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drink. I said a Tequila Sunrise. The silence at the table fell like a dead hippopotamus. The waiter did not write anything on his little pad but instead turned to look at Patricia. So did I.
    Patricia leaned forward slightly and spoke gently. “Really, darling, wouldn’t you rather have a martini?”
    I was game, but ignorant. “What’s in a martini?”
    Patricia took a small breath. “Well, it’s very simply made, you see, which is why it’s so perfect. There’s gin, very cold, and a splash of vermouth, also very cold, and an olive. Very cold.”
    “Mmmm.” I looked back at the waiter. “It sounds lovely, but I don’t like gin.”
    The waiter’s face actually cracked, as though I had just told him his mother died. He looked back to Patricia. So did I.
    Patricia, being extremely well bred, smiled serenely. “No problem,” she said. “Vodka?”
    Ah.
    “Vodka martini,” I said obediently, and the waiter, looking like he had just been spared having to throw himself in front of a speeding train, bowed and left.
    We’ve been drinking them together ever since.
    Patricia does not have caller ID in her house. She has staff to screen her calls for her, so it took a minute or two to get through. “Mona? Love, how are you?”
    “Oh, Patricia,” I started, then found I could not go on.
    “Mona. Is it Jessica?” See, I’m not the only one.
    “No. Well, there’s Lauren. She hit a student over the head with her DNA.”
    Patricia, who was over last week and had the girls preview their project for her, took a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, I’m sure she must have had a good reason.”
    “She did. It’s fine now, actually, but, Patricia? It’s Brian. He left me.”
    There was silence. “He left you? But, darling, why?”
    “He met someone else. Dominique.”
    More silence. Then she chuckled. “Oh, Mona, not to worry. Obviously, this is some feeble cry for attention. There are no real women named Dominique.”
    This is why she’s my best friend. “Yes, she’s real. She’s French.”
    “Oh, my God. Mona, darling, I’m coming right over. Make sure the vodka is cold.” Another reason why she’s my best friend.
    I went into the kitchen and sat. Four years ago, when we did our big kitchen/family room remodel, I insisted on a full-sized refrigerator and, right next to it, a full-sized freezer. I told Brian it was so that I could stock up on sirloins and swordfish from Costco, and could always have more than just one flavor of ice cream on hand, but the real reason was so that I could stash four one-liter bottles of Grey Goose at the bottom, where they would always be perfectly cold and ready for anything.
    It took her fourteen minutes to arrive, which meant she hit all the lights. I was still sitting in the kitchen when she burst through the back door. She gave me a very long and hard hug. Then she stepped back. “Mona, I’m here now. We’ll get through this. Do you have olives?”
    I nodded. Patricia knows her way around my kitchen, and in no time flat, had the martinis made. She poured mine and slid it across the countertop. I took a long, icy swallow.
    The classic martini is a very simple thing, but they always taste better to me when Patricia makes them. I have tried her technique many times, but it’s never quite the same. I think it’s something in the way she fondles the ice. Here’s how she does it.
    1) Open freezer, removing vodka (or gin) and taking enough ice to fill a tall
    glass pitcher, preferably from Tiffany’s.
    2) Plunge martini glasses, also preferably from Tiffany’s, into the indentation
    made from taking out the ice.
    3) Open a bottle of vermouth. Add one capful to the pitcher, swirl gently three times, then pour whatever vermouth not clinging to the ice down the drain.
    4) Pour cold vodka into the pitcher, counting out one one-hundred, two
    one-hundred, three one-hundred, four one-hundred, five one-hundred.
    5) Stir slowly.
    6) Carefully dry off two or three pitted but unstuffed