Australia has become a cocktail country. Those multicoloured, sorbet-like concoctions that young women drink in twilight-lit bars with techno music for a soundtrack. Liquid lollies for the adult-children of our economic prosperity. It has not, however, become a martini country, as Frank Moorhouse might put it. No matter how many little cocktail bars spring up, often without signage, in the backstreets and alleys of our CBDs, few patrons are dedicated to drinking the prince of cocktails. The expensively shabby boys still drink beer, albeit in a glistening-necked bottle with a lemon slice between its lips. For the girls, champers; the various wines for those who don’t like the sickly sorbet liquor.

No, the martini will never catch on in Australia. Here, drinks are for bringing you out of yourself to join in, to fit in with the crowd, rowdily, boisterously, then to get angry-drunk and dangerous. If you want to stop young men from being violent, ban them from beer and give them a martini. As Moorhouse reflects in his memoir Martini, this drink is the one that turns you into yourself, not outward. Especially when made with gin, an opium-like drug if taken in sufficient quantities. It helps you stare into yourself – perfect if you prefer to drink and think alone.