Essays

As observed on the Membership page, our monthly meetings usually feature a Turn by one of the Members. These can take many forms, but often manifest themselves as addresses on diverse esoteric subjects. It struck me that it might be nice to preserve these lectures in written format, which is why I’ve added this page. Whether I’ll be able to persuade any of our talkers to supply me with text remains to be seen. However, another source of Sheridanian outpouring is the monthly newsletter, which sometimes features articles by Members, so I shall endeavour to add some of those too. Before long we’ll have a body of learning to rival the British Library.

—{}—

Count Carl Gustaf von Rosen

By Torquil Arbuthnot

(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.21)

Carl Gustaf von Rosen was born in Sweden in 1909, the son of the explorer Eric von Rosen. He was also nephew of Hermann Göring’s wife, Carin, which partly explains his early fascination with aeroplanes.

He began flying with a flying circus, but when Mussolini invaded Abyssinia, von Rosen went out there to fly relief missions. When Finland was invaded by Russia in 1940 von Rosen volunteered to fly for the Finns, carrying out bomber raids. He even bought the Finns three aeroplanes with money borrowed from a relative. When Germany invaded the Netherlands, von Rosen (who had a Dutch wife) applied to join the RAF but was turned down because of his being related to Göring, head of the Luftwaffe. So he joined KLM as a civilian pilot, flying the dangerous Lisbon-London route.

At the end of the war he returned to Ethiopia, to help train their air force. He left them to become UN Secretary Dag Hammarskjöld’s personal pilot. Hammarskjöld was killed when his aeroplane crashed in mysterious circumstances during the Congo crisis in 1961. Von Rosen had called in sick that day and a reserve pilot took his place.

In 1967 the south-eastern part of Nigeria attempted to break away and form a separate republic, Biafra. The Nigerians resisted this by force (aided by Britain and Russia) and the Nigerian Civil War (also known as the Biafran War) ran between 1967 and 1970. Biafra had no air force of its own so relied on mercenaries to fly both relief and military missions for them. They used the nearby islands of São Tomé as an air base, and it was from there that von Rosen first started flying relief missions into Biafra.

The Nigerian Air Force would try to shoot down these relief flights, to von Rosen’s disgust, and he decided to do something about it. Von Rosen was familiar with a Swedish military trainer called the MFI-9, which was robust enough to be able to carry significant loads of ordnance suspended from hard points on the wings. A number of MFI-9Bs had been constructed in hopes of a sale to the Swedish Air Force, but when the sale fell through, the aircraft became available at a low price. In the spring of 1969 Von Rosen imported five of them to Gabon and transformed them into attack aircraft by painting them green (Volkswagen car paint) and fitting anti-armour rockets under the wings. He rechristened them MiniCoins (an acronym for "Miniature Counter-Insurrection"). Needless to say, the French Secret Service, eager to meddle in something that would annoy the British, helped him purchase and arm the MiniCoins.

Their first attack (flown by two Swedish and three Biafran pilots, led by von Rosen) was on 22nd March 1969 when they attacked Port Harcourt airport. Their second attack was two weeks before my sixth birthday when they launched a dawn attack on Benin airport. At the time my family was living in Benin, only a mile or two from the airport. The Biafran War was in full swing and Benin was only a few miles from the front line. Most expatriates had chosen to stay. I remember being woken up by the sound of the explosions as von Rosen attacked the Mig-17 and Ilyushin Il-28 bombers that I’d often seen parked on the tarmac at Benin airport. About twenty minutes after they’d attacked and flown back to Gabon, the gallant anti-aircraft crew at Benin airport scuttled back from the forest where they’d fled at the first sign of trouble, and began firing blindly into the dawn sky. This went on for a good half hour. I’d been watching the flashes of the rockets and the gunfire from my bedroom window, but was pulled away by my parents. To this day I still think them spoilsports for not letting me watch it all. We had emergency suitcases always waiting in the hallway in case things got sticky for the expatriates, so waited downstairs next to them until things settled own again.

In all von Rosen flew over 25 attacks in the MiniCoins, destroying several aeroplanes on the ground, and putting an important powerplant in Ugheli out of action for six months.

In 1977 von Rosen was back in Africa again, flying relief sorties for the Ethiopians during the Ogaden War against Somalia. He was killed on the ground in July 1977 when Somali guerrillas attacked the camp where he was billeted.

—{}—

Flight Lieutenant Gordon Brettel DFC

By Derrick W.Croisdale

(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.20)

Gordon Brettell was born in Pyford, Surrey, in 1915. His father was lance-corporal in the Honorable Artillery Company but his principal occupation was a stockbroker; they were a well-off family. Brettell was educated privately, first at Sunningdale Preparatory School and then at Cheltenham College until he was 18. At 15, he almost died of mastoids but recovered, much to everyone’s surprise.

It was only the first of many brushes with death in the 29 years of his life.

At Cheltenham he was a good all-rounder. He took part in debating competitions, rowed, played hockey, rugby and cricket and was captain of his house boxing team (“not a great boxer but pretty tough” was the college assessment). He also sang in a college quartet. In his teens he took his younger brother to a fairground where there was a “wall of death”, a cylindrical structure around the inside of which performers rode motorcycles on the vertical wall. At the end of the performance the audience was asked if anyone would like to have a go. Young Gordon immediately volunteered and amazed everyone by not only riding the motorbike conventionally but repeating his performance sitting on the handlebars.

