Martini with Geny Lopez

I had come to live in the Bay Area in 1992, a town called Millbrae, whose claim to fame was the now-shuttered Hongkong Flower Lounge, and Le Petit Camille—a magnet for visiting Pinoys that had their homes in the Peninsula, as we called it. 315 Paramount was always a stop for the visiting network teams that came to check on the operations of our new fledgling channel. It was rarely without guests, and what was forever entertaining became easy to do.

Geny Lopez enjoyed the garden melee, he greeted our team, now waiters and cooks, and took time to chat with everyone. I was on the edge, I had all our bosses in our home, and ensured they were having a good time. That for me stopped eerily when Mr. Lopez was offered a drink, and said in Spanish, translated: “Monchet, can you make me a martini?” That scoundrel—the martini—is unmasked.

I was flustered. I said laughingly—“Shaken or stirred?” to which he said, “Shaken, extremely dry, half-gin, half-vodka and very little vermouth.” Our rented bar set-up had everything to prepare that martini; problem was I had never made one, let alone had a martini—I was a newbie and not that sophisticated to go beyond an Absolut vodka on the rocks. Mr. Lopez stood by me as he directed me to prepare his pre-game drink like a maestro to his orchestra. “Chill the glass with a lot of ice,” he began. “Fill the shaker with ice and place gin and vodka.” I eyeballed it, to which I said as I opened the Stolichnaya and Bombay (Hendricks or London No. 1 weren’t a thing 30 years ago), “Asi? Like this?” He nodded his head. For garnish he said to put a few olives. He signaled to vigorously shake the intoxicants. He took over from there, quickly throwing the ice from the glass, he took the vermouth and put a bit on the icy-cold glass and swirled it lightly—then he pointed to the shaker and I poured the clear liquid into an abyss of ice shards—finished with the garnish. He gave it a sip and his eyes grew large. “Monchet, make yourself one, you deserve it, you have done something no one else could, TFC will be big, look out for it,” he remarked. I wanted to say something but he moved off to chat with the rest of the guests.

Mr. Lopez, glass in hand, was the epitome of old world charm, an architect of industry. From afar that day he raised his glass to me, and I never stopped.

Over the years we would see each other very often, at that time I was the youngest member of the management team. Moreso when he would to San Francisco for his check-ups. I missed our lunches and dinner those times. He insisted I call him Tito Geny, something I kept to when we were in private. He didn’t get to see the Eugenio Lopez Jr. Communication Center finished in 2001, nor did we have a drink together at 9501, the Myrna Segismundo helmed executive dining room. But the martini recipe—we called it the ABS martini—held us through many moments of joy, and discomfort. It gave us pause, that cocktail. When the restaurant was closed by virtue of a government administration gone awry, the recipe, like the moments we shared with it, kept going.

That desire has brought me to do many things, one of them being to keep that icy martini close to me, and appreciate the now. Years later, I recall those times with fondness—we thought the party we had at the network would never end. Now, as I am retired and live in a world no longer burdened by the mundane, the grind, and the tyranny of social media, the martini has pulled me through.

Now living in revery of a distant past, I formed a secret society of one—an indulgent yet enlightened individual who has discovered a higher calling: the pleasures of a liquid lunch. A hallowed ritual involving the consumption of alcoholic beverages, most notably the elegant martini, during the hallowed hours of the day. I took to this mode of libation simply because I can no longer manage the treachery of a morning hangover. Perhaps just three at most. And Margie eschews my being drunk, part of the social contract of her taking me back after we had five-year-long period of living separately.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But isn’t that irresponsible? Don’t you have anything else to do?” To which I reply, “Everything can wait.” After all, a clear mind is a myth. A slightly hazy mind, on the other hand, is a wellspring of creativity, a catalyst for innovation. The rebirth of our 73-year-old abanico enterprise—Casa Mercedes had a renaissance after we conjured the “puñeta” fan. That moment was made possible by the glacial sip of a martini.

Every so often I take residence at table number 3 at Lusso at Balmori in our hood. My perch captures the #titaswholunch and the occasional shoppers looking to cool their heels. I, on the other hand, opt for a liquid lunch. Lusso offers a much-needed respite from the drudgery of the anyday. It’s a chance to unwind. And let’s face it, who among us hasn’t fantasized about sipping a perfectly chilled martini while eavesdropping on the latest tea or lost in thought?

There only a few places that I consider to be the bastions of a good martini, Lusso being one of them. Ah, their dry martini. A drink so simple, yet so sophisticated. A beverage that can transport you to a world of suave sophistication, where James Bond sips with a knowing smirk and Mad Men characters plot their next corporate takeover. But let’s be honest, making a good martini is no easy feat. It’s a delicate balance of ingredients, technique, and a dash of ego. Flint Henry Armiger, the bartender, knows the drill when he sees me walk in, tote in hand, sunglasses always on.

Flint gathers his armaments: a martini glass, a shaker, and a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. Yes, vodka. Gin is for amateurs. A true connoisseur knows that vodka is the only way to experience the full, nuanced flavor of... well, nothing. It’s a blank canvas, a vessel for the imagination.

Next, comes the vermouth. A mere whisper of a spirit, it’s added to the mix with the precision of a surgeon. Too much, and you’ll end up with a watered-down mess. Too little, and you’ll have a flavorless abomination. It’s a tightrope walk, dear reader, and one misstep can ruin the entire experience. Armiger has the tempo all under control.

Now, the “shaking or stirring” debate. Some say shake, others say stir. I say, who cares? Just do whatever you want. Shaken gives a dramatic flourish, a knowing glance from Flint, and voila! He has mastered the art of cocktail-making.

At Lusso, I pair my drink with some of my favorites, deviled eggs that bring me back to our old San Juan home in Ortega. Deep-fried caper berries, herb-stuffed olives, zucchine and parmigiano crisps—something I learned from Myrna Segismundo at the ABS-CBN kitchens is simply amazing. That and the quiet calm of one Rockwell’s chicest of tables.

I must add that two other spots capture the martini as well as Flint. One is Jack Flores’ Made Nice and I pair it, if I am peckish, with his take on the tartare. And the other is Christina Santiago’s homage to her rakish father, Carmelo, served under the dreamy gold-chain mail curtains, on crisp tableclothes. Again, it’s the oysters that complete a meal; perhaps taking in an entrée is merely to keep the alcohol in check.

Now it brings me back to that September of 1995, 30 years later, and I have ridden a journey that brings me back to two things—a gentleman having faith in you, and teaching you to quiet down with a drink meant to be sipped and enjoyed. A martini can no longer be a scoundrel to me; he reminds me that life is too short to be taken too seriously.

So the next time you find yourself feeling stressed or overwhelmed, head to table number 3, ask Flint to fix you up—and remember the words of the great writer Oscar Wilde: “I like men who drink with lunch. They’re either funnier or sadder, and you always learn something.” Cheers to you Tito Geny, and thank you.