Cheers? Designer Henry Holland with his mini martini
(Picture: Dave Benett)Is bigger always better? Apparently not when it comes to drinks, where “less-is-more” is presently the thing to do. Earlier this week, raconteur Raven Smith headed to Rita’s Soho to celebrate his second book, Raven Smith’s Men. In the crowd, the likes of Henry Holland and Chicken Shop Date’s Amelia Dimoldenberg toasted Smith with mini martinis — what you might call a mar-teeny — where into the gin or vodka (reportedly there was too little to tell), Rita’s minions had plonked tiny gherkins and, improbably and arguably illegally, glace cherries. A double garnish; even less room for the booze. Sharp cookies, that lot. Actually, a cookie is probably what they’ll dunk in their drinks next. Alert the authorities.
Call it chic if you like, but the other word is “cheap”. Having less might lessen the risk of getting drunk, but getting drunk is sort of the point of martinis — that and feeling like you’re Don Draper or Dorothy Parker (or Bond, if you absolutely must). A mar-teeny is just drinking small quantities of neat gin which, call me square here, is hardly the most appealing thing I’ve read on a menu lately. Worryingly, while the trend is not new — Bar Termini made its name on Negronis about the size of my thumb — it is spreading: at Camberwell’s new magazine-spread-ready deli Gladwell’s, they’ll shilling the tweely named Pocket Negronis and Freezer Martinis. Where your usual gin-in-a-tin is 250ml, these are 100ml — and a fiver, instead of about two quid. I’m on board with the concept, but the execution can do one.
This bunch of penurious rogues could do with a trip to Duke’s, the hotel serving martinis with room to swim in; official policy is to cut guests off after two and, having once got away with three, I can confirm such policy stands for good reason. Or they could try the Stafford’s American Bar, which negates the only benefit of small portions — that the drink stays cold — by offering freshly frozen glasses half way through their geneorous pour. Staff at Soho’s glorious/lethal boozing den Gerry’s probably haven’t poured a single in their life. It’s not about drinking more or less, it’s about the cheering hospitality of being told: go on, have a large one. Make mine a mar-teeny? In the old days we called them shots.