He went up to Clare College, Cambridge, in 1934 and graduated three years later with a BA. At Cambridge he became secretary to the university Automobile Club and became passionately interested in car racing. This was to be his main interest up to the outbreak of the Second World War. After graduating he became a freelance author writing for boys’ magazines and racing car journals. His favourite vehicle was an Austin Seven “Ulster” which he raced frequently at Brooklands. On one occasion his brakes failed halfway through a race but he pressed on and won by a comfortable margin. Another time he misjudged his speed negotiating one of the steeply banked bends and spun off the top, crashing to the ground. He sustained six bone fractures but was racing again within a month.

On the day Germany invaded Poland, Gordon immediately went to the RAF Recruitment Office and enlisted for service as a pilot. Pending his call-up he worked at Vickers Ltd, Weybridge, on the production of the Wellington bomber. He was called up on 20th January 1940 and did his training at No.5 Service Flying Training School, RAF Bassingbourne. During his training he managed to wangle a flight for his younger brother serving in the Royal Artillery. They flew in a Miles Magister and “beat up” their parents’ home in Chertsey, Surrey. His brother recalls that they dived at over 140mph—upon landing, Gordon apologised for not having dived faster, but the wings were supposed to come off at 140mph.

On 17th February 1941, Gordon got his wings and was commissioned Pilot Officer. His active service was mainly at Biggin Hill with squadrons 92, 124 and 111 flying Spitfires Mk VB. On 4th September he was severely wounded in the head in an action over France. Gordon wrote a detailed account of this action at the request of the Medical Officer who attended him. It was later published in the Sunday Pictorial and Reader’s Digest under the title “There Were Too Many Huns”, using the pen name Pilot Officer Stanley Hope. In the action he was pounced upon by ten ME109s; he managed to damage one enemy aircraft before being compelled to make good his escape by diving down to sea level where the Spitfire was slightly faster than the ME109F. His head wounds caused him to lose consciousness from time to time and blood obscured his vision. He expressed relief that he didn’t have a date that night so he wouldn’t let anyone down if he didn’t make it back. But make it back he did, and made a respectable landing. The surgeon who operated on him gave him the pieces of metal he removed from his skull as a memento. A later citation for his DFC states that after his injury “he resumed operational flying with renewed zest”.

Gordon has been described variously as “a careful planner”, “impetuous”, “a ladies’ man”, “a gentleman and a gentle man who never lost his temper”, “modest” and—by an American pilot who evaded capture after a later catastrophe for which Brettell was arguably to blame—“a great guy”. Perhaps it was all these qualities that led to his court martial on 14th April 1942. Two weeks previously there had been an Officers’ Mess party to which a number of WAAFs (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) had been invited. Gordon befriended one of the WAAFs who, late in the evening, said she would have to leave because transport was waiting to take them back to their airfield. Gordon must have exercised his charm because he persuaded her to stay the night and also promised to get her back in time for morning parade. He was court martialled because, true to his word, he got her back—in his Spitfire. Dispensing with parachutes, he flew sitting on the WAAF’s lap. The official record states, “Tried by General Court Martial at Biggin Hill on 14.4.42 under Sections 39A(1)(b) and 40 Air Force Act; that ‘When on active service was likely to cause damage to aircraft by improperly and without authority carrying a passenger, neglected to wear his parachute harness contrary to Regulations’. Guilty. Sentence: severe reprimand.”

On 2nd August he was posted to 133 Squadron as a flight commander. The squadron was in action almost every day. The busiest was on 19th August in support of the combined operation at Dieppe. Gordon was at readiness from four o’clock in the morning and took part in all four missions flown that day, finally touching down at nearly nine o’clock in the evening in bad visibility. The air fighting had been fierce but the squadron acquitted itself exceedingly well, destroying or damaging 16 enemy aircraft without any loss. In this action Gordon shot down a FW190.

No.133 Squadron was one of three “Eagle” squadrons in the RAF, comprised mostly of American volunteer pilots. The squadron had been formed in August 1941 under Squadron Leader George A. Brown, who famously addressed the young Americans: “Gentlemen, no Englishman is more appreciative than I to see you American volunteers over here to assist us in our fight. It is going to get a lot tougher as time goes by, so take a good look around this room—because a year from now most of you will be dead.” The young pilots were dumbstruck. In fact, in the following 13 months, 23 pilots were killed, 13 in action and 10 in accidents.

An emotional day was 19th August 1942, the date of the first raid by B17s of the United States Army Air Force (USAAF) on enemy-occupied Europe. No.133 Squadron was given the honour of escorting the 12 B17s in a raid on railway yards in Rouen, which they did without loss. The main hazard was the trigger-happy air gunners in the B17s, who couldn’t tell the difference between Spitfires and ME109s. After being shot at on the return journey the squadron dived to sea level and left the B17s to go home alone.

