The Martini has no single history. It has chapters.
It began as gin and vermouth somewhere in late nineteenth-century America, and it has been rewritten by every generation since. Bartenders have swapped the spirit, dropped the olive, named it after a character in a novel, and turned it the wrong way up. None of them asked permission.
We have chosen six of those rewrites. Pour them in order and you have the story, more or less, from the Gilded Age to the present day. Come with us.
None of these are quite the original recipe. A cocktail that rests in a bottle for months is a different creature from one shaken fresh and drunk on the spot, so we adjust each one to land right at the moment you open it. The history is theirs. The balance is ours.
The Martini before it settled down. At the Tuxedo Club, the Gilded Age country retreat that also gave the dinner jacket its American name, members drank a sharper, stranger cousin of the dry Martini. First written down in 1900, lifted by a whisper of absinthe and, depending on the bartender, a touch of maraschino. Dry, saline, faintly herbal. This is roughly where the Martini we know begins.
The Martini becomes a category. In the Asian-fusion boom of early-nineties New York, the coupe stopped belonging to gin. A sake bar, a Korean kitchen and a fusion dining room all have a claim to the first lychee Martini. What they share is the moment the glass opened up to anything floral and served straight up. Ours takes a dash of lychee, not a slug. Floral, and only just sweet.
The Martini learns to be savoury. Nobody agrees who first asked for an onion in place of an olive. A New York illustrator and a San Francisco businessman, both called Gibson, both with a claim. The first one dates to 1908, but the pickled onion that now defines it was not fixed for decades after. We infuse ours with pickled onion, so the savoury edge is there the moment the bottle leaves the freezer.
The Martini goes looking for new spirits. When Ivy Mix opened Leyenda, her Latin American bar in Brooklyn, she rebuilt an earlier pisco Martini in fourths: gin and pisco, sweet vermouth and dry. She called it the En Cuarto. Pisco, the grape brandy of Peru and Chile, brings warmth and a faint must of fresh fruit. Ours is a take on hers, under a plainer name.
The Martini enters fiction. Ian Fleming wrote the Vesper for James Bond before any bartender had made one. Gin, vodka, and an aromatised wine where the vermouth should be. We blend Lillet Blanc and Cocchi Americano in place of the Kina Lillet that Fleming knew, now long discontinued, with London Dry gin and our own vodka. Rounder and more floral than a Martini, with a clean, honeyed lift.
The Martini, turned around. At Bar Goto on the Lower East Side, Kenta Goto built a Martini where sake leads and gin follows, lifted by a touch of maraschino and finished with a salted cherry blossom where the olive once sat. Delicate, saline, gently floral. The Martini handed to another tradition, and handed back changed.
The Martini has been dry and savoury, literary and floral, Peruvian and Japanese. Two of the six in this box were made in a single year, 2015, which tells you this history is still being written. These are six of our favourite turns it has taken so far.
It arrives in a box made to be given: the six minis nested together, the illustrated brochure you have just read, and a card we write by hand.
Six bottles, one of every Martini. Put them in the freezer. Pour each into the smallest chilled glass you own, a coupe if you have one, and drink while the surface is still shivering. The Gibson is infused with pickled onion, so it pours savoury with nothing to add. The Sakura is traditionally crowned with a salted cherry blossom.
Drink them in order for the history. In any order at all for the joy.
Six miniatures, one of every Martini, an illustrated brochure, and a card we write by hand. The whole history of the drink in one box made to be given. This Father's Day, give the long version.