It’s shocking how much a drink order can reveal about someone’s personality.
At bars and restaurants, I’m never surprised to see suited gentlemen casually holding a whisky on the rocks, post-work crews chugging chilled beers, or chic women swirling sparkling cocktails. Don’t call me judgemental. This is anything but that. It’s just pure observation.
Maybe we all drink with a motive, a mood, or even a quiet little strategy.
“I usually go for tequila,” admits Sash, a young and poppy colleague of mine. And honestly, tequila fits her—not just her palate, but her personality. She’s the life of the party, flirtatiously sharp, always up for an adventure.
My mother, on the other hand, swore by a Bloody Mary through her 30s and 40s—hot, spicy, full of heat. Very her.
Somewhere between watching other people’s drinks mirror their moods and personalities, I began questioning my own. I’d tried other things along the way, of course. Beer always felt too casual for me—too easygoing, wine, with all its swirling and sniffing, demanded a patience I simply don’t possess; it stretched evenings into slow, languid timelines that made me restless. And whisky? It felt like a mood I couldn’t commit to—the dark amber, the heaviness, the quiet melancholy of it.
So I drifted, almost instinctively, toward the clear spirits. Vodka made sense to me. Eventually, the martini emerged as the natural conclusion of that leaning. The martini didn’t just suit my palate—it exposed something about me. The part that likes things controlled and stripped of unnecessary sweetness. The part that appreciates a little bite, a little edge, a little ceremony. Plus the tall V glass that makes my cocktail effortlessly supreme, imbuing a personality of—I know exactly what I want or at least, I like looking like I do.
The Martini—sharp, silky and briny felt more like a declaration. There’s something thrilling about that first glacial sip: the crisp fiery bite of vodka, slicing through the soft sweetness of vermouth. Together, they create this strange alchemy—smooth one second, arresting the next.
And then comes the olive. That pop of colour. That briny little crown. The only garnish audacious enough to sit atop such a fierce creation. It’s playful and indulgent in equal measure, the perfect finishing touch to a drink that never pretends to be anything but what it is—elegant, assertive, and absolutely itself.
It’s a drink with posture.
What I love most is that the Martini is not really to everyone’s liking. And for those who truly enjoy it, it bites back, gently but unmistakably, and in doing so filters its admirers with quiet precision.
That sharp edge, that chilly clarity, a stripped-back, take-me-as-I-am energy, it’s not for everyone. And honestly? Good. Martinis are for those who appreciate a little intensity—for the people who like their flavours feisty, and their indulgences served ice-cold in a straight-up cocktail glass.
Cool girls drink Martinis. Not because they’re trying to look cool, but because they understand the pleasure of something that asks as much of you as you ask of it. It’s a drink that demands class, and maybe even a bit of audacity.
