My cocktail of choice is the Gibson. It is a libation often described as a martini with an onion instead of an olive. The International Bartenders Association official recipe has it also drier than a martini and shaken rather than stirred. I like mine even drier, only a drop or two of vermouth, or maybe none.

I first heard the label Gibson long before I could order one for myself. It was the drink of choice for one of my father’s first cousins and her husband, Lionel Shatz. They always ordered the same cocktail when we were out, a Beefeater Gibson. Lionel had the best voice. We kids loved to listen to him talk and didn’t really care what he had to say. To say his voice was gravelly was like saying there is a little sand in the Sahara Desert. His voice was a lower-pitched version of that of Eugene Pallette, the 1930’s character actor. My other memory of Cousin Lionel is that in 1964, he won the World Domino Championship, an event sponsored by the San Francisco Chronicle at a local club. I’m not sure how “worldly” it was, but he did win a trip to Europe as a prize.

While Cousin Lionel could order his Beefeater Gibson in 1964 and be assured that he would get close to the same drink each time, I have found that obtaining a good Gibson can be a bit of a problem. If I don’t specify gin, I will be served vodka. Sometimes, if I don’t specify a specific brand, I’ll still be served vodka. If I don’t specify that I want my Gibson dry, some bartenders think that a fifty-fifty ratio of gin to vermouth appropriate. For some, even the term “dry” is not enough. I have to specify the amount of vermouth to use. There was one bartender who thought a big helping of the onion brine would make a good addition. That drink was sent back with a number of unrepeatable comments. Recently, I’ve also had to start asking for my Gibson to be served “up,” otherwise there are some bartenders who’ll serve it on the rocks. A new twist happened recently when my drink was served with an olive instead of an onion. The bartender’s excuse was that they were an all-organic restaurant, and that they were out of organic onions. It was a pretty lame excuse for serving a martini instead of a Gibson. The only thing I usually don’t have to specify is that I want my Gibson shaken, not stirred. I think bartenders like the physicality of shaking more than stirring, and therefore do it when ever they have an opportunity. I’m sure most have never observed the elegance of Nick Charles stirring a pitcher of martinis.

For my taste, it is not the gin but the onion that makes a Gibson really great or simply fair. From my vast experience with Gibsons, I can assure you that there are some pretty poor pickled onions out there in the wild. I image that most pickled onions found in a bar or cocktail lounge are no more than peeled pearl onions in a simple vinegar-water brine. There’s also probably a chemical or two to prevent the onions from turning dark in the bottle. Some bar set-ups include placing drained onions in a bowl as is done with cherries, twists, lime wedges, etc. Those onions are always better than when the bartender spoons a couple onions out of the jar and contaminates the cocktail with onion brine. I haven’t started supplying my own onions when I out on the town, but I’ve considered it.

Making pickled onions is not a difficult task. Mostly, only patience to peel and trim the onions is required. I start by purchasing the onions. In my area, the only way I can buy pearl onions, unless I find them at the farmers market, is in little mesh sacks. Each sack contains 450 g (1 lb) of onions. My choices of color are the three standard onion colors: white, yellow, and red. Commercial pickled onions are white, but I’m partial to the red. I think they look nicer in the finished cocktail.

Once home, I open the bag and look for any soft or damaged onions. While doing this, I bring a large saucepan of water to a boil. When the water comes to a strong boil, I dump all the onions in it for about 30 seconds. The contents are then poured into a strainer or colander. I like to work with the onions hot. The peel will usually slip right off. I also trim the root so the external portion is removed, but the internal portion is left intact. This leaves each onion with a neat, flat end, but the onion won’t fall apart because the internal portion of the root is intact. After one more quick inspection, the onions are piled into a canning jar.

I’m not a big fan of using an overabundance of spices in my pickling, but for my onions, I’ll usually add some whole coriander seeds. The quantity is always by eye. I’ve thought about adding mustard seeds, but I haven’t gotten around to that, yet.

I use a simple brine that consists of 2 parts white-wine vinegar, 1 part filtered water, and 1 part, by volume, granulated sugar. By the time the brine is brought to a boil the sugar should be dissolved. The brine is then poured over the onions in the canning jar until it is about 3 mm (1⁄8 in) from the top of the jar. The jar is then closed with a clean, unused, two-piece lid. If the brine is boiling hot, any bacteria on the surface of the onions or jar will be killed instantly. The jar lid will “pop,” indicating a good seal, within a few minutes.

I set the sealed jar in an unused corner of my kitchen counter and put a note in my calendar that the onions will be ready in 5 days. My kitchen tends to stay between 20 and 24 °C (68 and 75 °F), a good temperature for the pickling to take place. I’ve met cooks who insist that pickled vegetables must be left in the sunlight for the 5 days, followed by a month in the dark. My onions seem to do fine in the ambient light of my kitchen followed by spending the remainder of their lives in my refrigerator.

I realize that not everyone loves a Gibson like I do, but I still like for my guests to at least experience my onions. The solution is to serve a couple as an amuse-bouche. I select the nicest looking ones and rinse them. I’ll then drain them for a while on paper towels. It doesn’t take very long. Two each are placed on cocktail picks, skewers, or some other stick. The onions should be at the very end of the pick and touching each other. The assembly is then placed in a glass without a flat bottom. A small martini or cordial glass is ideal. To finish the amuse-bouche, a little clear liquid is required. For me it comes from a bottle of Tanqueray gin that resides in my freezer. Only enough gin is added to cover the first onion. In my glasses that’s about a teaspoonful.

This is an amuse-bouche that comes with instructions: some disassembly is required. After the diner eats the first onion, the second onion is slid to the end of the pick by using lips or teeth, and the second onion dipped in the “sauce.” Any gin left in the glass can be polished off, or passed to me.