Vodka Martini Quotes

A dry martini,' he said. 'One. In a deep champagne goblet.' ... Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. Got it?

You think you’re being difficult, my little sausage? Have I ever told you about the time I drank eight vodka martinis, took all my clothes off in front of a film crew and then broke my manager’s nose?

And yet it was true: the responsibility was huge, but there is nothing about being a father that I don’t love. I even found the toddler tantrums weirdly charming. You think you’re being difficult, my little sausage? Have I ever told you about the time I drank eight vodka martinis, took all my clothes off in front of a film crew and then broke my manager’s nose?

She was teetering on the cusp of adulthood. Three-quarters child, one-quarter yearning. Her dreams were confused kaleidoscopes of swanning through the sets of TV shows, drinking cocktails that looked like vodka martinis and tasted like Sprite, wearing lipstick and pumps covered in red craft glitter, and marrying someone who was half pop star and half stuffed animal.

Bond insisted ordering Leiter’s Haig-and-Haig ”on the rocks” and then he looked carefully at the barman. ”A Dry Martini", he said. "One. In a deep champagne goblet.” ”Oui, monsieur.” Just a moment. Three measures of Gordons, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemonpeel. Got it?" ”Certainly, monsieur.” The barman seemed pleased with the idea.

In Silicon Valley, entrepreneurs and their backers got drunk on the overflowing optimism and abundant venture capital and threw a two-year-long party. Capital was cheap, opportunities seemed limitless, and pineapple-infused-vodka martinis were everywhere.

A dry martini,’ he said. ‘One. In a deep champagne goblet.’ ‘Oui, monsieur.’ ‘Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it’s ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. Got it?

Do you prefer fermented or distilled? This is a trick question. It doesn’t matter how much you like wine, because wine is social and writing is anti-social. This is a writer’s interview, writing is a lonely job, and spirits are the lubricant of the lonely. You might say all drinking is supposed to be social but there’s a difference, at one in the morning while you’re hunched over your computer, between opening up a bottle of Chardonnay and pouring two-fingers of bourbon into a tumbler. A gin martini, of course, splits the difference nicely, keeping you from feeling like a deadline reporter with a smoldering cigarette while still reminding you that your job is to be interesting for a living. Anyone who suggests you can make a martini with vodka, by the way, is probably in need of electroconvulsive therapy.

A dry martini,’ he said. ‘One. In a deep champagne goblet.’ ‘Oui, monsieur.’ ‘Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it’s ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. Got it?’ ‘Certainly, monsieur.’ The barman seemed pleased with the idea.

A dry martini,’ he said. ‘One. In a deep champagne goblet.’ ‘Oui, monsieur.’ ‘Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it’s ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. Got it?’ ‘Certainly, monsieur.’ The barman seemed pleased with the idea. ‘Gosh, that’s certainly a drink,’ said Leiter. Bond laughed. ‘When I’m … er … concentrating,’ he explained, ‘I never have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be large and very strong and very cold and very well-made. I hate small portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad. This drink’s my own invention. I’m going to patent it when I can think of a good name.

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

A dry martini," Bond said. "One. In a deep champagne goblet." "Oui, monsieur." "Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?" "Certainly, monsieur." The barman seemed pleased with the idea. "Gosh, that's certainly a drink," said Leiter. Bond laughed. "When I'm...er...concentrating," he explained, "I never have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be large and very strong and very cold and very well-made. I hate small portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad. This drink's my own invention. I'm going to patent it when I can think of a good name.

I told her about my revenge on Topper the attempted rapist and the guy at the transient's hotel in  Brooklyn, and, finally, I told her about stealing the money. "You did what?" She sat straight up in her chair, her eyes wide, her mouth open. "Shhh." Other diners were staring at us, frozen in silent tableau, some with forks or spoons halfway  to mouth. Millie was blinking her eyes rapidly. Much quieter, she said, "You robbed a bank?" "Shhh." My ears were burning. "Don't make a scene." "Don't shush me! I didn't rob a bank." Fortunately she whispered it. The waiter walked up then and took our drink order. Millie ordered a vodka martini. I asked  for a glass of white wine. I didn't know if it would help, but I figured it couldn't hurt. "A million dollars?" she said, after the waiter left. "Well, almost." "How much of it is left?" "Why?" She blushed. "Curiosity. I must look like a proper little gold digger." "About eight hundred thousand." "Dollars!" The man at the next table spilled his water. "Christ, Millie. You want me to leave you here? You're fifteen hundred miles away from  home you know.

General, but heartily evaluated by me, Surgeon Particular. I rarely discriminate my alcohol, but today I decide to stick to generation-proved staples of comfort and problem solving: vodka and whiskey. Starting in reverse alphabetical order I take a shot of cinnamon whiskey, which sails down smoother than Titanic, traces of familiar warmth reminiscent in my stomach for a minute straight, tongue pleasantly on fire. Next comes a complimentary and mandatory apple martini (Friday night’s special for ladies), provided

I make martinis and gimlets by the bottle. It’s easier that way.” “How does one make a gimlet?” “One pours six ounces of vodka from a seven-hundred-and-fifty-milliliter bottle, replaces it with Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice, puts it in the freezer overnight, then serves.

Bond went into the lobby bar to gather his thoughts and ordered a vodka martini, explaining to the barman the best way to achieve the effect of vermouth without diluting the vodka too much. Ice in the shaker, add a slurp of vermouth, pour out the vermouth, add the vodka, shake well, strain into a chilled glass, add a slice of lemon peel, no pith.

this: if endorphins are like having a single vodka and cranberry juice, serotonin is a double vodka and Red Bull, and dopamine, the gruntiest of them all, is like a dry martini, stirred, not shaken, no ice, no olives, drunk while listening to crooner Dean Martin.

I crossed over to the window, staring out at the electronic billboard on the building directly across the intersection. It was me. Giant me. In nothing but a skimpy black corset, thong, and heels, leaning on a bar and looking every inch the sex kitten. Beside me was a bottle of vodka that I didn't remember being there in the photoshoot. The image pixelated out, only to be replaced by an even sexier one of both Archer and I. I was in his lap, our eyes locked and our lips just a fraction away from a kiss. On the table in front of us was that same vodka and a martini.

What the fuck is a redneck dirty martini?” I sign at him while he continues to grin, running one hand through his dark hair and making it stick up in every direction. “I invented it when I moved here. It’s vodka and pickle juice, and I give it five stars.” Jesus, fuck.

Cocktail là toàn cầu cực kỳ đa dạng mẫu mã, sinh động cùng rất rất một số loại thức uống đầy Màu sắc, từ cách pha chế cho đến tên gọi phần nhiều dẫn đến sự yêu thích đối cùng rất tất cả. Nhắc mang đến cocktail bên cạnh các cái tên “nổi đình nổi đám” cũng như Sexy Girl, Pina Colada, Margarita, Martini, blue Hawaii, I Love U, Kamikaze,… thì giới sành cocktail cạnh tranh Rất có thể bỏ lỡ loại cocktail “bom tấn” B52. chúng ta nghe B52 xuất hiện quen không? Đây chính là tên của một một số loại máy bay ném bom tầm xa của Mỹ, thể hiện khí công của loại cocktail này “không nên dạn vừa” đâu. B52 hay Bifi phần nhiều là tên gọi chỉ một số loại cocktail phân tầng đẹp mắt bao gồm một phần rượu hương cà phê, 1 phần rượu Baileys Irish Cream với một phần rượu hương cam Grand Marnier. B52 là nhiều loại cocktail lời yêu cầu công nghệ cùng tay nghề của Bartender yêu cầu cứng để Rất có thể tạo ra 1 cốc cocktail đẹp mắt, cùng rất hương vì chưng bùng nổ. cơ mà chúng ta sẽ Rất có thể làm cho tại nơi bạn ở nhà bạn cùng với các chia sẻ trong bài xích sau đây. Chỉ cần chuyên chú một ít, chúng ta có thể pha chế ra 1 cốc cocktail B52 với thừa nhận ấn cá nhân rõ rệt. Hãy cùng tham khảo và chơi ngay nhé, đảm bảo ban đang vô cũng thích thú với ly cocktail thành phẩm đấy. Nguyên liệu: 10ml rượu hương cafe (Tia Maria hoặc Kahlúa. Cơ mà chuyên sử dụng rượu Kahlúa). 10ml rượu Baileys Irish Cream. 10ml rượu hương cam Le Grand Marnier. cốc Shooter hoặc cốc Sherry. Thìa (đã được có tác dụng lạnh). công thức B52: Bước 1: ban đầu chúng ta rót phần rượu hương cà phê Kahlúa vào dưới đáy ly, thành lập tầng bước đầu. Bước 2: Tiếp cho là rót thật lờ đờ rượu Baileys Irish Cream vào ẩn dưới 1 chiếc thìa nhỏ dại và được làm cho lạnh, chuyển thìa này lại gần ly, tránh làm lẫn lộn với loại rượu rót trước. Cách 3: phương pháp rót Grand Marnier cũng tương tự. Khi rót bạn nên nghiêng cốc một góc chặng 45o. Nếu cũng như thành phẩm là một ly cocktail B52 phân làm 3 tầng nâu, trắng, kim cương thì xem cũng như chúng ta đã thành tích. Về phần chiêm ngưỡng một số loại cocktail này Rất có thể chia thành 2 “trường phái”, nếu như phương Tây chỉ là uống khan đã từng lớp, khuấy lên rồi uống cùng với đá, thì người Á Lục biết cách thưởng thức lâu công hơn, chúng ta đốt lửa trên bề mặt của cocktail mang đến nóng, dừng ống hút để uống hết trong 1 hơi. nhưng lại, để đối B52 bạn phải cụ Grand Marnier bởi các loại rượu có độ rượu cồn cao hơn. Bài toán đốt rượu này cũng tiềm ẩn các bất trắc cho nên lời khuyên là nếu cũng như các bạn còn thiếu gan hay new làm lần đầu không nên thử để tránh cháy và nổ bên cạnh mong nhé. cũng tương tự như nhiều loại cocktail khác, sau thời gian đều chung sự biến dạng để thêm sinh rượu cồn, phong phú. Bạn có thể đột phá hương vì bằng phương pháp cộng thêm nhiều loại rượu nhưng người thân đắm đuối như Vodka – B53, thêm Amaretto – B54, bổ sung Absinthe có ngay B55.

I don’t have to worry about the money at all, really. My dad left me with this trust fund. I can sit home and watch the viewscreen and drink vodka martinis, or go out and play hovertennis. It’s terrific, what a life.

It took five minutes for the barkeep to come around. He was an old salt—tall and thin. So grizzled he looked like he’d been here back when Ponce de León first showed up. Letty ordered a vodka martini. While he shook it, she eavesdropped on a conversation between an older couple seated beside her. They sounded midwestern. The man was talking about someone named John, and how much he wished John had been with them today. They had gone snorkeling in the Dry Tortugas. The woman chastised her husband for getting roasted in the sun, but he expertly steered the conversation away from himself. They talked about other places they’d been together. Their top three bottles of wine. Their top three sunsets. How much they were looking forward to a return trip to Italy. How much they were looking forward to Christmas next week with their children and grandchildren. These people had seen the world. They had loved and laughed and lived.

She found a bottle of vodka and some Rose’s sweetened lime juice, filled the shaker with ice, added six jiggers of vodka and two of lime juice. She put ice cubes in two martini glasses and swirled them around, then shook the shaker until her hands hurt from the cold. She dumped the ice from the now-frosted glasses and strained the pale, green liquid into them. “Tie

I watch the hand nearest me disappear into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offers me one. “No, thank you.” He tosses his head, breathing in a long drag, then pushes a curl behind his ear. It doesn’t catch, though, and when he smiles it brushes the top of his lashes. “Where does your friend work?” I ask, petting Bruce, who has jumped onto the bench and rolled over so I can reach his belly. “Cristiano and his sister own Club Fluid.” He raises his arms in the air, gyrates with his hips. “It’s where we like to dance. Do you like martinis? Silvia makes a good martini.” He blows smoke out of his mouth when he says martinis. “Vodka or gin?” “Gin,” he says, frowning. “Vodka is disgusting.” I prefer vodka, but don’t say so. He points at the terrier. “Bruce likes you.” There’s that wry smile, as if he’s in on some private joke at my expense. It’s exasperating to be next to someone so young and confident.

I have strict ideas, you know, about how a martini should be made. Controversially, I prefer vodka, not gin. It must be ice-cold, and extremely dry. Vermouth originated in Milan; and Noël Coward once famously quipped that the nearest a martini should ever get to vermouth was a wave of the glass in the general direction of Italy. I agree, and I was careful to add only a drop or two, for the merest whisper of vermouth. This was an excellent vermouth, fortunately—French, not Italian—and kept chilled in the fridge, as it should be.