Happy Martin(i) Luther King Day!
Celebrating MLK with less capitalistic forms of consumption
Tomorrow is Martin Luther King Day and I am going to do something radical — almost as radical as demanding full Equal Rights for everyone — for amid our annual, fevered miasma of Toyotathons and MLK Day-sales on Serta Perfect Sleepers, I am going to actually celebrate Martin Luther King Day. And I’m going to do that by mixing a Martini and rereading MLK’s Letter from Birmingham Jail.
This important document — arguably the most reverberating open letter ever written — was penned by King in 1963 when he had time to kill following his arrest for a botched bank job after he rounded up the old crew for one last heist…
That’s not what happened. King had been arrested for civil disobedience and he wrote his letter in response to another open letter written to him by a group of well-meaning, white clergymen who basically suggested that Segregation’s days are numbered, and so instead of organizing nonviolent demonstrations, King should wage a more patient (and polite!) battle for Civil Rights in court. Not only does King totally dunk on these clergymen like LeBron dunking on Betty White, he does it with his signature respect and eloquence:
For years now I have heard the word “wait.” It rings in the ear of every Negro with a piercing familiarity. This “wait” has almost always meant “never.” It has been a tranquilizing thalidomide, relieving the emotional stress for a moment, only to give birth to an ill-formed infant of frustration. We must come to see with the distinguished jurist of yesterday that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.”
King further breaks down why unjust laws should be broken, that oppressors never give up power voluntarily, while further suggesting that the “White Moderate” might ultimately be more problematic than the outright segregationist.
First, I sincerely hope that none of you are right now hyperventilating over my mashup of MLK’s name with an alcoholic beverage in the title. If you are, please bear in mind that I will not be drinking a Martin Luther King of Beers, or pouring out a line of Martin Luther King’s Slippery Nipple shots, but will be preparing a Martini, our most classic and elegant cocktail enjoyed by such historically consequential drinkers as Winston Churchill, FDR and Barack Obama. A Martini is also our most adult cocktail and a taste I first acquired out of sheer economic necessity. Back in 1995, after returning from living abroad, I found work as the managing editor of The Authors Guild Bulletin, a job that I loved but that also paid a salary of just twenty thousand dollars. Back then I mostly drank beer and so I quickly mapped out every single dollar-draft happy hour in Hoboken. But one night, after managing to get past the bouncers in a Downtown Manhattan club, I then approached the bar only to feel the heartbreak of knowing that I couldn’t responsibly budget enough six-dollar Heinekens to get a buzz going.
But then I saw a pair of Martinis being poured into ridiculously large cocktail glasses.
If my better-paid contemporaries sought adult sophistication in those elegant, inverted pyramids, I registered an eight-dollar delivery system for the booze equivalency of 3–4 beers. So, I ordered one. And once that chilled vat of gin was set before me, I congratulated myself for my smart financial planning before leaning in for my first sip.
It was one of the worst things I had ever tasted.
The brine of the olives and the bite of the gin came together in a taste so severe and repulsive as to remind me of my first baby-sip of beer as a child. But that Martini was my booze for the night; and so I soldiered on, enjoying the olives, and then minding the gin less while acquiring a buzz that did not break the bank. A week later, my second one tasted less jarring. And by the time I ordered my third, I was licking my lips in anticipation of that first icy and astringent sip. This is when I first appreciated the delicate, yet firm complexity of gin, while fully enjoying my new drinking loophole.
But as my taste for Martinis grew, so did my intolerance for the loud and superficial bitchiness I experienced in so many Downtown clubs. So I began drinking them in classic New York City hotel bars instead. While such places generally suffered from a paucity of scantily clad women, I considered their elegant ambience (which permitted actual conversation) a fair trade. Besides, Martinis demand your full attention. For once a properly chilled and diluted Martini is set in front of you, you’ve basically got a window that maxes out at fifteen minutes. (Half-warm Manhattans or Margaritas can still be washed down but a half-warm Martini — especially when garnished with olives — tastes horrid.) I often order a club soda as well, both so I’m not slaking my thirst with gin while further having the option of fishing out a cube to rechill the back end, extending my window.
