Eileen Toomey
How to Make an Espresso Martini
Instructions
Gather your supplies:
● 1 shot of Ketel One (it’s expensive, so it might help with the hangover)
● ½ oz Mr. Black’s Coffee Liqueur
● 1 oz espresso brewed from that disgusting Keurig maker you curse every time you use
● Ice cubes
● Three coffee beans (Health, Wealth, Happiness – four or two beans signify death, zero beans is just sad) swiped from the bin at Foodtown this afternoon
Build the foundation:
Fill the retro metal cocktail shaker your husband inherited from his father with ice. Start by adding a shot of vodka, then pour Mr. Black over the shimmering ice cubes. The whiff of coffee tickles your nose when you add the still-hot espresso (you should really let it cool) ice cubes crack and steam, reminding you of Lake Michigan in the winter.
Shake:
Three minutes can seem like an eternity when you’re shaking a cocktail, so pretend like you’re Tom Cruise in that stupid movie – the secret is a good top froth because an espresso martini is nothing without two distinctive layers.
Serve with intention:
Carefully fill the classic martini glass (the one without the chip) to the brim. Drop in the three coffee beans (remember Health, Wealth and Happiness?) for good luck.
Document:
Send a picture of the completed creation to your friend Amy, along with the text, “see you in an hour!”
Tasting Notes:
After Amy carries you home from the pub crawl, don't let the ghost of your father in through the kitchen door. For years you've done such a good job of keeping him at bay. Like earlier when you ignored him as he leaned on his elbows at the end of the bar in the Dublin House.
You drank more sweet-as-honey shots with your friends than you should have. Now, you forget your resolution and let your father into the kitchen, offering him half of your beer. By midnight you are ready to fight.
You don't remember anything: screaming at your husband, pulling him out of bed, telling him you are sick of him taking up all the oxygen in the room. At 6am, you wake up on the couch, head crooked on the little pillow, mouth full of cotton, your father on the floor under the coffee table.
"Why do you hate me?" your husband cries.
Over a year later, you measure sets of reps instead of shots: overhead presses, deadlifts and power class at the gym. It's good for a woman of your age, bone density and balance. You've stayed away from pubs and made up with your husband, but you still see your father around the yard. He sleeps beneath the shed where the fat groundhog lives. Sometimes, you hear his taps on the kitchen door:
one: Health,
two: Wealth
and three: Happiness.
You wipe off the counter and get on with your day.
Eileen Toomey's works have appeared in The Rumpus, Cleaver Magazine, and more. Her poem “Immunotherapy” placed second in Cleaver’s Form and Form-Breaking contest, judged by Diane Seuss and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Eileen is currently seeking representation for her memoir, You Were All Average: Tales of a Canaryville Girl, about growing up on Chicago’s South Side.