At the beginning of September, the RAF began to re-equip the squadron in readiness for the transfer to the USAAF. To deal with the transfer formalities, the American Squadron Leader Carroll McColpin was summoned to London for a few days. His place was taken by Gordon Brettell.

On 26th September the squadron was to escort a group of B17s to Morlaix in Brittany. There was heavy cloud, but navigation was not going to be a problem as the squadron would be vectored by RAF Exeter. When they reached the rendezvous point there was no sign of the bombers, so they were ordered to circle and wait. In fact the B17s had left 20 minutes early but had not bothered telling the RAF. Moreover, an unexpected 100mph wind at the operational height was rapidly carrying the squadron towards Brittany. By the time RAF Exeter realised what was happening, the Spitfires were out of radio contact.

Brettell made two inexplicable decisions. The first was to keep circling after radio contact was lost. Eventually they did spot some B17s heading north, but by this time fuel was running low so he decided to abort and head for Bolt Head. His second odd decision was to take the whole squadron down out of the clouds to get bearings, when one plane would have done. They spotted the coastline and a large port that they took to be Plymouth. In fact it was Brest, the most heavily defended port on the Atlantic coast. In seconds, 11 of the 12 Spitfires were lost, either shot down or forced to crash-land or bale out from lack of fuel. Four pilots were killed, six were captured. One baled out, evaded capture and eventually made it back to England, having been jailed in Spain for a while. The twelfth plane had aborted earlier with engine trouble and crash landed near Kingsbridge.

Brettell’s plane was hit by two cannon shells that reduced the port wing to a skeleton. Unable to bale out, he hit the ground at 200mph. He later spoke well of the German soldiers who extricated him from the wreckage and administered morphia. He was well treated in hospital but delayed telling his parents about his injuries in case they were worried. By the time he was on the mend, however, he wrote, describing that he had “four broken ribs, three broken vertebrae, left shoulder blade broken, right sholder blade dislocated, a sprained knee, a large cut on my head, a very squashed-in chest, a ricked neck, two marvellous black eyes, a broken tooth. I also gathered that I had a fractured skull, but I think I must have misunderstood this because my head never felt the least bad… These ailments, though not individually serious, do look slightly formidable when lined up in a row.” Less than a month after the crash, he said that all he felt was a little, rapidly vanishing stiffness.

Three days after he was shot down, Gordon was awarded the DFC, citing his 111 sorties over enemy-occupied territory and his great “keenness to engage the enemy”. Meanwhile, Brettell himself was headed for Stalag Luft III, a POW camp for Allied airmen 100 miles south-east of Berlin.

He became a regular escapee. On one occasion he and a Belgian prisoner were making for the Baltic Sea, hoping to sail for Sweden. It was winter and they came upon a wide frozen river. Unsure if it would hold their weight they crawled across on hands and knees, testing the strength of the ice as best they could. Eventually reaching the far side, exhausted and cold, they sat down for a rest. Almost at once they heard a rumbling—and a column of German army vehicles came driving down the middle of the river.

With each escape, Gorden was recaptured after a few days and sentenced to two weeks’ solitary confinement in the “cooler”. On one occasion he apologised to the Luftwaffe Commandant, Colonel Friedrich-Wilhelm von Lindeiner-Wildau, a professional and honourable soldier, for the trouble he might be causing him. The Colonel silenced him by striking the table with his fist and announcing that it was the duty of an officer to escape!

Gordon became a member of the forgery team which prepared documents for would-be escapees. He was an enthusiastic supporter of the planned escape by tunnel which would become known as the “Great Escape”. The entrance to the tunnel, codenamed “Harry”, was in the room Gordon shared with half a dozen other POWs. When the time was ripe for the escape, a ballot was held to determine who would be in the first batch to escape through the tunnel. Gordon was one of those selected.

On the night of 24th March 1944, 81 prisoners escaped through the tunnel. Gordon and two others were free for two nights but were recaptured after being reported by a suspicious railway booking clerk as they were making good progress for the Baltic.

Hitler was furious about the escape and ordered 50 of the escapees to be shot. Gordon was one of those selected and he was killed by Gestapo Captain Reinholt Bruchardt on 29th March on the outskirts of Danzig. The camp Commandant was arrested and charged with negligence. At his trial he was asked what he would have done if Hitler had ordered him to shoot the prisoners. He replied that he would rather have shot himself. He was sentenced to two years imprisonment. Not so fortunate were three German electricians: they were executed for allowing large quantities of wire to fall into the POWs’ hands.

The cremated remains of the 50 escapees were returned to Stalag Luft III. Colonel von Lindeiner, while awaiting his trial, paid for materials and tools to enable the POWs to build a stone memorial. This was completed towards the end of 1944 and on 4th December a remarkable ceremony was held. Attending were senior German officers, 15 POW officers representing the nations of the dead, members of the Swiss Legation, an Anglican and a Roman Catholic priest and a guard of honour of German soldiers. A POW bugler sounded “The Last Post” and the guard of honour fired a volley of shots. In the middle of a savagely-fought war, it was an act of great nobility and courage by the Germans who took part.

For his part in the escape, Gordon Brettell was mentioned in dispatches.

