I am devoted to gin. It has just about ruined me for fruity cocktails forever, but I love it just the same. Perhaps it's that gin reminds me of myself. We are complicated, nuanced, and refreshing. Gin and I are perhaps not immediately approachable and we can be potentially abrasive, but we inspire enthusiasm in those who get to know us. If you don't treat us with respect, both gin and I can burn you.
I think I should begin at the beginning; my love of gin started at a bar called the B-Side with a bartender named Dave. If you're ever in Cambridge, Massachusetts, you should stop by the B-Side Lounge. The food is great, the atmosphere cool but relaxed. The cocktails are serious. There are no flavored vodkas or fluorescent Puckers at the B-Side, just an extensive list of seriously retro drinks and sophisticated original cocktails served up with just the right amount of ceremony. One evening, while I sat at the bar having an early dinner, Dave and I started chatting about food and drink. He seemed like a nice guy with a good sense of taste, so I asked him for a recommendation. He served me a drink that he said was his girlfriend's favorite, a brisk mix of gin, Chambord, and fresh lime. I was hooked.
Before that day, I thought gin was loathsome. My early college forays with the liquor convinced me that it smelled like pine trees, burned like acid and elicited an instant gag reflex. I hadn't tasted it in years, but I guess my tongue was ready that day. Primed by a love of full-bodied wines and rich, dark beers I could finally appreciate the gin's unique flavor and perfume. In time, Dave, with his black dress shirt, skinny white tie and tattooed forearms, taught me to love martinis as well.
The B-Side's signature martini was made with super-smooth Plymouth gin, vermouth, and orange bitters vigorously stirred over ice. Dave twisted lemon rind over the glass and rubbed the oils around the rim before dropping it in. It was heaven. I came to understand that the pine tree taste was actually juniper. I began to discern the balance of bitter and sweet, the citrus and spice, the refreshing crispness and the bracing bite. Vodka, I thought, was for teenagers. Nothing but a bland burn, it presented little challenge and thus little reward. Just as I'd moved past Bud Light and White Zinfandel, I was ready for a woman's liquor. It was time for gin.
Since then, my cocktail times have been populated with many martinis and gin and tonics. I mix it with juices and herbs; I stir and shake it. And, it seems, I convert others. Stephen now regularly asks to me greeted at the door with a frosty gin and tonic on a Friday night, an unexpected request from a man who is himself devoted to Manhattans, also courtesy of Dave. Now I've brought Whitney into the juniper-scented fold. She called me Janie Ginnyseed. A fine, dry nickname. I like it.
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