in the market for something that is both gin-forward and refreshing, even veering on crushable. His recipe produces a highly diluted cocktail. The Martini’s savory side has been dispensed with in favor of the bright citrusy one. To the extent that the vermouth contributes flavor, it is slight – less even than the lemon peel, particularly because the latter is dropped into the glass and will continue to in infuse into the cocktail over time. The core of the recipe is the Tanqueray Ten, proofed down to a drinkable strength (again, not too hot!) and only lightly seasoned with flavors which complement those in the gin: lemon and a hint of dry vermouth.

Regular readers know that this is not how I would make a Martini.** However, I have a different purpose in mind. For me, a Martini is an evening drink, big and bracing, preprandial in the Emburian tradition of cocktails. I like mine hot, and I like vermouth; I would rather balance my Martini by adding more vermouth flavor as a counterpoint to the gin than by lowering the proof to reduce the presence of the gin.

Tucci appears to be after something else. At two in the afternoon on a seaside Italian terrace, I would sooner have his drink than my own – and I would be more willing to have a second round as well. (Granted, for the stated purpose I would probably pick a different cocktail, but that’s immaterial to this exercise.)

Tucci’s recipe also provides a window into his personal tastes. I am reminded of his famous Negroni video from early in the pandemic, in which he mixed it 2:1:1 rather than equal parts, and shook it rather than stirring or building. It seems reasonable to infer that Tucci is a gin fan, and will want it to be more rather than less present in his cocktails. It also appears that he prefers more dilution in his drinks in general than I do. Remember, shaking dilutes more rapidly than stirring does, and since we usually do them for comparable lengths of time, shaking will in practice dilute more in total than stirring does. For me, the purpose of the Negroni is akin to that of an Old Fashioned: I want to sit with it for a while, and I want it to start spirit-forward and gradually open up as the ice melts. For Tucci, it’s a closer cousin to, for instance, the Corpse Reviver #2: something in the Craddock school of drinks, which are meant to be “drunk quickly, while [they’re] still laughing at you.” That’s why he serves it up rather than on the rocks, and although I would probably stir it rather than shaking if that were my goal, shaking is an efficient way to achieve a slightly lower-ABV result. I should note as well that Tucci and I (and many bartenders) are in agreement that the Negroni often tastes better 2:1:1 than 1:1:1, which, among the choices he makes that one might contest, is the one that has the greatest impact on the drink’s flavor.

If I can hazard a reasonable guess at Tucci’s cocktail tastes from these two videos, I believe I have a recipe recommendation for him. It’s a drink that may or may not have been invented by John Steinbeck (sources differ; it may have been one of his friends), but was in any case first published by him in his novella Sweet Thursday, the sequel to Cannery Row:

Webster F-Street Layaway Plan
2 oz. Gin
1/4 oz. Green Chartreuse
Lemon Peel
Rinse glass with Chartreuse. (Note: 1/4 oz. of Chartreuse is more than you’ll need to rinse the glass, but do NOT pour out the excess; this drink wants the full 1/4 oz.)
Shake gin with ice for 10-12 seconds and strain into rinsed glass. Express lemon peel over the top and drop in.

Steinbeck, alas, didn’t give specific proportions – he just described his drink as a Martini with Chartreuse instead of the vermouth. It’s unclear what style of Martini he had in mind. But the above, which is my go-to way of making it, tracks with Tucci’s approach. Shaking dilutes the gin efficiently; this proofed-down spirit becomes the core of the drink. The Chartreuse will be a bit more present than Tucci’s vermouth, both because it is a stronger flavor inherently and because rinsing the glass (and retaining the excess) incorporates it more directly than rinsing the ice does.***

For me personally, this is what I would make when I wanted something gin-forward but not excessively hot, with subtle citrus and herbal additions. Mr. Tucci, if you’re listening, give this one a try!

*In the video, he then rolls the drink from the mixing glass into a series of shakers in order to find one that will fit the strainer he has. This is a consequence of his being on location with limited tools, and therefore I’m not including it as part of his technique, but for what it’s worth it does push the drink even further in the diluted/refreshing direction which seems to be the overall goal.