© Derrick W. Croisdale, 2008

—{}—

The Silver Bullet: A Monograph on the Martini

By David Bridgman-Smith

(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.18)

1. Introduction

American journalist H.L. Mencken once suggested that there is only one American invention as perfect as the sonnet; the Martini.

Today, there are various drinks masquerading as the Martini, such as those that claim to taste of Key Lime Pie or Black Forest Gateau. In light of this, here is a quick definition.

A Martini is a cocktail traditionally made from gin and vermouth, which is served in stemmed glassware. It is typically garnished with a lemon twist or an olive. Although originally made with gin, it has recently become commonplace to replace this with vodka.

The dryness of a Martini is a reference to the amount of vermouth it contains: the less vermouth the Martini proportionally contains, the dryer it is.

How to chill a Martini glass when there is no room in the freezer: Before you begin preparing the drink, fill the glass with clean ice and then top up with clean, chilled, still water (preferably bottled). Once the drink is ready to pour, dispose of the ice and water from the glass and shake it to ensure that no drops of water remain. Strain the drink and serve. It may seem a minor detail, but in my experience it really makes a difference.

2. History

Like a great many things, the exact origins of the Martini are somewhat hard to determine; however, there are two accounts of how the drink began that seem to be, from research, the most widely cited.

Story No.1: Julio Richelieu, Martinez

In 1870, a miner entered Julio Richelieu’s saloon in Ferry Street, Martinez. Walking up to the bar, the miner dropped a tobacco sack of gold nuggets on the bar weight-scale and requested that Richelieu fill a bottle with whiskey for him. Having received his full bottle of whiskey and feeling somewhat short-changed, the miner asked for something more. Richelieu mixed a drink, dropped in an olive in the glass and declared it “The Martinez Cocktail”.

Story No. 2: Jerry Thomas, San Francisco

This is a similar story to the first, although it takes place at the other end of the journey. In this story, it was famous bartender Professor Jerry Thomas, well known for mixing “The Blue Blazer”, who invented the Martini. Thomas had travelled to San Francisco in 1849 arriving at the height of the Gold Rush. Thomas then returned to New York and subsequently moved back to San Francisco, where he set up a bar in the Occidental Hotel in Montgomery Street. A traveller on his way to Martinez, California entered the hotel bar, threw down a gold nugget and asked for “something special”. To which Thomas

replied: “Very well, here is a drink I have invented especially for your trip, we shall call

it the Martinez.”

Whether Thomas invented the original Martini is unclear. Nevertheless, it was thought for a long time that Thomas provided the first published recipe of the Martini in the 1887 edition of his bartender’s guide. However, even then there are some reports of a recipe for “The Martinez” being published three years earlier in O.H. Byron’s The Modern Bartender’s Guide.

In addition to these two accounts, here are a number of other claims for the origin of the Martini:

• Bartender Martini di Arma di Tuggia at the Knickerbocker Hotel, New York is said to have made the drink for John D. Rockefeller and is claimed to have created the first incarnatation of the modern Martini in 1912.

• There are reports dating from 1763 of German musician J.P.A. Martini drinking Geneva and dry white wine.

• The Oxford English Dictionary has claimed the drink was named after the Martini & Rossi drinks company founded in Turin, Italy in 1890.

• Some believe there to be a link between the Martini and the Martini-Henry Rifle used by the British Army, as both the firearm and the drink had a kick.

Regardless of the inconclusive exact origin of the Martini, it seems that the original drink has undergone something of a transformation in order to become the drink we know today.

The timeline and appropriate dryness ratios below (gin:vermouth) are taken from The Martini Book by gin company W.A. Gilbey Ltd. The writers themselves suggest that every thirty years the Martini gets one part dryer.

1860 1:1 Martinez

At this time the drink was known interchangeably as the Martinez, Martine and Martini.

From O.H. Byron’s The Modern Bartender’s Guide (1884)

Martinez

2 dashes of curaçao

2 dashes Angostura bitters

Half a wine glass of gin

Half a wine glass of Italian vermouth

Byron suggests that the Martini is: “the same as Manhattan, only you substitute gin for whisky”.

1890 2:1 The Original Martini

The book Louis’ Mixed Drinks (1906) contains two recipes for the Martini; the one below is possibly the first published recipe of the “Dry Martini”.

Dry Martini Cocktail

2 dashes of orange bitters

1 dash of curaçao

1 liqueur glass of French vermouth

2 liqueur glasses of dry gin

Fill mixing glass with ice, stir well, strain into a cocktail glass and squeeze a small piece of lemon peel on top.

1920 3:1 The Prohibition Martini

From 1915, drinks became colder as refrigerators began to replace ice boxes. A 1920s New York drama critic, George Jean Nathan, is reported to have rigged up a series of strings and pulleys from his front door latch to his refrigerator. When he turned his key to enter, the cocktail shaker in the refrigerator was gently agitated and the Martini ready for consumption by the time he reached the fridge door.

1950 4:1 The Martini

It became a fashion to have Martinis of ever increasing dryness and a very dry Martini became the mark of an individual with refined taste; this led to a number of inspired methods of vermouth management, including the invention of specialist devices.

