My dear reader, I discovered this little spot on one of my overseas jaunts. It is a charming little nook just off the lobby, all dark walnut and polished brass. The chairs invite one to lose track of the hours, staring into the fire in the small fireplace. The bartender on Tuesday evenings, a fine Irishman named Seamus, was a boxer in his youth. He is a master of martinis, the best I've ever seen.

On my last visit, I ordered the only real drink, a very dry martini. Seamus pulled a bottle of Old Raj from the freezer and filled a chilled glass to within an eighth of an inch of the rim. Then,he opened a new bottle of Vye sweet vermouth and -- here is his genius -- waved the mouth of the bottle over the glass. A twist of lime peel, and this driest of dry martinis was mine.

The world closed around the shocking delight of that first sip in my mouth. There was no polished brass, no fine wood, no fire crackling in the fireplace. In that moment, I could comprehend only the shocking cold, the smooth bite, the heat of that fine elixir slipping down my throat and warming my stomach. After that sip, I opened my eyes and exhaled, feeling the glow of that breath through my mouth and nose. "Seamus," I said, "you are a God."