Buzz
True wisdom lies in refraining from judging how someone prefers their martini*. It’s an intensely personal choice. As one of the most iconic stirred cocktails, the martini boasts perhaps the most flexible dress code of all. It saddens me when someone hesitantly confesses they enjoy olives and a twist in their martini, prefer more brine than vermouth, or opt for shaken over stirred. There’s no reason to feel embarrassed.
The only scenario where I’d gently suggest (but never demand) a change is if someone favors vodka in their martini but has never tried one with gin. A gin martini, crafted with two parts gin and one part dry vermouth, represents the cocktail in its purest and most authentic form. When executed flawlessly, it’s an exquisite and flawless creation that’s absolutely worth experiencing (particularly if you’ve never tried it before).
The martini indeed has a sibling
Well, it has several siblings, but one stands out in particular. This one is like a fraternal twin, named Gibson. She’s a martini adorned with a cocktail onion, and she’s absolutely stunning.
I encountered the Gibson during the final stages of my own martini preference evolution. For me, the martini’s charm had always been—as I suspect it is for many—the succulent olive perched enticingly on a skewer. As a child, I’d pour pickle brine into a martini glass, spear a handful of pimento olives with a toothpick, and sit on the balcony of my mom’s studio apartment. Depending on my mood, I’d imagine myself as either Auntie Mame or Stockard Channing in The First Wives Club.
For as long as I can recall, I’ve been enamored with all things briny and sour. My sister and I would peel lemons like oranges, cut them into quarters, and devour them sprinkled with salt and red vinegar. After school, I’d spend hours slicing limes in half, dousing them with Lucas Lime Salt, and scooping out the pulp with a grapefruit spoon until only a pile of empty rinds remained.
While my craving for intensely sour flavors has mellowed with age (I can’t handle it like I used to), my sister still keeps citric acid in her spice drawer. You know, for dipping her extra-sour Warheads, of course. (I can only imagine the state of our tooth enamel.)
When I finally discovered the Gibson, I was both fascinated and thrilled. While I still cherish a well-made olive-garnished martini, olives lean more toward the salty end of the brine spectrum, leaving my acid-loving palate wanting more. The Gibson, however, struck the perfect balance—tangy, salty, slightly sweet, and undeniably bold. What could be more Balkan than sipping booze while nibbling on an onion? I was smitten.
However, I found myself in a dilemma because high-quality cocktail onions are surprisingly difficult to come by. Most are either bland, overly sweet, too soft, or overly “artisanal.” Worse yet, some are both overly artisanal and mushy. It’s disheartening, and I simply can’t tolerate most store-bought options. So, I began crafting my own Gibson onions, resulting in a product that brings me immense satisfaction. I even suspect my sister would adore them, though I’m hesitant to mail a jar to California. (Is vinegar flammable?)
How to prepare Gibson onions
Claiming that I properly pickle my own would be an overstatement, as pickling typically demands some level of precision and patience. Therefore, the method I’m about to share might shock some of you, but I hope it inspires a few as well. Regardless, I won’t critique your martini preferences if you don’t judge my Gibson.
Ingredients (adjust to taste—trust your instincts):
A pack of pearl onions. Aim for a size between a marble and a golf ball—not too small, not too large. I prefer red onions, though occasionally I mix red and yellow for variety. How many? As many as you’re willing to peel.
Salt. Generous amounts.
Sugar. Just a touch.
Vinegars. Yes, multiple kinds. Mix them up. (But balsamic? Absolutely not. It doesn’t belong here. Apple cider vinegar, I love you, but not this time.) For my latest batch, I combined white wine vinegar, plain white vinegar, and a splash of overproof white vinegar from a Russian market. Essentially, I used what I had available. Typically, it’s a blend of red and/or white wine vinegar with some plain white vinegar added for balance.
Pickling spices. Think coriander seeds, a couple of cloves, a bay leaf, and black peppercorns. Mustard seeds or dill seeds work too. Keep it simple—don’t overcomplicate it.
Water. Essential for protecting your esophagus and stomach lining.
Combine the vinegar, salt, and sugar in a mixture. Adjust the quantities to taste, starting with a lighter amount and adding more as needed. Heat the mixture if necessary to help dissolve the ingredients. Once you’ve achieved a balanced flavor, dilute it slightly with water to reduce the sharpness. The amount of water is up to you, but it shouldn’t match or exceed the vinegar—otherwise, what’s the purpose? Why bother?
Bring a pot of salted water to a boil, then add the pearl onions and boil for one minute. (Any longer, and they’ll turn mushy.) Drain them in a colander and immediately plunge them into ice water. Trim the root end and pull the top to remove the skin like a sleeve. (Scoring the root end before boiling can make peeling easier.)
Transfer the peeled onions to an airtight container, pour the brine mixture over them, and seal tightly. Refrigerate for 24-48 hours.
How to craft a Gibson
2 ounces Gin
1 ounce Dry Vermouth
A barspoon of onion brine for a slightly tangy twist
Combine the gin and vermouth in a chilled mixing glass filled with cracked ice. Stir for approximately 25-30 seconds, then strain into a chilled coupe. (For a slightly tangy Gibson, rinse the coupe with a barspoon of brine or add the brine directly to the mixing glass before stirring.) Finish by garnishing with your desired number of cocktail onions.
*The sole martini I’ve ever judged was crafted by my sister, as mentioned earlier:
