A martini is a martini, and a martini is more than a martini. No cocktail commands greater cultural status. Blinking on neon signs outside corner bars and perching in the hands of a century’s worth of Hollywood characters, its image lives in our heads. The martini is a badge of power and world-weariness, in real life and fiction, the stuff of American life. In the new millennium’s drinking renaissance, the name and stemware have been co-opted as conduits for restless, relentless reinvention. Who among us guzzles espresso Manhattans with the same fervor? I’m a martini purist (London dry gin and vermouth, stirred, twist or olives depending on the day’s disposition) but not an ideologue. I’m more interested in a conversation about details — I also favor two dashes of orange bitters, an addition with historical precedent — than I am in an argument about absolutes. When the thirst for a proper martini arises, the setting matters. Cities like New York and London nurture establishments that emphasize the ritual: carts, tableside stagecraft, solemnity and wit in …