The Ash Creek Papers

“The Martini is the only American invention as perfect as the English sonnet.” —  H. L. Mencken

When I confronted my first Martini in April 1973, poolside at Cambridge Beaches in Sandys Parish Bermuda, I didn’t give much consideration to the glass it was served in.  I ordered the drink on the rocks, with a lemon twist.  After the initial shock of its dreadful taste (does anyone really like the taste of gin?), I managed to work my way thru two, perhaps three, perfunctory sips when the legendary lethality of the fluid began to dull my senses to 6.5 on the “numb scale” (who was it who said that a good Martini enjoyed under a mid-day sun was a form of liquid Percocet?). I had a second, less regrettable Martini (all before lunch arrived), and maxed out on the aforementioned numb scale.

It took me the balance of our vacation to perfect my deep appreciation of a Martini on the rocks.  But this much was clear to me:  at age 23 I had finally found my drink!  And not some dumb frou-frou drink that comes with a mini umbrella, cherry, orange slice & a pineapple chunk!  My cocktail oozed with sophistication!  But there was still room to up my game.

I can’t recall when I switched from a rocks glass to an “up” glass.  But I did.   The up glass (hereinafter referred to as the Martini glass) is immediately recognizable from yards away as containing a sinful concoction that only the most literate, urbane and polished citizens consume.   There is no better exemplar of these traits than William Powell’s portrayal as Nick Charles in the Thin Man franchise.

Before we go further.  A Martini is made with gin and dry vermouth.  A vodka Martini is a second fiddle variant, and should only be considered as such.  And putting frou-frou ingredients (liquors, juices & coloring agents) into a Martini glass and then assigning a Martini designation to the drink is criminal.  It’s like slipping the text of Green Eggs & Ham into the cover of Anna Karenina.

I do recognize that substituting vodka for gin got a huge boost when a succession of actors portraying James Bond indulged in the alternate form. They all get huge points for style.  But vodka has no class.  As a commodity vodka is best remembered as a State Monopoly for the Tsars. The expensive chic vodkas are just vodka in fancy bottles that cost more.

For the height of debonair cool it is hard to surpass Cary Grant.  As Roger Thornhill in Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest he is under suspicion for committing a murder, and while travelling the rails on the Twentieth Century Limited to escape apprehension, he has time to sit across from Eva Marie Saint in the dining car and order a Gibson.  Grant gets 10 extra credit points for ordering a Gibson without further identification… as in a Gibson — Martini.  Experienced bartenders know this.  A Gibson merely signifies using a cocktail onion in place of an olive or a lemon twist. No need for further elaboration.

The allure of the Martini and its sublime excellence is not restricted to gentlemen.  Roger Angell in his essay “On the Art of the Martini” that appeared in the New Yorker writes, “At Lotus, at the Merc Bar, and all over town, extremely thin young women hold their stemmed cocktail glasses at a little distance from their chests and avidly watch the shining oil twisted out of a strip of lemon peel across the pale surface of their Martini like a gas stain from an idling outboard.”

Bette Davis as Margot Channing in All About Eve displays in her role an independent spirit combined with a tinge of protective indignation.  She would be challenged by the presence of a young ingénue, Eve Harrington, and Eve’s interest in her beau… after knocking back two Martini’s and then grabbing a third, she intones to her assistant Birdie (Thelma Ritter), “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”

Happily the pursuit of a well-made Martini is not restricted to the dens of privilege.  What could be further removed from the Round Table at the Algonquin than a MASH unit in South Korea?  Yet the civility of the Martini crept into the tent of Dr. Hawkeye Pierce (Alan Alda).  He brought a heightened irreverence and exuberance to the consumption of a Martini.  No longer shaken, not stirred at the gaming tables of Monte Carlo. No longer sipped by well-groomed denizens of wealth in black-tie or gown. No. Here is an educated, smart-assed surgeon in army fatigues using ingenuity (and desperation) to craft a functioning still… an enterprise to beat back the insanity of war and ensure that a modicum of civilization could prevail.

So you can see… standing at the Oak Bar, seated in the dining car of the New York Central, or on a cot in an overseas canvas residence… civilization’s reach can extend to every nook and cranny of the globe… even to an Adirondack chair on a deck in Woodbury, CT.

