Salvatore’s bars have always been places where the little napkins under the drinks are linen, the swizzle sticks are crystal, and the shakers are silver, polished daily below stairs the way God and the Prince of Wales intended. His barmen, mostly imported Italian compatriots in white wool jackets, salt or sugar only one-half of the rims of the glasses—“so people have a choice of sides to sip from,” he says. We could weep tears of gratitude, actually. His Vanilla Martini is garnished with a malteser—the Brit version of a little malted milk ball. This means that we will not be surrounded by people ordering rounds of Jaeger shots.
But say we arrive a bit before the sun has passed below the yardarm, and are seeking our first of the day. And say we’re looking for an alternative to all those aforementioned mimosas, screwdrivers, bellini (which is already plural, pilgrim) and bloodied Marys. We, like Salvatore, are just a tiny bit tired of these, aren’t we? Yes, we are. And further, being Americans, we pine from time to time for a more bracing morning snort, the sort of thing our grandfathers had in mind when they repaired to the pantry before Sunday dinner.
We need his Breakfast Martini. It’s a martini in the newer sense, of course—see the “vanilla martini, above”--which is to say only that it’s a short cocktail served in a stemmed glass. Salvatore’s eye-opener is closer to the original than most, however, because it involves actual gin. We order one, and then a second, and we are happy.
But let us suppose for a moment that we cannot quite afford the membership dues. Or that we, through no fault of our own, find ourselves in our own kitchen instead of strolling the streets of St. James of a late morning. Life is a vale of tears and filled with these disappointments, but yes, we can try this at home.
We begin with a shaker full of ice. (This lovely is, like Bond’s, shaken, not stirred.) We add a jigger—an ounce and a half—of a respectable gin, then add a dash of Cointreau and a dash of freshly squeezed lemon juice, followed by a bar spoonful—a scant teaspoon—of good orange marmalade. (We like Robertson’s Golden Shred, but we compromise when we must.) We shake this for a prolonged period in order to break up the marmalade and to provide us a little exercise. Finally, we pour the result in a decent stemmed glass and garnish with what Salvatore calls “orange threads,” delicate strings pealed off the orange with a zester.
The result is bright, filled with healthy vitamin C, and considerably more bracing than fruit juice and cheap Champagne. It warms the cockles of our heart—important because we so deplore cold heart cockles. And it starts our day with a smile, nearly enough to make us forget that lunch will be a disappointment.
