February 27th, 2018:

	Speaking finally of connoisseurship, I was reminded of an article 
entitled "Hipsters Ruined Alcoholism For Me" I wrote for my main blog 
several years ago.  The article languished, unfinished, in my Drafts 
folder for a few years until I purged it.  The only reference I could find 
was a post [1] announcing my (ultimately short-lived) retirement from 
blogging.

I'd largely forgotten about it until solderpunk's comment on Mastodon (and 
subsequent phlog post [2]) reminded me of the post, as well as my previous 
life as a bachelor.

[cue wavy screen and flashback music]

2003 was an interesting year.  I'd just turned 30, had bought my first 
house a few months prior, and had kicked my live-in girlfriend out after 
(as I later found out) a stream of infidelities.

After spending an inordinate amount of time drunk, I started to get the 
feeling that, maybe, the middle-class dream of "house, car, wife, and 
1.5 kids" wasn't for me after all.  I'd spent my entire life bucking 
convention and social norms, so why start now..?

So, after a bit of soul-searching, I decided to live the Bachelor Pad 
life.  I stocked my music library with lounge music and Esquivel, scoured 
the thrift shops and vintage shops for Modernist and Mid-Century Modern 
furniture and knick-knacks, and, best of all, stocked my liquor cabinet 
with more than just Wild Turkey and cheap rum.

I'd experimented with mixology, and had refined my Martini technique to 
the point where I was asked to play "bartender" at friends' private 
parties.  I soon got tagged with the name "that Martini guy", which, to be 
honest, I loathed, and found that my playing bartender for friends had 
started to become an expectation.

It also stopped being fun.

I soon got tired of comments like, "Why'd you make it like that?", or "I 
use (x) Gin/Vodka", "That's too much/not enough Vermouth" or "I thought 
these were supposed to be good?".

Now, I have pretty thick skin, and can take constructive criticism and 
even a little abuse.  I know (and knew) that some things just aren't up to 
another's standards or to one's taste.  It's just a fact of life.  But 
martini drinkers, maaaan, martini drinkers are a different breed.

To say that Martini connoisseurs are fussy would be an understatement.  
With most martini aficionados, it's not just the ingredients that make the 
Martini, to get it "just right".  It's not just the ratios and the mixing.  
No, it's also the method of preparation, the *RITUAL*, if you will.  In 
practice, it's akin to the Japanese Tea Ceremony, although much, much less 
sacred.

I'll use a former acquaintance as an example.  As I recall, his preferred 
method was as follows:

- Ice cubes were prepared the night before.  A stainless steel ice cube 
tray was used, only filtered water was used for the cubes, and a dash of 
Martini & Rossi Sweet Vermouth was added to each cube before going into 
the freezer.  The Martini glass(es) are also put in the freezer alongside.

- A few dashes of Martini & Rossi Dry Vermouth were poured into the 
shaker, swirled around until the inside of the shaker was coated, then 
poured out.

- The ice cubes were put into a large Zip-loc freezer bag and crushed by 
hitting them repeatedly with a rolling pin, then dumped into the shaker.

- 1-1/2 ozs of Bombay Sapphire Gin, 1/2 oz Tanqueray Gin, a dash of 
Martini & Rossi Dry Gin, and a dash of Peychaud Bitters were added to the 
shaker.

- Shaker is shaken vigourously for precisely (!) eight seconds, then 
strained into the chilled Martini glass, which is left to sit until a thin 
layer of ice forms on the surface of the Martini.

- Martini is ready to drink.

While the resulting Martini was good, the ritual was wholly unnecessary 
apart from the psychological.  The same Martini could be reproduced 
without it.  Yet, my acquaintance's ritual was fairly simple in comparison 
to others I've heard (or read).  Some go so far as to keep EVERYTHING, 
booze, glasses, shaker, etc in the freezer until just before preparation, 
and include a physical ritual that resembles a Flamenco dancer or 
Karate-ka in the throes of orgasm.  In other words, a whole lot of 
unnecessary theatrics.

Which (finally) brings me to my point: connoisseurship is really not much 
more than individual tastes coupled with unnecessary theatrics and blind 
adherence to ritual.  And that booze is a poor coping strategy.


References:
[1] https://conceitedjerk.blogspot.ca/2014/03/this-chapter-is-finished-future-is-yet.html
[2] gopher://sdf.org:70/0/users/solderpunk/phlog/against-connoisseurship.txt