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“First, as I’m sure you’re aware, one must chill the glass,” he explained.
Niven then placed ice cubes in the glasses and spun each glass by delicately turning the stem back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.
With Ustinov continuing to hold the ice bucket, Niven then filled one of the tall, heavy glass shakers with ice. He uncorked the bottle of liquor and poured the shaker just shy of full.
“We keep a healthy stock of Genever in the closet of Private Ustinov’s room at the Claridge,” he said with a conspiratorial wink to Charity.
“Genever?” Charity asked, prepared to learn yet another new foreign item.
“It’s along the lines of gin,” Niven explained. “Wheat or rye is used as the spirit base of gin. Juniper berries flavor it. Genever is the Dutch word for ‘juniper,’ and so some overachieving Brit along the way decided to shorten that to gin. Which is not exactly correct, as Genever is actually a mixture of rye, wheat, corn, and barley. Our British gin, however, has accents of citrus—the peels of lemon and orange—its pale color coming from aging three months in charred oak barrels.”
“Fascinating,” Charity said.
“Don’t be too impressed. He used to be a booze salesman,” Fleming said drily. “In the States, of all places. Ever hear of Jack and Charlie’s?”
“In New York? Of course, the ‘21’ Club,” Charity said.
?
??That’s the one,” Fleming said.
Charity found herself going on: “Jack Kriendler and Charlie Berns are cousins. They opened a speakeasy in Greenwich Village to pay for school. After a few moves, it wound up at 21 West Fifty-second Street.”
“Well done,” Stevens said.
Charity blushed.
The one damn thing I know about in all our conversation, she thought, and it’s the history of a bar my father took me to when he was in the city on business.
Charity looked at Niven, who now had covered the tall glass shaker that was full with the other shaker and proceeded to vigorously shake the liquor and ice inside.
“Coincidentally, the key to a perfectly chilled beverage is twenty-one shakes,” Niven announced. “Not twenty, not twenty-two. Twenty-one exactly.”
“So it is true you were the first bartender at ‘21’?” Charity said.
Niven shook his head. “Not bartender. I was a twenty-two-year-old chap fresh out of Sandhurst when I went to work as the first salesman for Charlie’s booze. He was calling it ‘21’ Brands. It was 1934, the year after the Yanks repealed prohibition. I was an aspiring actor who was exactly that—aspiring—and I desperately needed money. Used to be a photo of me on the wall.”
“Still is,” Ed Stevens said.
Niven separated the shakers and put the strainer on the mouth of the one with the chilled liquor in it. Ustinov dumped the ice from the martini glasses back into the ice bucket. Then Niven began pouring each glass three-quarters full.
“Glad to hear I’m still famous somewhere,” Niven said to Stevens, then looked down at the martini glasses. He turned to Ustinov. “Are we not forgetting something?”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Ustinov said, “Oh, yes.”
He produced a half-liter bottle of sweet vermouth from his trouser pocket.
“So sorry,” Ustinov said, a grimace on his moon face.
Niven held out his hand, waving his fingers in a mock-impatient I’ll take that motion.
“Now, this is the very critical part,” Niven said. “One Mr. Churchill was very kind as to instruct me.”
With great drama, he unwrapped the foil from the top of the bottle of vermouth, then quickly worked the cork free.
“Watch carefully,” he said.
He dramatically moved the bottle of vermouth far away from the glasses, then, holding the cork between forefinger and thumb, he swiftly passed the cork over the top of the glasses.
