When out in the African bush, we big-game hunters like to gather around the fire at the end of the day for a “€œsundowner.”€ The traditional tipple is a “€œpink gin”€”€”gin and water with a dash of Angostura bitters, no ice. The proper vessel is a “€œKelly”€ glass. It has nothing to do with the actress (later princess) who was such a stunner in Mogambo and gave her name to the handbag. I don”€™t know who this Kelly was, but his glass is a straight-sided tumbler that is three inches in diameter, about that of a 30mm cannon-shell casing, and four inches tall. They don”€™t seem to be made anymore, and the dwindling supply survives with care in a few swell men’s clubs. I”€™ve found them in second- or third-rate motels in the medicine cabinet. If you see one, steal it.

Let’s have a look at another exotic: the bullshot. This cocktail is a clear class indicator. If you order one and the bartender looks at you quizzically, you”€™re in the wrong joint. A proper bullshot, and it’s taken before lunch only, is made of Campbell’s double-strength beef broth, the juice of one half a lime, a liberal dosage of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce, and a shot of vodka, shaken over ice, served straight-up in a Kelly glass. No garnish. It has to be beef broth and only Campbell’s. Consommé won”€™t work because it jellifies.

Only one New York club makes the pukka version, but I”€™m not going to tell you which one. Believe it or not, you used to be able to get one at Mark’s Club in London and at the Travellers in Paris. Mark Birley shipped the Campbell’s from America, and the Travellers secured theirs from a U.S. Army PX before the Frogs dismissed our troops.

A word on the Bloody Mary. This is a barely OK drink much favored by pseudo-sophisticates and suburbanites, often adulterated by celery salt, horseradish, Tabasco, celery-stalk garnishes, and for all I know, little umbrellas. If you insist on doctoring up a bullshot’s fecal color, add some V8 juice. It’s known as a Bloody Bull.

To arrive at where we started”€”with the martini”€”(and to know the place for the first time) I call on Dorothy Parker, she of the Vicious Circle and quite the literary piss-artist. There is a ditty attributed to her:

One Martini I am able,
Two at the very most.
Three, I’m under the table,
Four, I’m under my host.

She should have ordered a pony.