We can educate ourselves as much as we like about drinks, but the sorry truth is that people go to their local because it's convenient, they feel comfortable, they know the people, and for no other reason. There's a bar round the corner from my office that I visit with alarming frequency, and my loyalty has nothing to do with the quality of the drinks. Because they know I'm a journalist, the barmen sometimes behave like black cab drivers - "We had Britney Spears in here yesterday," was their latest boast.
Last week, we notched up a record seven visits, and I decided something had to give. The bar has a cocktail list, but I've always surmised that it's probably best to steer well clear of it. This time, however, we would order cocktails.
Between us, we had a sea breeze, a margarita and a negroni. Sea breezes are child's play, so I didn't bother tasting that. The other two were, frankly, terrible. Margaritas and negronis should be kick-ass cocktails, needle-sharp and with the swerving power of a Pete Sampras serve. These weren't. There is nothing worse than a bad negroni, but I had intended to keep quiet. My colleague had other ideas.
"She says these drinks are awful," he bawled down the bar.
There followed a very painful episode in which we re-educated the barman and, in the process, consumed so much alcohol that even my mother could tell I was drunk when I phoned her from the kebab shop later on.
Under my steely supervision, the barman proceeded to make three glasses of negroni, perfect in every sense, save that negroni - consisting of a mixture of neat Campari, gin and red vermouth in equal parts - should not really be served in tumblers. If they are, the tumblers should not really be full, as ours were.
This is how we did it. First, the cheap, flavourless gin he seemed to have used first time around was replaced with Gordon's, which has a wonderfully strong juniper aroma. All three ingredients were poured into a cocktail shaker with ice - "No lemon juice," I screamed, as the barman hovered menacingly with one of those squeegee bottles. Then they were shaken.
"Stop shaking now," I cried, after a brief period, "or too much of the ice will melt into it and it will be too dilute." (Not many people realise that the purpose of shaking is not just to cool, but also to dilute very slightly.) The negroni was coming on nicely until I saw that the barman was about to pour the whole mixture into the glasses, ice cubes and all. "Strain it, strain it," I shrieked. So he did. And they were perfect.
