Okay, you all know, or have heard of, my kitchen bitch, Lou, a/k/a Mr. Zanne (thanks bnldavid for Mrs. Bnldavid), Recently, okay, for 3-1/2 f'g years, this weird ass pirate guy has been following me around like my Seeing Eye Bitch, Sammy Davis Jr., Jr. (thank you, Liev Schreiber), sniffing my tail like we're married, then I find out this week that we actually ARE married in some crazy Ukranian head-slapping tradition. WTF? Who is this guy? He tells me that his name is Vitoli, and keeps asking me how he can be of service.
Chop, bitch, chop! Slice, dice, broil, grill, suck toes, whatever I tell you - what molestable woman in her 30s isn't interested in being worshipped? Certainly not this one. I have a toe slave for the next 50 years. I can live with that.
Oh, back to martinis (sorry, I get off track when it comes to worshipping the Goddess that is Zanne). Dirty, dirty, dirty, and only potato vodka. That grain alcohol crap isn't fit for consumption.
What was I talking about???
Oh, for me, chill the glass with ice water, inhale over an open bottle of dry vermouth, exhale into an ice-filled shaker, skip the olives but drain half the brine in the jar into the shaker, and fill the rest with potato vodka. Shake, pour, and make sure there's enough vodka left for another round.
A cosmo is not a martini. An apple-tini is not a martini. Vodka, gin, whatever twirls your skirt, but if you put something called "Pucker" into a martini glass, it's not a martini.
This is going to sound crazy, but it's awesome. Everything I said above, but switch out pickle brine for the olive brine. Thos little midgets are best, and I can eat them by the case.