**For the benefit of irregular readers: 3 parts gin, 1 part dry vermouth, 1 dash orange bitters, stir 10-12 seconds, strain into a cocktail glass, express a lemon peel over the top and discard.

***I’ll be honest, when I first saw Tucci’s vermouth technique, I thought, “There’s no way that contributes any vermouth flavor to the cocktail; you’re just pouring off all the vermouth.” But then I remembered Dave Arnold’s discussion of what he calls “holdback” in Liquid Intelligence: after shaking or stirring a cocktail with ice, some percentage of the mixture will adhere to the surface of the cubes as the rest is strained off. He calculates the holdback percentage to be 1-4% of the total drink for large rectangular cubes cut from block ice, or 7-9% of the total for smaller ice made by an ice machine.

Tucci stirred an ounce of vermouth in his mixing glass, which means that if Arnold’s percentages hold, anywhere from .01 oz. to .09 oz. of the vermouth could remain on the ice when he’s done. Since the outermost layer of the cubes will be the first to mix into the gin when he reuses that ice, he might theoretically get all or nearly all of that vermouth into the drink. It may not sound like much, but according to Don Lee, there are about 41 dashes of Angostura bitters to the ounce, making one dash of Angostura about .024 oz. So again, depending on the ice, Tucci’s Martini could have the rough equivalent of anywhere from 1/2 – 3 1/2 dashes of dry vermouth…per 6 oz of gin (he said he was making two of them), which is to say 1/4 – 1 3/4 dashes per Martini.

Now, that may be just enough vermouth left behind on the ice to impart some flavor to the finished drink. But I am also reminded of what my dear friend Alexander said to me when I shared this video with him, which was, “Stanley Tucci has contrived an entirely new way to not put vermouth in your cocktail.” Even the Webster F-Street Layaway Plan, which is astoundingly dry by most standards, has somewhere between eight and seventy-five times more Chartreuse per unit of gin than Tucci’s Martini has of vermouth.

How to Invent a Cocktail, Part II of VI

(Recently, my friend Luke quietly published a book of poetry. It's called Abacus, and you can buy or download it here. I created a signature cocktail for the launch party, and because I sometimes get asked how I go about inventing a new cocktail, I thought you might like to see my thought process for this one. It's a longish story, so I've broken it up into six pieces, each of which will be a separate post and conclude with a recipe. Last week's chapter, "What goes into an artist's cocktail?" can be found here.)

Chapter 2: What goes into this artist's cocktail?
Luke is a case study in how to manage a home bar.

I suspect that most people who keep liquor in their homes do it accidentally, accumulating a seldom-used collection of gifts and one-off acquisitions that they'll someday pass down to their grandchildren, cabinet and all.

There are also some people who become alcohol hobbyists, and like to keep a large bar on hand so that they can conduct experiments and make a wide variety of classics. This group is in particular danger of eventually becoming alcohol professionals. (I speak from experience.)

But the unsung heroes of cocktail culture are people who maintain a small but deliberate home bar, the ones who have one or two cocktails that they know they like, who decide that they should learn how to make those drinks well for themselves, and who are always prepared to make them should they or their guests be in the mood for a tipple.

Luke is one of these. His cocktails are the Gibson and the Old Fashioned, and his house is permanently stocked with the ingredients for both. He makes them carefully and well. He also enjoys absinthe, and has the tools for proper absinthe service.

But that's really it. He has, essentially, a house cocktail menu (and a rotating beer list). It's a good formula, and I recommend it to anyone who enjoys cocktails but finds the prospect of building up a home bar daunting or bewildering. It's also a useful thought for those of us who have large home inventories: if you have a few house specialties, it's easier to prioritize when stocking up.

And for the purposes of our devising a cocktail recipe, it's useful to know the tastes of the person you're making it for. In this case: classic, spirit-forward, enjoys both whiskey and gin, and likes slightly savory things. I can work with that.

