The article reflects on the martini's complex history, suggesting it originated from the Gold Rush-era Martinez before evolving into a staple in cities like New York and Los Angeles. While the writer humorously recounts personal experiences with various types of martinis, from memorable concoctions to regrettable choices, the underlying message is one of deep reverence for the cocktail. They express this passion vividly, going so far as to tattoo a martini on their bicep. Ultimately, the martini is portrayed as a drink with cultural significance beyond mere consumption.
A martini is a martini, and a martini is more than a martini.
The cocktail was invented in Gold Rush-era Martinez, where legend has it a barkeeper poured a concoction of vermouth, bitters, gin and maraschino liqueur.
I've slurped down chicken soup martinis, oyster-and-caviar martinis, and martinis that somehow taste like focaccia, rosemary and all.
My reverence for this cold, briny beverage runs skin deep; inked into my left bicep is a dirty gin martini sitting pretty in a Nick and Nora.
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