In early 2003, after contending with unemployment during that persistent economic downturn, I took a job tending bar at a restaurant called Jefferson on West 10th Street in Manhattan. Despite having grossly exaggerated my experience, I did first step behind that bar with solid Martini skills, although I quickly learned the hard way (during this last moment before people began routinely specifying brands of gin and vodka) that just because gin is the default, I still needed to ask customers, “Gin or vodka?”
“Vodka,” an older gentleman once responded, adding, “I gotta stay away from the hard stuff.”
I still find that funny even though he’s right. Gin is harder than vodka and I’ve seen (and experienced) how large quantities can lead to belligerence. This was later confirmed by no less an authority than legendary New Yorker writer Roger Angell (with whom I occasionally got to chat during my years at The Authors Guild) who wrote, “In time, my wife and I shifted from gin to vodka, which was less argumentative.” Although once you’ve come to appreciate the finer points of gin, tasteless vodka might taste blah. Besides, this problem can be avoided with moderation. There are endless fun quotes stressing a 2-Martini max, and my favorite is paraphrased from James Thurber:
One is not enough; two is perfect; three is too many; four is not enough.
Now, in middle age, I live by a One-Martini-Max. Because what I once considered a medium quantity of booze now trashes my sleep. I didn’t figure this out immediately; rather I learned, like a rat in a cage, that nosing that button a second time might deliver a shock the following day. But I don’t really mind; knowing that there will only be one better reminds me to be fully present to enjoy it.
Last summer, I set out to share a Martini with my old friend, Kevin, while floating in my kayaks out on the Hudson River at sunset. Only it soon became apparent that preparing Martinis while bobbing above the wake and waves was going to be a challenge. But to paraphrase JFK, “We drink these Martinis not because they are easy but because they are hard.” So after lashing one of the paddles across our cockpits with a shot cord, I handed Kevin two cocktail glasses that I then filled with ice and club soda to chill. I then took the glasses from him and he filled a shaker with ice, gin and a trickle of vermouth. (Kevin is a dozen years younger than me and I first watched his interest in mixology bloom fifteen years ago when he was just a post-grad guesting at my old Kismet beach house; now Kevin’s superior skills and knowledge of spirits reminds me of Da Vinci’s dictum “Poor is the pupil who does not surpass his master.” Which is why I let him work the shaker.) Once he was done stirring, I dumped the ice right into the river and Kevin poured out two perfect Martinis. We clinked glasses and I took a sip and then I pulled the plug on Kevin’s kayak and shed a tear as I bid a fair adieu to my old friend before watching him slip beneath the surface just like Leo at the end of Titanic.
That’s not what happened. Kevin and I talked about Life well into the afterglow (the setting so dissuaded frivolous conversation) and when we paddled in, just before dark, I liked thinking how it would be virtually impossible to mix up a kayak-on-the-Hudson Martini by yourself. And why would you want to anyway?
So aside from being more particular about what Timothy Leary once referred to as “your set and setting” when doing any drug, I’m hoping that the change in how my system processes booze might level off. Because I’d love to still enjoy Martinis when I’m as old as Roger Angell (who passed away last year at 101, his amazing run hopefully not extended by having shifted to vodka). Nevertheless, I’ve gotten the memo on how a good part of aging involves having things taken from you. But that just encourages me to better appreciate however many Martinis (and great moments) that I have left. Ultimately, the gin doesn’t matter as much as having rituals that leave us fully present among the people we most love.
Or, among Martin Luther King.
So even if you don’t imbibe, give Letter from Birmingham Jail a read. You can find the full text here. Silence your phone and leave it in your bedroom for twenty minutes and enjoy the beauty, power and perfection of his vivid and eloquent tour de force that sixty years later is still shockingly relevant and will leave you nodding your head in agreement and appreciation.
But if you do mix up a Martini, keep some ice nearby in case you’d like to extend your window. Because whenever Life delivers a great moment, you really want to do whatever you can to make it last just a little bit longer.
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