In 1966, an experiment in Chicago involving 3,426 people was conducted with the purpose of classifying tastes in Martinis. Each individual dialled a drink of their chosen strength into a machine known as the Martini-Matic. This led to the following results:

Profession Preferred Strength (gin : vermouth)

Teachers, Factory and

Office Workers 3:1

Salesmen, Buyers

& Engineers 4:1

Advertising Agents 5:1

Publishers 7:1

Source: Gourmet Magazine (1968)

It was also in the 1960s that devices to control minute amounts of vermouth accurately, such as the “Martini Spike”, came on to the market—further indicating a preference for the very dry Martini.

3. How To Keep Your Martini Dry

As the preference for dryer Martinis progressed, so did investigation into the problem of how to make a drink with the minimal vermouth. This resulted in various creative solutions:

• The popular “In & Out Method”, used by many bartenders today. It involves filling the mixing glass or shaker with ice, pouring in vermouth and then straining it away, resulting in vermouth-coated ice. Another method involves rinsing the cocktail glass or shaker with vermouth.

• It is also possible to introduce the vermouth to the Martini with the use of garnishes, such as olives or lemon rinds, which have been steeped in vermouth.

• In addition, a number of gadgets have been invented with the aim of achieving maximal dryness:

Martini Spike

This was produced in the 1960s by Gorham’s and resembles a silver-plated syringe (as depicted on the front cover of this issue of the Newsletter), neatly packaged in a velvet-lined box. The increments on the side allow the user to add an exact amount, in cubic centimetres, of vermouth to their drink.

Martini Dropper

A long, thin pipette designed to fit into the top of a bottle of vermouth. The bulb of the dropper often resembled an olive and the device was produced by a firm called Invento. This device allowed the user to add a mere drop of vermouth to the mix. Whilst not having the precision of the Gorham Spike, it does allow for a much smaller amount of vermouth to be added.

Martini Stones

Invented by Fred Pool, these are small marble stones that are soaked in vermouth and then added to the mixing glass or shaker along with the gin. The vermouth-soaked stones produce a very dry drink. According to their inventor, the stone also neutralizes the acidity of the vermouth, thus improving the taste.

The Atomizer

This is popular when using the Diamond method of mixing (see below). Essentially, the inside of the chilled glass is sprayed with vermouth from a perfume atomizer before chilled gin is poured in. A variation is to spray a mist of vermouth over the top of the finished drink. Alternatively, it can be sprayed into the mixing glass or shaker before mixing.

The Martini Tester

Another invention related to the dryness of a Martini, but not actually used to measure or dispense vermouth, was the Gilbey Martini Tester. This was produced in the mid 1960s by Gilbey and originally sold for $1.95. The tester was designed to measure how dry a specific Martini is and is described as being a must for every “Master of Martini”. The author is currently working on making a working reproduction of this device.

As well as these more practical methods, there have been, in the history of the cocktail, some more eccentric and elaborate practices:

• Whisper the word “vermouth” over the drink

• Expose the drink to the written word “vermouth”

• Wave a vermouth bottle over the drink

• Allow a single beam of sunlight to pass through the vermouth bottle and onto the bottle of gin or finished drink

• A bartender’s tip is to add a drop of vodka to an otherwise all-gin Martini to create an even dryer taste.

4. Shaken vs Stirred

Possibly one of the most controversial topics in cocktail making is the question of how to mix your Martini: do you stir or do you shake? In an attempt to assess the various arguments, let us first look at the different methods.

The Shaking Method

Mix the ingredients and ice in a cocktail shaker by shaking it vigorously until condensation or frosting appears on the outside of the shaker. Traditionally if a Martini is shaken, a stainless steel Manhattan shaker is used.

The Stirring Method

Mix the ingredients with ice using a long, thin spoon or mixing rod by whirling it around until the ingredients are cold. A mixing glass or glass pitcher is usually used for this method.

A shaken Martini is more thoroughly and vigorously mixed, which not only makes it colder but, as more of the ice melts, makes the drink more diluted.

Shaking also introduces air bubbles into the drink, which aerates the mixture. An immediately noticeable consequence of this is that the drink becomes slightly cloudy.

The presence of air bubbles also alters the taste of the drink, as the bubbles tend to restrict the flavour of the gin, giving the drink a sharper taste. A combination of both the increased dilution and the presence of air bubbles result in a drink that has a less oily texture.

A study by Biochemists at the University of Western Ontario in Canada indicated that due to the aeration and presence of air bubbles in a shaken Martini, more antioxidants were produced, arguably making the drink healthier.

The more gently-mixed stirred Martini is characterized by not being as cold and being less diluted than its shaken counterpart. The stirring method produces a clear, or certainly clearer, Martini. The absence of air bubbles, as well as the lower dilution rate, in a stirred Martini results in a drink that not only has a smoother texture, but also offers a more pronounced and defined flavour of the gin.

According to W. Somerset Maugham, as quoted by his nephew, “Martinis should never be shaken. They should always be stirred so that the molecules lie sensuously on top of each other.”

There is, incidentally, another method of preparing a Martini which involves neither shaking nor stirring.

Diamond or Pouring Method

Pre-chill the gin and stemmed glassware in the freezer. Add a small amount of vermouth to the chilled glass, either by rinsing or using an atomizer to spray the inside of the glass. Add the chilled gin and garnish the drink.

The advantage of this method is that it creates a similar chill factor to the shaken Martini, but with the minimal dilution of a stirred Martini. The disadvantage is that due to the very limited mixing involved, anything more than the merest whiff of vermouth tends to spoil the result and so this method is only for people who like their drinks very dry.

In conclusion, the author believes that the correct choice of method when mixing a Martini is one of personal taste. One recipe book from the 1950s suggests that,“Clear mixtures should be stirred, cloudy ones should be shaken.”

Even so, there is not necessarily a correct answer. However, it should be noted that the shaken Martini, with its less oily texture and a less pronounced flavour of gin, is often preferred by palates that are not accustomed to, or would not usually drink, gin. Thus, this method makes for a good introduction to gin Martinis, leaving the individual, thereafter, to decide what is to their liking.

5. The Cultural Martini

The cultural influence of the Martini in literature, film and wider society is considerable in comparison to most other cocktails and is subject to enough material to warrant a paper in its own right. Here is an introduction to some of the possible content of such a paper.

Some famous Martini drinkers include:

• Sir Winston Churchill. An avid fan, Churchill preferred his Martinis naked; that is to say, without any vermouth. In fact, it is said that he thought it enough to merely bow in the direction of France. Being a member of Boodles Gentlemen’s Club in St James’s, along with author Ian Fleming, Churchill was very keen on Martinis that used the exclusive gin that was made for his club, Boodles British Gin.

• Ian Fleming. A great Martini lover himself, and creator of probably the best known fictional Martini drinker. He invented his own variation of the Martini, The Vesper, published in his 1953 book Casino Royale.

• Ernest Hemingway. Described “The Montgomery”, a 15:1 ratio Martini, in his book, Across the River and into the Trees. A keen Martini drinker in 1944, after the liberation of Paris, he led two troops of French soldiers to the Ritz hotel. Upon their arrival, a frightened assistant manager asked if he could be of service, to which Hemingway replied, “How about seventy-three dry Martinis?”

• Alfred Hitchcock. Hitchcock prepared his Martinis with gin and a cocktail shaker and, with regards to the dryness, he is reported to use “five parts gin and a quick glance at a bottle of vermouth”.

• Kingsley Amis

• Robert Benchley

• Humphrey Bogart

• Noel Coward

• W.C. Fields

• F. Scott Fitzgerald

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the New Sheridan Club for the opportunity to write and present this talk; Dottie, who was of great assistance in my research; Massamiliano of the Duke’s Hotel, who introduced me to the Diamond-method Martini (and a very nice drink it was too) and Sarah of Henry’s Bar in the City of London who made what is probably the most memorable Martini I have ever had.

Finally, my special thanks to S.L. Miller whose support, encouragement and critical editorial eye have made this paper possible.

Bibliography

Byron, O.H. The Modern Bartender’s Guide. New York. (1884)

Muckenstrum, Louis. Louis’ Mixed Drinks with Hints for Care and Service of Wines. New York: Dodge Publishing Company. (1906)

Hemingway, Ernest. Across the River and into the Trees. London: Jonathan Cape. (1950)

Fleming, Ian L. Casino Royale. London: Jonathan Cape. (1953)

Tanqueray, Gordon & Company Ltd. Gordon’s. London: A.F. Galt & Company Ltd (1950s)

Gilbey, John H.P. The Martini Book. London: W.A. Gilbey Ltd. (n.d.)

Maugham, R. Conversations with Willie: Recollections of W. Somerset Maugham. New York: Simon & Schuster. (1978)

Conrad, Barnaby III. The Martini. San Francisco: Chronicle Books. (1995)

Regan, Gary and Regan, Mardee Haidin. The Martini Companio—A Connoisseur’s Guide. Philadelphia: Running Press. (1997)

Struminger, Alexander B. Martini. New York: Robert M. Tod. (1997)

Edmunds, Lowell. Martini Straight Up. London: The John Hopkins University Press. (1998)

Palin, Michael. Michael Palin’s Hemingway Adventure. London: Weidenfield & Nicholson. (1999)

Schott, Ben. Schott’s Food & Drink Miscellany. London: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc. (2004)

Stone, Nannette. The Little Black Book of Martinis. New York: Peter Pauper Press Inc. (2004)

Marangraphics. Maran Illustrated Cocktails. London: Marangraphics Inc. (2005)

Reed, Ben. Martinis. London: Ryland Peters & Small. (2006)

Trevithick, J.R. 1999. ‘Shaken, not stirred: bioanalytical study of the antioxidant activities of Martinis’. British Medical Journal [Online] 18th December. 19:1600-1602. Available at: http://www.bmj.com/cgi/content/full/319/7225/1600 [accessed 2nd March 2008]

Hess, R. 2002. Shaken or Stirred. [Online]. DrinkBoy. Available at: http://www.drinkboy.com/Essays/ShakenOrStirred.html [accessed 1st March 2008].

Passmore, Nick. 2006. In Praise Of The Silver Bullet. [Online] Forbes. Available at: http://www.forbes.com/2006/03/13/Martinis-cocktails-hemingway-cx_np_0314featB_ls.html [accessed 24th February 2008].

Wilson, Jason. 2007. Sometimes, Respect Starts With a Pour Down the Drain. The Washington Post. [Online]. 21st March. Available at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/03/20/AR2007032000273.html [accessed 2nd March 2008]

Gadberry, Brad. The Martini FAQ. [Online]. v1.09. 12th January 2008. Available at: http://www.rdwarf.com/users/mink/Martinifaq.html#famous [accessed 1st March 2008]

—{}—

The Eight Kinds of Drunkennesse

(From Pierce Penilesse, His Supplication to the Divell, by Thomas Nashe published 1592 and brought to our attention here by Mr Arbuthnot)

(First appeared in Newsletter No. 17)

The first is Ape drunke, and he leapes, and sings, and hollowes, and daunceth for the heauens.

The second is Lion drunke, and he flings the pots about the house, calls his Hostesse whore, breakes the glasse windowes with his dagger, and is apt to quarrel with any man that speaks to him.

The third is Swine drunke, heauy, lumpish, and sleepie, and cries for a little more drinke, and a fewe more cloathes.

The fourth is Sheepe drunke, wise in his owne conceipt, when he cannot bring foorth a right word.

The fifth is Mawdlen drunke, when a fellowe will weepe for kindnes in the midst of his Ale, and kisse you, saying; by God Captaine I loue thee, goe thy waies thou dost not thinke so often of me as I do of thee, I would (if it pleased GOD) I could not loue thee so well as I doo, and then he puts his finger in his eie, and cries.

The sixt is Martin drunke, when a man is drunke and drinkes himselfe sober ere he stirre.

The seauenth is Goate drunke, when in his drunkennes he hath no minde but on Lechery.

The eighth is Foxe drunke, when he is craftie drunke, as many of the Dutch men bee.

—{}—

The Assassination of Georgi Markov

By Torquil Arbuthnot

(Extracted from Mr Arbuthnot’s crime walk before the New Sheridan Christmas party, and subsequently published in Newsletter No. 16)

Georgi Markov was a successful literary figure in Bulgaria before he defected to the West in 1969. He even joined the Bulgarian Writer’s Union, officially approved by the government. He was also accepted by, and socialized with, Communist Party leaders, eventually learning the intimate details of their carefully hidden, private lives.

But he went too far with a novel called The Great Roof. This novel depicted an incident in Bulgarian history when, in May 1959, a roof under construction at a giant Communist Party steel mill showpiece collapsed, killing and injuring an unknown number of workers. The Communist Party failed to inspire or lead workers in the search for victims. Markov called the novel “an allegory and document of the moral degradation” of Bulgarian socialist society: “In the fall of the roof, I perceived a symbol of the inevitable collapse of the roof of lies, demagogy, fallacies and deceit which the regime had constructed over our country.” Markov later wrote a play entitled
The Assassins, a drama about a plot to kill the leader of a police state. That play was censured in a party newspaper article signed by Todor Zhivkov, then president of Bulgaria. Markov was warned by a friend that he was about to be arrested and fled to Italy. He eventually claimed political asylum in Britain.

Markov became a broadcast journalist for the BBC World Service and a writer for the CIA-funded Radio Free Europe. His weekly-broadcast programmes for RFE, largely consisting of his memoirs of life in Bulgaria, were called, “In Absentia, Reports About Bulgaria”. Not only did these memoirs describe the cultural life of Bulgaria, but they also exposed the otherwise-hidden life of Communist Party leaders, especially Zhivkov. Markov’s listening audience was estimated to be about 60 per cent of Bulgaria’s adult population, even though RFE’s Bulgarian-language broadcasts were heavily jammed.

Following his father’s death, and the Bulgarian’s government’s refusal to allow Markov to visit his dying father in 1977, the tone of Markov’s broadcasts changed. Called “Personal Meetings with Todor Zhivkov”, they were bitingly satirical and a personal attack on Zhivkov. Markov wrote, “I have stressed over and over again that the principal evil in the life and work of Bulgarian writers, painters, composers, actors was interference by the Party. And behind the Party’s interference stood its chief organizer and executive, Todor Zhivkov. As a result of Zhivkov’s general, arbitrary and often quite unwarranted interference, Bulgarian cultural life became permeated by an atmosphere of insecurity and chaos...”

In July 1977 Zhivkov signed a Politburo decree proclaiming, “All measures could be used to neutralize enemy émigrés.” Markov received various warnings and anonymous threats to stop broadcasting but ignored them. The Bulgarian secret police then made three attempts on Markov’s life. The first was in Munich in the spring, when Markov was visiting friends and colleagues at Radio Free Europe. An agent tried but failed to poison Markov’s drink at a dinner party honouring the writer. A second attempt occurred on the Italian island of Sardinia, where Markov was enjoying a summer vacation with his family.

The third attempt succeeded...

On 7th September 1978 (Zhivkov’s 67th birthday) Markov was waiting at a bus stop on Waterloo Bridge. As he neared the waiting queue, he experienced a sudden, stinging pain in the back of his right thigh. He turned and saw a man bending down to pick up an umbrella. The man apologised and then hailed a black cab and sped off. Later that evening, Markov developed a high fever and was taken to a hospital, where he was treated for an undetermined form of blood poisoning. He went into shock and, after three days of agony, died.

Markov had earlier told doctors he suspected he’d been poisoned. Scotland Yard ordered a thorough autopsy of Markov’s body. The forensic pathologists discovered a spherical metal pellet the size of a pin-head embedded in Markov’s calf.

The pellet measured 1.52 mm in diameter and was composed of 90 per cent platinum and 10 per cent iridium. It had two holes with diameters of 0.35 mm drilled through it, producing an X-shaped cavity. Further examination by experts from Porton Down showed that the pellet contained traces of toxic ricin, a poison to which there is no known antidote.

After the fall of Communism the case was re-opened by British and Bulgarian investigators. They decided the poison and the umbrella-gun had been provided by the KGB. The Bulgarian secret police had assassinated Markov as a birthday president for Zhikov.

—{}—

In Search of Sheri-Dan

By Nevison Casual

(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.16)

High in the mountains of Himalaya, above the triple-canopied forests that echo with plaintive birdcalls in the valleys below, on a barren plateau strewn with rocks and empty port bottles, there rises from the clouds a granite fortress. In the local language they call it Sheri-Dan, which translates as “The House of Flying Fag-Ends”. This, curious traveller, is the oldest Chappist Monastery in existence.

Until the mid twentieth century, Sheri-Dan was completely isolated from the outside world. Within its walls the monks distilled their beliefs and disciplines—and occasionally raw grain alcohol—and learned to perform amazing physical feats. Today, tales of the order are widely told, and it has even become fashionable for adventurous Europeans to spend time with the monks, hoping to find their Inner Chap, or at least return with some unusual cufflinks and a few anecdotes. So what is it like to scale the mountain path and soujourn with the order? To save readers the ordeal of leaving their armchairs, your correspondent journeyed to find out.

As one stands uncertainly before the monastery’s gates, all is quiet bar the moaning of the wind and the distant thwack of leather on willow. The walls are of ancient stone blocks covered in a mottled algae that, viewed from a certain angle, resolves itself into a pleasing houndstooth check. It’s no use procrastinating: one reaches for the sculpted iron door-knocker that curiously resembles an elegant brogue… Before one’s fingers touch the metal, the door creaks open and an immaculately attired butler beckons silently for one to enter. One’s education has begun.

Every visitor comes with preconceptions. Is it true the monks purify their bodies by drinking Stella Artois to induce projectile vomiting? Is it true some penitents force themselves to wear jeans with “anti-fit” as a reminder of their earthly worthlessness? Is it true one monk meditated on top of a pole for 23 years? (Actually the Pole was Wozciek his valet, a strong man who found that carrying his inebriated master around the place made seeing to the holy man’s needs a great deal easier.) So many questions. The reality of Chappist life is far more subtle.

Many Westerners mistakenly believe that Chappist monks take a vow of silence. In fact the vow they take is one of pertinence—idle nattering about trifles, such as politics, impending wars or the nature of being, are strictly forbidden and offenders are summarily locked in the stocks and pelted with stale scones. Quips, cheery salutations and the vivacious exchange of complex cocktails recipes, on the other hand, are actively encouraged. Many tourists visit Chappist temples simply to experience the transcendental ambience of spirited post-dinner banter, the clinking of glassware, perhaps the honking of a battered old piano, all wafting through the calming haze of pipe smoke.

This discipline of limiting talk to the utterest of essentials means that experienced monks have a finely honed ability to tell what someone else is thinking without recourse to words. Legend tells of a blind master of gin-jitsu, the Chappist art of making the perfect martini, who was much in demand as a cocktail waiter. He could divine customers’ orders simply from the way their clothing rustled as they approached the bar, and knew instinctively when drinkers’ glasses were empty by smelling their fear.

The heart of the Chappist monastery is the Dojo (or Anecdojo, to give it its full title), a large hall strewn with rugs, its walls adorned with traditional stuffed animal heads, dartboards, coat-hooks and the week’s tea-making roster. Here trainees learn to spar with one-liners, wisecracks and party pieces.

Observe how the cocksure novice begins with a flurry of irony and affable bravura. His opponent, the old tutor, at first glance shy and helpless, smiles and counters with a single, well-placed mot juste, reducing the audience of kneeling acolytes to gales of laughter. Wounded, the young attacker can manage nothing better in return than a low swipe at his opponent’s old age and decrepitude. The master’s rejoinder is whispered into the youth’s ear so sotto voce that no onlooker can catch it, but its effect is devastating. Ashen, the young man looks instinctively to his trouser fly—mortifyingly unbuttoned, a flash of shirt-tail clearly visible to all the world. (Was it so all along, or is this the work of the master’s drawing-room legerdemain?) The bout is over.

Such punishing instruction must be carefully dispensed. After this lesson the young monk will be carried to a comfortable wingback and a stiff cognac pressed into his sweating hand. With several hours of shoulder-clapping and good-natured joshing, his tutors must delicately rebuild his sense of panâche before his education can continue.

The Dojo is also where novices learn the healing discipline of “beditation”