I like a nice cocktail. A perfectly prepared, impeccably presented, cocktail. I like the whole process of a cocktail. The amassing of the very best ingredients. The high-tech gleam of good stainless steel bar tools. The shimmering, sparkling crystal of very good barware.

I like the entire ritual.

Maybe the allure is that certain bit of glamour attached to the ritual. Engulfed in nostalgia. Swank. Stylish. It’s that, yes, but so much more.

This is of course epitomized in the scintillating viscosity a very good martini. Always gin, never vodka.

But I have a confession. I am not that good a bartender. I am not saying I cannot mix a drink. I mix a perfectly respectable cocktail—most of the time.

I am trying to get the finer points of mixology into my lexicon. But I have a feeling an impeccable Perfect Martini can only be mixed by somebody who has the talent bred into his or her DNA.