Martinez Origin?

Martinis were originally made with gin and sweet vermouth. Ian Fleming, Casino Royale, James Bond, and a marketing campaign by the Smirnoff Company changed everything!

The Martinez Cocktail is the most likely origin of the martini as we know them today. It was a mixture of equal parts gin and sweet vermouth with a few dashes of orange bitters and Maraschino Liqueur. It was stirred and chilled with hand cut ice and strained into a cocktail glass.

Martinez today is an actual town outside San Francisco. It was a pop-up gold rush settlement during the 1850’s to civil war era. The legend states the Martinez Cocktail was created for a gentleman who traveled to Martinez by Jerry Thomas, who authored one of the first Bar-tender’s guides in the 1860’s. “Professor” Thomas, as he was often referred, traveled the United States, and was head barman at the Occidental Hotel in San Francisco at the creation of the Martinez Cocktail. The original recipe called for two parts sweet vermouth to one part gin. The gin back then wasn’t always of best quality, so they had to sweeten everything to make drinks palatable.

The recipe for the Martinez we use at the restaurant calls for two parts Old Tom Gin to one part sweet vermouth with an equal dashing of Luxardo Maraschino Liqueur and orange bitters. We chill it and serve it up. We make the recipe authentic with an Old Tom Gin from Ransom Distillery in Oregon. This particular gin would be similar to one that would be drunk in Manhattan during the Civil War. This style is often dark in color from malting the grains it is distilled from. It would be also stored in oak barrels for transport. They would ship most sprits in the 19th century in oak cask—bottles were expensive to produce and would often break during transport.
An interesting evolution of how America stumbled to the vodka martini with dry vermouth—vodka was almost non-existent in America before WWII!

A Few Literary (Movie Adaptation) Food References

I first crossed the idea of gastronomic literary references within the naturalism of Kate Chopin’s novel The Awakening. The themes seemed conflicting and confusing, but the constant dialogue describing etouffee for dinner seemed to be the only tasteful thing that made sense. I began to despise this particular genre of literature, (especially Hawthorne and his disconnect with the Transcendentalists), but began to understand the different contexts of gastronomic terms regionally and historically. It seems the way MLA prescribes English disregards meta language and cultural geography—it somehow despises H.L. Mencken and the English lunacy of Rex Harrison. I am an American and understand American culinary terms in an American context! Etouffee in French literally means to smother and is a popular stew/soup in New Orleans. The different ways to prepare an etouffee (and I refuse to put the little French accent marks over the eeees) over the last century are quite fascinating—Shrimp is my favorite.

For darker dualism Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness explores the indigenous mercenaries eating hippopotamus after the ivory harvest. The idea of Kurtz screaming “MY IVORY” still vibrates chills down my spine. Francis Ford Coppola’s movie adaptation explores the saucier side of things with chef, and while looking for mangoes in the jungle, has made me obsessed with them. Chutneys and peaches somehow came to replace mangoes in many 19th century English cooking texts. (Trade routes, The East-India Company, Economics of J.S. Mill—might be some of the reasons for this.) The bloody English, and James Beard in Greenwich Village, thought peaches were the next best thing to mangoes for chutney since mangoes could not withstand the voyage from India. And—French colonialism brought superior culinary technique to Southeast Asia. Imagine all those names that sailed down the Thames then to America.

Pistachios, roasted monkfish, sake cured monkfish liver tourchon (tourchon means towel—before plastic wrap, food was steamed in a cloth towel), and Mornington Peninsula (Australia) pinot noir pushing 14% alcohol is a fun pairing. I by no means came up with this pairing masterpiece, but became delighted by the Book of Genesis 43:11 referencing pistachios as a gift to the King of Egypt. Pistachios are native to Asia Minor and are one of two nuts mentioned in the Old Testament. The other is almond. Pistachio trees thrive in the poor rocky soil conditions of Asia Minor with hot dry summers and mild winters. With centuries of oratory, the origin of pistachios may never be truly discovered, but here’s the best attempt at etymology this sommelier could find:
"Pistachio...The word originated in Persian as pistah, and reached the West via Greek pistakion. English originally borrowed if from French as pistace."
—An A-Z of Food & Drink, John Ayto [Oxford University Press:Oxford] 2002 (p. 258)

Fortified America

If a sommelier was in the Queen’s navy they would definitely sleep on the Port side. Oporto is a port city in Portugal and exports fortified wine called port to the English speaking world. Investigations into colonial trade routes explain the accidental invention of Madeira. Though port is similar in that it is fortified and from Portugal, Madeira is more American.

Every American knows Madeira, probably from high school history class. It’s what the Founding Fathers drank as they signed the Declaration of Independence. Madeira is actually a volcanic island situated off the coast of Portugal in the Mid-Atlantic.

It starts with the triangle of trade during colonial times. Merchant ships departed from various ports in Europe. They take a pit stop at Madeira for supplies and barrels of wine. It would be fortified with a neutral brandy to help the barrels not spoil for the long Atlantic voyage.

While in route to the West Indies or Africa, the barrels would constantly sway with the ship constantly mixing and agitating the wine. They are exposed to the heat and salty humid air of the West Indies and Africa. This gives Madeira its oxidized, salty, and nutty qualities. The ships would acquire sugar and other commodities to trade with the colonies.

Depending on what colonial port the ship sailed is what style of Madeira developed. A dry style would develop to a port like Charleston. A sweet nutty style developed in route to New York. A creamy complex style marinated its way to Boston. The ships would unload their cargo and head back to Europe.

Madeira was served with soups, stews, and hearty dishes. Colonists usually owned one cast iron pot, and hence, would only have one pot on the fire that was filled with a soup or stew and would enhance the flavor with the addition of Madeira.

Nowadays they don’t actually produce Madeira like it was done centuries back. It is aged in oak barrels in climatically controlled rooms that simulate the ocean voyage. Next—the favorite song from Jersey Boys—Sherry…