ONE sultry afternoon in 2001, I received a phone call from a friend.
‘It’s ready,’ he said. ‘Come now.’ Twenty minutes later, I was on his garden terrace. On a table before us were a bottle of Tanqueray Export Strength gin, running with condensation; a bucket of ice; a perfume atomiser, once property of a lady, but now filled with Noilly Prat; a cocktail shaker that, quite rightly, had never been shaken, only stirred; and a knife fitted not to making fiddly little twists, but to slicing plectrum-like patches of peel. ‘Shall I do the honours?’ asked my friend, whereupon, he approached a small tree that stood in a pot nearby and relieved it of its single burden and glory: a large and beautiful lemon.
It’s a perfectionist’s drink, the martini, and this one was perfect. I put it down to the lemon. Obviously, waiting weeks for it to ripen had heightened the pleasure, but there was also something about its ripeness, a succulent intensity perhaps only possible in an on/off English summer.
Its zest floated on the gin in luscious beads, not so much winking at the brim as purring ‘come hither’. A sip was enlightenment and anaesthesia.
Bu hikaye Country Life UK dergisinin March 08 2017 sayısından alınmıştır.
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Bu hikaye Country Life UK dergisinin March 08 2017 sayısından alınmıştır.
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