Because it's his most idiosyncratic preference, I decided I'd especially like to make something that appeals to his Gibson-drinking side. The Gibson, you might recall from my taxonomy of the Martini and its cousins (if not, see here), is today understood as a Martini garnished with a cocktail onion instead of an olive or twist, like so:

Gibson
2 oz. Dry Gin
1/2 oz. Dry Vermouth
Stir with ice and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a cocktail onion.

The proportions used reflect Luke's preference for a 4:1 drink. I tend to skew towards 5:2; others may like other ratios. As a general rule of thumb, however you like your Martini is how you'll like your Gibson - although lemon-twist partisans like myself should be prepared for a savorier cocktail than we're otherwise used to.

Stay tuned for next week's post, "Chapter 3: What's in a name?"

Distilled Knowledge Cocktail: The Martini

Damn if I haven't tried to write this post more than once. But we all have our Things, and the Martini is one of mine. And there's a lot to be said about it.

Let's start with the recipe, because I know I have a handle on that. When I sat down to make a Martini for this post, it so happened that I could make a delicious version using just ingredients from Portland, Maine:

Martini
3 1/2 oz. Aria Portland Dry Gin
1/2 oz. Sweetgrass Dry Vermouth
Stir with ice and strain into - what else? - a Martini glass. Garnish with a twist of lemon.

Note for the home bartender: "Garnish with a twist of [fruit]" means take a strip or a small medallion of the peel of that fruit, twist it over the glass to express the oils into the drink, run it around the rim of the glass, and then drop it in. It occurred to me as I was writing that that it often shows up in recipes without explanation, and could easily be confused for, "Drop a piece of lemon peel into the glass," which wouldn't be quite as effective.

Ordinarily, Martinis are garnished with a lemon twist or a cocktail olive (the latter sometimes accompanied by some of the olive brine to make a Dirty Martini). It's easy to overlook garnishes when making cocktails at home, but if you won't take my word that you should avoid doing so in general, please at least take my advice and avoid it here. The Martini is disproportionately defined by its garnish, to the point that one variation - the Gibson - is distinguished today entirely by being garnished with a cocktail onion. There's more to that story, but...well, we'll get there.

I'm a twist man, myself. That little bit of lemon sharpens and highlights the citrus notes already present in the gin; the resulting cocktail is crisp and bracing. To my tastes, the olive garnish slows down the drink - and the drinker - with that heavy, salty/savory flavor. There's certainly nothing wrong with that, and I've enjoyed an olive Martini from time to time. I recommend trying both and seeing which one you prefer. Honestly, that's a good rule of thumb whenever you have a choice between two cocktails.

I also tend to like my Martinis on the dry side, as, it seems, do most Martini drinkers. But just as it's possible to have too much of a good thing, it's possible to have a Martini that is too dry, usually by preparing one without any vermouth whatsoever.

In fact, let's take a moment to review all the ways in which people insist on soiling the Martini's good name, shall we?

The Herzog Cocktail School's Official List of Martiniological Heresies

  1. Serving a "Martini" that's just gin, or gin with a garnish. Often cutesily accompanied by a "solemn look" in the direction of France, Italy, or the vermouth bottle; equally often served on the rocks in a cocktail glass. Even worse if you do this with vodka.
  2. Failing to assume that gin is the standard base spirit unless otherwise specified. If someone asks you for a Martini, respect them enough to assume that they'd have asked for a Vodka Martini if they'd wanted one. If you ask for a Martini, respect the bartender enough to assume they'll make it with gin; if you want vodka, ask for it specifically. "Gin Martini" should be as necessary a phrase as "Whiskey Manhattan" or "Rum Daiquiri."
  3. Assuming that anything served in a cocktail glass can be called a "Martini." For pity's sake, I see menus all the time that list the Sidecar or the Cosmopolitan under the heading, "Martinis." In fact, I can't count (or conceive of!) the number of times I've seen a "Martini Menu" on which not a single drink contained gin, vermouth, or any other kind of fortified wine.
  4. Ever applying the "-tini" suffix to a drink. Ever.
  5. Shaking your Martini without a very good reason. It won't "bruise the vermouth," as is often claimed, but it will dilute the drink needlessly and take away some of the delightful crispness the Martini naturally possesses. Unless you're drinking a Vesper, can explain why I made an exception for the Vesper, or are James Bond, stir.

