A Martini for Dave

In my weekly martini, okay sometimes biweekly, I am a traditionalist. I have tried sour apple, orange, dirty, mint, and even Girl Scout (not made with real Girl Scouts). They are all right and in the proper mood sometimes they even tickle the very spot. However, I believe they are largely a fad and long after sour apples are deemed fit only for pie people will return to the one true martini: lota gin, smidgen of vermouth, shake the begeebers out of it with ice, and decant into a glass with two or three pimento stuffed olives. The number of olives is the one area where I feel a degree of personal expression can safely be allowed. This was my view until last night. We were at our favorite pizza spot, Proto's, when a martini crossed my line of vision. It was the color of a late sunset and looked for all the world like those foo-foo, fake martinis that I habitually ignore. But something about it was different. Perhaps it was the color or perhaps it was the way he olive spoke to me at it passed "Get a load of me, meatbag."

"What was that?" I asked.

Our super terrific server replied, "You don't know?! That's our Sicilian Martini. It was practically invented with you in mind." This is not just words, mind you. She knows me well enough to be a good judge of such things.

"Well, bring it on then."

A Sicilian is vodka (any kind -- ethanol and water is always ethanol and water and anyone who says otherwise has way too much money and should give some of it to me), a splash of Bloody Mary mix, and, be still my heart, an anchovy-stuffed olive. Words cannot do justice to the flavor of skin-removing liquor combined a truly intense vegetable melange and infused with the all that is holy about the ocean. It is all but one of my favorite foods served up in a wildly impractical glass. If I could just figure out a way to work some beef into it I would have a great start to my very own diet sensation! People would order these by the gross because my book would tell them to, but would be unable to drink them because no one other than myself and the mysterious woman in the thick glasses who ordered one last night can stomach the thought of one. I would have it all: book royalties and enough left-over Sicilian Martinis to allow me to forget the shame of duping the American public for fun and profit.