I was reading, actually rereading Barry Gifford’s story ‘My Last Martini.’ in which his narrator
‘Two martinis don’t ordinarily affect me other than to provide a feeling of false elation that I treasure for the thirty minutes it lasts. I rarely exceed my usual limit of two, however; an excess of elation, I’ve found, puts the world around me in a light so unflattering that I’ve been tempted once or twice to make an attempt to extinguish it.’
This is Barry Gifford:
Anyway in the story the narrator orders the fatal third martini, meets a woman, buys her what is also her third martini, and then complications ensue, though not the ones you’d expect.
In Lowell Edmunds book Martini, Straight Up (which is probably the best book ever written about the martini and nah, I don’t want to argue about it) he describes the paradoxes of the martin; that it’s both a solitary and a social drink, masculine and feminine, melancholy and celebratory. Damn right.
Here are some pictures of people drinking martinis alone and together, in various moods.
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