But why all these rules, and what's the deal with the Gibson, anyway? Well, all that history is part of what makes this such a complicated drink to write about. But with thanks and apologies to David Wondrich, who covers a lot of this in more detail in Imbibe!, I'm going to give it a shot in a second Martini post (I did tell you I had a lot to say, didn't I?). Stay tuned for Part II!

    Levantine Martini

    Levantine Martini

    2 oz. Boodles gin
    1/2 oz. Noilly Prat dry vermouth
    1/4 oz. Kassatly Ajyal Lebanese tamarind syrup
    Twist of orange

    It amazes me, in hindsight, that this wasn’t the first thing I thought of when that bottle of tamarind syrup walked through my door. Truth be told, it came to me because I was trying to devise a drink as visually interesting as the Yale in a different color palette. It isn’t quite, but it’s tasty enough that I don’t mind.

    This result should be surprising to no one. Both this and the Yale are essentially variations on the classic Martini, and this one hews much closer to a Martini flavor. The tamarind hits sour and savory notes, both of which complement the gin and vermouth that are the cocktail’s bread and butter. In the Martini, you ordinarily get one or the other: a twist of lemon, or a cocktail olive.

    Someday I’d like to visit a bar where the “Martini Menu” contains nothing but honest-to-God members of the Martini family. The Yale, the Vesper, the Martinez, the Gibson - it’s a surprisingly robust group, and there’s still more that can be done with it. Unfortunately the market for such a place is on the small side. Do let me know if you find one.

    Martini

    Martini

    5 parts (1 1/4 oz.) Booths London dry gin
    2 parts (1/2 oz.) Noilly Prat dry vermouth
    Twist of lemon

    Drink No. 2 in the rundown of Embury’s basic/classic cocktails is the Martini. If the Manhattan is the most accessible, the Martini is probably the least. Most people who drink “Martinis” or [word]-tinis would balk at the big glass of gin that is an actual Martini. The Herzog Cocktail School offers counter-instruction.

    There are many kinds of gin, with different production processes and resulting flavor palates. For the purposes of cocktail mixing, I find it useful to describe three types: dry, herbal, and neutral. Dryness is a flavor you become accustomed to when you drink a lot of gin. If you haven’t experienced it, “un-sweet” is probably the best footing to put you on. It tends to feel boozy, and heavy, relative to other gins.

    Herbal gins are your Botanists and Hendrick’ses. They have a really powerful flavor of herbs and spices. “Botanical” is the more prevalent term among aficionadoes, but calling Botanist gin “botanical” doesn’t seem particularly helpful. Neutral gins don’t jump out either way. They may be slightly citric, a little sweet, or a little more juniper-y. They’re your most versatile base for gin cocktails.

    Booths is not a neutral gin. It is a very dry gin, as will be anything labelled “London dry.” In a dry-gin Martini, you want to be very careful there’s enough vermouth to offer a counterpoint. In general, between 3:1 and 7:1 gin:vermouth is a reasonable proportion for the Martini, making our 5:2 a little off the vermouthy side. Trust me when I say the gin needed it. Cocktails are a game of balances.

    The classic Martini question is not, in fact, “Vodka or gin?” but, “Olive or twist?” Another way to put this is, “Savory or sour?” Which direction to bring the drink in? The Martini has many cousins which wrestle with the same issue. I opted for the twist of lemon, chiefly because I had lemons but no cocktail olives. Both are valid. The lemon version is a crisper drink, the olive one heavier. Dirty Martinis, which incorporate the olive juice, are heaviest of all.

    Incidental note: I haven’t got a citrus zester, unlike our friends at Don’t Blame the Gin. I improvised the twist you see there, by cutting a lemon in half, and shaving off the rind around the edge with the knife, cutting away any fruity bits when I was done. Not too shabby a job, if I say so myself.

    What happened to the rest of the lemon, you ask? Check the next update to find out…