At Le Veau d’Or, the longstanding Upper East Side bastion of old-school French dining that recently reopened under new management, a Martini comes one of two ways: “Your way or our way.”
Your way is pretty self explanatory — it’s a Martini served however you like it.
But if you choose “our way,” your Martini will come in two glasses. The first looks like a Martini glass and is filled with two-and-one-half ounces of Old Raj gin, a half-ounce of González Byass dry vermouth, and a couple dashes of orange bitters. So far, so good; that’s a Martini by any reckoning of the name. The second glass, however, is a highball containing two more ounces of vermouth and topped off with Vichy Catalan sparkling water, all cooled down by the same ice that was used to stir the Martini.
The industry term for that used ice is “dirty ice.” Typically, customers don’t ever see dirty ice. It is thrown in the sink after a cocktail is made. In fact, it’s one of the hallmarks of modern mixology that dirty ice should never touch fresh liquor again. But at Le Veau d’Or, bar director Sarah Morrissey is using dirty ice in the restaurant’s marquee cocktail.
Like the restaurant itself — which is now a modern interpretation of an old-school restaurant template (the new owners are the team behind the trendy Frenchette and Le Rock) — Le Veau’s house Martini is a mash-up of different eras and their approach to the sidecar, a glass or carafe that contains an additional amount of the ordered cocktail. It is usually served beside the cocktail glass, typically set in a small bowl of crushed ice to keep it cold. The customer pours in more liquid from the sidecar as their glass becomes empty.
The sidecar of the modern craft cocktail era came about in answer to a common customer grievance. Modern mixologists wanted to get away from the jumbo-sized Martini glasses that were the most common cocktail vessel in the late 20th century, and move to smaller coupes, which they felt kept the drink colder longer and were more in keeping with pre-Prohibition glass sizes. The smaller glasses, however, made patrons feel cheated; they thought they were getting less liquor for their money. The sidecar, filled with extra booze, solved that problem.
However, the sidecars of pre-cocktail-revival times had a very different look. If you go to an old place like Donohue’s Steak House in Manhattan or House of Prime Rib in San Francisco and order a Martini, your sidecar will be a tall shaker glass filled with the ice the drink was made with, and whatever part of your drink that didn’t fit in the cocktail glass. At the top will be a strainer. The customer is invited to refresh their cocktail as they see fit.
“The first time someone asked me for that, when I was a young bartender, it was an older woman,” says Morrissey. “She asked me for a gin Martini. ‘Don’t even look at the vermouth, and I want the dirty ice.’ And I didn’t understand what she meant by dirty ice.”
Years later, Morrissey ordered a Martini at Donohue’s and got the dirty-ice sidecar treatment. By that time, she had come to love the technique.
“When the Mastro family started the restaurant, they traveled around the county to steakhouses. We’ve always had the shaker. I’m not sure where they found that.”
The origins of the old-school sidecar are foggy. The few places that still employ the practice — like Donohue’s, which was founded in 1950 — can only tell you that they’ve done it that way “forever.”
At Peter McManus Cafe, the Manhattan saloon that opened in 1936, they’ve done it “as long as I can remember,” says Justin McManus. That’s at least 27 years. (McManus is 42 and he began bartending at his family’s bar when he was 15.)
Lora Johnston is one of the owners of Dick and Peg’s Northward Inn, a warm, woody, supper club–like restaurant and bar near Gloversville, N.Y.. She was taught the sidecar method by her father, who founded the place in 1971. She deposits generous sidecars next to customers’ Martinis, Manhattans, Negronis, Cosmos, and what have you.
“You don’t see that much anymore,” she says. “I think it’s the old-fashioned way.”
A few more modern places have taken up the practice. Eric “ET” Tecosky set up old-style sidecars at Jones Hollywood in West Hollywood for the 15 years that he was bar manager there. Sean MacPherson — a restaurateur and hotelier who opened the Bowery and Jane hotels in New York — opened Jones in 1994. According to Tecosky, MacPherson borrowed some touches he liked at Musso & Frank, the iconic, century-old Hollywood eatery. That included the little carafes Musso leaves with its Martinis. But Jones switched out the carafes in favor of tiny cocktail shakers.
Credit: Geovanna Rivera
At first, Tecosky bucked at the practice. “I thought, wait a minute, this kind of goes against what people are trying to do right now,” he recalls. But there was no revoking it. “We tried to get rid of the shakers and some customers were up in arms.”
“I’ve been seeing a lot of sidecars that don’t make sense to me. It’s just, like, cute. It’s not extra gin, they just don’t fill your glass up enough. I’m like, ‘Just give me the drink!’”
Mastro’s, a restaurant group that has 21 locations across several states, also leaves the cocktail shaker at the guest’s table. It’s been that way since the Mastro family founded the chain in 1999. “When the Mastro family started the restaurant,” says Anna Orton-Pujol, the director of training wine and spirits, “they traveled around the county to steakhouses. We’ve always had the shaker. I’m not sure where they found that.”
As to the appeal of the shaker-glass-dirty-ice sidecar, most operators agree that it’s all about perceived value. The patrons think they are getting more for their money, perhaps even two drinks for the price of one. In most cases, they’re not, but they think so anyway.
“A lot of people get a little excited,” says McManus. “It feels like a little bit of a bonus.”
“I think, psychologically, they think they’re getting two Martinis,” echoes Tecosky.
“I love vermouth. I just don’t want it in my Martini for some reason. I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden, I don’t want 2-to-1 anymore, I want hardly any vermouth.”
While Johnston agrees — “It’s the same amount, they just think it’s extra.” — she also thinks that something more is silently conferred by the pint-glass sidecar. “People feel they are extra special when they get a drink that way,” she says. “You didn’t just serve them the drink and walk away.”
McManus agrees. “You see it more on their faces, a subtle gesture of surprise,” he says. “But it’s usually one of delight.”
Morrissey wanted to do something with the Martini dirty ice, sidecar-wise, but she didn’t want to copy Donohue’s directly. At the same time, she had grown impatient with the modern, craft-cocktail sidecar.
“I’ve been seeing a lot of sidecars that don’t make sense to me,” she says. “It’s just, like, cute. It’s not extra gin, they just don’t fill your glass up enough. I’m like, ‘Just give me the drink!’”
The compromise was to give the customer the usual Martini and use the dirty ice for a vermouth highball. The combo suited Morrisey’s own tastes exactly.
“I love vermouth,” she says. “I just don’t want it in my Martini for some reason. I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden, I don’t want 2-to-1 anymore, I want hardly any vermouth.”
Because the waiters at Le Veau d’Or do a good job at explaining what “our way” means when it comes to a Martini, diners aren’t surprised when the drink arrives in two glasses. They are, however, a little flummoxed about the proper plan of attack.
“The one thing they ask is, ‘Well, how do I drink it?’” says Morrissey. “I usually say, ‘With your mouth.’”
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