Little did I realize that July 21 is “National Hotdog Day.”  {extended side note:  Who gets to decide these “National Days” anyway?  And if we’re honoring the Hotdog, wouldn’t July 4^th be better suited?  After all, that’s  when Nathan’s in Coney Island stages its annual – and now televised on ESPN – Hotdog eating contest!  By the way, if you join Hotdog Eating Fantasy League, make sure you get Joey Chestnut on your fantasy team – he downed a nifty 76 Nathans & buns in 10 minutes.  Getting back… maybe it’s a Congressional thing subject to typical finagling and horse trading by the various states’ delegations to get these “Days” onto the national calendar.  Massachusetts wants a “National New England Clam Chowder Day.”  California wants a “National Garlic Day.”  Louisiana insists on a “National Étoufée Day.”  One thing for sure, this is not a “Red State/Blue State” thing. Every State by agreement is probably entitled to its signature food stuff.}

As it turns out I had just placed an order for hotdogs from a purveyor in New Jersey and my shipment arrived on July 20.  Unexpectedly, good fortune favored me! But before proceeding further a question needs to be addressed: What the hell was I doing ordering hotdogs from across state lines? Don’t they sell Hummel’s (my favorite) at the local Stop & Shop?  Had they run out?  (No. In stock and very available).   

I took the extra step of ordering 16 Hotdogs from Rastelli’s of New Jersey because of an advert  w/photo that was inserted into my Facebook feed showing a round disc of a hotdog sitting on a hamburger bun, stacked with lettuce, a tomato slice & pickle chips.  {a shorter side note: I get these types of adverts because I have responded & purchased on line from a select group of things-to-eat concerns: Nebraska Bison, Eastern Standard Provisions pretzels, Virginia Diner peanuts, Wolferman’s English muffins & Cajun Grocer’s turducken & live crayfish}.  That advert popped up on my feed for three days running before I decided to pull the trigger and place an order.  I tarried because while the photo intrigued, I found the condiment assemblage to be an affront that bordered on sacrilege. Tomato, lettuce & pickle chips?  Isn’t that a Chicago thing?  The Windy City is also known for producing a sub-standard pizza style.

But once I got past that horrific depiction and read the associated text, and I warmed to the concept of the round dog.  Better for getting a good char on the grill.  Better platform for containing your favorite toppings (the correct ones).  Eliminates the need for two different types of cook-out buns.  Ok,  it was worth a shot, even if I had no idea that there was a National Hotdog Day in the offing.

It should be noted that these Rastelli folks offer far more than weird shaped hotdogs.  A full range of meats, poultry & fish.  And their shipping container? It looked like Rastelli’s could have been shipping me nuclear waste products.  A box arrived the size of a small table (this is for 16 3oz hotdogs), with enough insulation to safeguard Covid-19 vaccines, and then within the outer box, a nested smaller box, and then within the smaller box a rather impressive (Sandy said, “outrageous” and “fancy-shmancy”) frozen-food zippered freezer bag containing enough dry ice to keep a steer’s hind-quarter frozen, and my 16 round hotdogs.  Well… no wonder why these franks ain’t cheap.

As to the dogs… as previously noted, I’m a Hummel’s man (pork).  But Sandy prefers beef.  The Rastellis’ are a combination of Angus beef and pork.  Yes, the hotdogs look like a slab of bologna, but appearance notwithstanding these are clearly hotdogs in taste and texture.  My preferred condiment choices for hotdogs are yellow mustard and green relish.  Sometimes I add sauerkraut.  My “alt” hotdog is a chili-cheese dog.  Sandy’s are sauerkraut and mustard & mustard and sauerkraut.  We are boring people.  We also share in the belief that people who order pizza with pineapple and ham should be deported.

It was July 21 and as it turned out, I was fully equipped to honor the day.  I made the decision to put two dogs into play.  One with my stand-by: yellow mustard, although I replaced the India relish with dill pickle chips (which I reckoned didn’t represent a violation of taste).  And one dog with chili & cheese.  I sourced the chili from LaBonne’s Market (house made, good, but mine is better by miles, but I had none in the freezer).  Sandy stuck to mustard, kraut and added the dill pickle chips on a whim.

Our take on the results… Jim: Hey!  That was pretty damned good!  Sandy: It was a hotdog.

Sandy’s lukewarm response puts me in mind of the story about an American tourist on seeing the Mona Lisa remarked, “I don’t think her smile is so great.”

Post Script #1:  I opened a bottle of an Alsatian Riesling & a Walker Road Red from a Woodbury Winery to pair with our round dogs.
Post Script #2: Sometimes I enjoy my dogs “bunless” with a good sized portion of Bush’s Grilling Beans. In that instance, I think the aesthetics would be wrong with a round dog.
Post Script #3: Sandy, as it pertains to her, disputes the “boring” characterization.
Post Script #4:  The pineapple & ham on pizza people should also have their eyes gouged out.

Staging Zone:

Draw back the curtain, dig in: