Image: Martini by Gregory Rogers - read the blog here
There's a holy grail in the desert. An
icy, transparent, liquid object of desire that has been calling to me, siren
like, all the length of my dusty journey west. I hear myself calling into the
wilderness... “MARTINI”. Make it dry. Extra dry with two olives. And none of
this vodka rubbish, make mine the authentic, the true, the only drink. GIN.
It started in Townsville. Actually it
was on the plane to Townsville, chatting about what we expected, anticipated
and hoped for on the trip we were about to start. We were heading into the dry
west and my taste buds were wanting something equally dry. And wet. My companions encouraged me in this
quest and we resolved, all of us and all on my behalf, to find the best martini
on the passage from coast to centre.
Of course, finding the perfect martini
relies heavily on first finding a bar. Anywhere that has some bottles neatly
arranged against a mirrored wall with glasses dangling tantalisingly above
them. So in Townsville the quest began.
We found ourselves at the Yacht and
Boat Club. Ostensibly for an official welcome for our arrival and a dinner in
our honour. There it was. A bar. And after stimulating the taste buds with a
beer I fronted the counter ready to ask the vital question. “Do you do a good
martini?” But looking at the girl serving, the customers and what they held in
their hands, I modified my request. I heard myself asking, “do you have any dry
vermouth?” I needn't have bothered with the word, “dry”. Just saying vermouth
had the girl staring at me oddly. “No”, she snapped. Then I guess an extra dry
gin martini, straight up with two olives would be out of the question?. I
didn't even bother asking. “Another beer, thanks”, was all I said. And the
quest continued.
Charters Towers. A gold town. There was
hope. But it dissipated as I got off the train and left the station to face our
accommodation across the road. The Enterprise Hotel. I felt that this could
possibly be the last place on earth I’d be likely to find my elusive cocktail.
But hope springs eternal. And when, after speaking sessions and then dinner with,
would you believe it, the Mayor of Charters Towers, we returned to the
Enterprise for a nightcap, I had to concede defeat yet again as I studied the
drinks shelf and surrendered myself to a glass of beer. Oh dear. So, in the
company of Ike, Wanger, Dave and my traveling companions, I saw out another
night in the country, sans martini.
Hughenden shall forever more be known
as the home of Grange Hermitage, State of Origin and soggy pavlova. But sadly,
not of a martini. Next!
Julia Creek. Well, if a pub can’t even
manage a meat pie then I doubt whether it’s even worth opening one’s mouth to
form the word martini.
Cloncurry. Oh Clonkers. What an oasis.
What a dream in a couple of streets. The motel was sheer heaven, the dinner of
Michelin status, the bar well stocked. But, alas, when the taste buds are
willing, sometimes the body is weak. Exhaustion drained me of my desire for the
beveridge of my dreams. Wearily I finished my dinner and finished up with, you
guessed it, a beer.
What I realized was that, as our
journey progressed westward, the towns diminished in size, and so did my
likelihood of getting my dream cocktail. By the time we hit Mount Isa I was
desolate. Done. The drive to capture the elusive elixir had faded to an
afterthought. The crystalline pure perfection of the lofty martini seemed all
but a dream. And a tattered one by then. But wait! We were about to live it up
in the Isa. A night on the town. We were heading downtown, if you’d call it
that, for a slap up dinner. A no holds barred, money’s no object type nosh up.
Could there be a re-kindling of the flame of interest in my delicious guzzle?
Entrée. Main course. Dessert even. But, again, sadly, no cocktail. Someone
ordered wine instead. Delicious, yes. Martini, no. And even as the party re-located
to the cocktail lounge… well, let’s just say, some dreams never come true.
So, after a week in the west, a trail
on the rail, our journey was over. Successful in every way, but one. One small
but lofty ideal never realized. It was time to turn toward home.
Struggling through the door with heavy
bags, juggling keys and souvenirs, my eyes fell upon the humble refrigerator
standing in the darkness. Could it possibly still hold what I’ve been searching
for the past week? Could there still be the makings of my favourite tipple
lurking within this frosty tabernacle? I opened the door to reveal the
thrilling green of the vermouth bottle. My heat raced. And what about the… gin.
Is it in the freezer, just where it should be? I threw open the freezer door. Icecubes.
Frozen leftovers, and… nothing.
Desolation revisited.
So I settled down to a glass of milk
and a bag of chips.
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