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The Best Martini

 

 

 

Saturday night. Garrison Keillor night. I fill two glasses with ice cubes, pour in Tanqueray gin, stir each to the count of fifty, add two vermouth-flavored olives and call to Sidney. “It’s time.”

 

 

 

He joins me in the sunroom where the radio plays. I hand him a glass and pick up mine. Rims clink. We kiss and tell each other, “I love you.” All before the first sip.

 

 

 

Unless we’re with friends or have gone to the theatre, Saturday night with Garrison Keillor and a martini is an anticipated ritual. Saturday matinees at the Milwaukee Rep have a related martini ritual. As soon as the applause ends, we make a bee line for Eagan’s, a popular pre- and post-theatre restaurant, across the street and a block away.

 

 

 

Before Eagan’s accepted dinner reservations, that bee line had a take-no-prisoners urgency about it. Now Eagan’s accepts reservations, and our mad scramble has become a sedate amble. Once inside, I look for a space at the bar while Sidney checks in at the reservations desk.

 

 

 

With a buzzer in hand to summon us when our table is ready, we relax and order two Tanqueray martinis on the rocks. The bartender performs his magic and puts an icy cold, crystal-clear blend of juniper, other botanicals, and spirits in front of us. In each glass, two olives nestle among the ice cubes.

 

 

 

We wait until the bartender moves on, raise our glasses, gaze at each other over the rims and whisper, “I love you.” We each take a sip – cold and biting perfection. Martinis at home never taste this delicious. Not until that first sip do we begin to rehash the play and the players.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A mid-March Saturday in 2006. Sidney is in the hospital. At the beginning of the week, I feared he would not come home – ever. Modern medicine and his spirit to live have triumphed. Grateful and cautiously optimistic, we let ourselves look forward to his going home the following week. Late in the afternoon, we work a crossword puzzle and then turn on the TV.

 

 

 

I cycle through the channels on the remote. Sports or news fill the screen until I land on Public TV. “Capril and John,” a cooking show, is just starting. Capril and John own a restaurant in Portland, Oregon, and teach in their own cooking school where the show is filmed.

 

 

 

Besides food preparation, the show includes field trips around the state to highlight the abundance and quality of Oregon products such as wine, cheese, fruit and seafood. Each featured product stars in that day’s menu.

 

 

 

Today, Capril and John are in the country with a friend who owns a distillery. The bounty of Oregon includes juniper berries, which grow wild and in profusion. Their friend uses them to make a premium gin.

 

 

 

Gin. Oregon gin. How delightful.

 

 

 

We enjoy the easy, teasing camaraderie of these two young chefs. They prepare a few appetizers and pop them into the oven. John sets out an ice bucket, fills a cocktail shaker with ice, pours in gin and shakes – no vermouth.

 

 

 

Capril places crispy, golden, cheesy appetizers on a serving tray. John pours shimmering liquid into tall, elegant glasses. Their pleasure, with each other and with their creations, charms us, transports us. We forget we are in a hospital room.

 

 

 

Glasses clink. Capril and John toast each other. We join them. We hold hands and whisper, “I love you.” Together we taste the martinis. Mine is the best I’ve ever had.

 

 

 

Marilyn Gordon-Ross has written memoir for 15 years – her childhood, and the ups and downs of a thirteen-year, long-distance courtship culminating in an 18-year marriage to Sidney Fine. Sidney died in December 2006. In writing about their relationship, Marilyn recalls the joy and love they found together.