Forget the Oura Ring — I'm having a three martini lunch The Times Max Olesker Forget the Oura Ring — I'm having a three martini lunch new Eighties industry titans thought nothing of knocking back drinks and getting on with business, but what happened when a modern man took on the challenge? Max Olesker reports Dukes Bar in Mayfair is famous for its martinis Jason Bailey Max Olesker Friday October 23 2026, 4.10am BST , The Times Listen 0:00 / · 11:01 min Share Share this article Email Twitter Facebook Link Save Puzzles Challenge yourself with today's puzzles. E very so often, a dream commission floats out of the clear blue sky that is so perfect as to cause a sharp intake of breath and elicit an immediate sense of genuine exhilaration. “Max,” wrote my commissioning editor, “would you be prepared to write about the three martini lunch?” Taking care not to respond in all-caps, I replied in the affirmative. Most commented 1 US withdraws diplomats from Saudi Arabia amid deadly Houthi attacks US news 203 comments Some brief background: I have a soft spot for martinis , which I consider more or less the perfect drink. Due to some combination of my Polish ancestry and my misspent Portsmouthian adolescence, I favour vodka over gin, and thanks to an abiding preference for non-sweet drinks (I wrote and then deleted the phrase “savoury tooth” three times because, despite technically making sense, it does sound oddly unsettling), my go-to serve is as dirty and olive briny as the barman's conscience will allow. Luxury newsletter The inside track on tech, travel, philanthropy and the hottest handbags, cars and spas. Sign up with one click You've successfully signed up to the Luxury newsletter Explore our newsletters An error occurred. Please use the link below. Luxury newsletter Explore our newsletters If I'm hosting friends at home I'll almost certainly offer a martini, made from either of my two current favourites — Origins Vodka by The Orientalist, which is smooth and creamy, and made from nine Asian potato varieties, Tibetan highland barley and Taiwanese longan honey; or Altamura , a multi-award-winning vodka from the distillery of the same name in Puglia, Italy, made from 100 per cent durum wheat. But the optimum martini is, of course, made by a professional and consumed in the wild, over the course of a joyfully meandering lunch — and, if at all possible, defiantly on a weekday. Top stories 1 What orthopaedic surgeons do every day to protect their knees Health & Fitness 2 New I took hallucinogenics to cure my PTSD from being an NHS paramedic Health & Fitness 3 Bernie Taupin: 'Elton John could be difficult— I would just roll my eyes' Music 4 The cool corner of Australia you'll want to keep to yourself Australia 5 Now's the time to lock in a pre-Christmas holiday deal — here are 12 Inspiration My discovery of the martini occurred as a result of my first ever job, which was at Esquire magazine, where I was the assistant to the editor. I arrived, with immaculate timing, at the exact end of the glory days of men's glossy magazines. Gone were the endless expense accounts, the unlimited travel budgets and the indulgently elastic copy deadlines. But one tradition did remain. Advertisement Just before 1pm, on selected Fridays, occasional Thursdays and, in the summer months, weekdays in general, my editor would depart from the office. Lunch, it was understood, was to be taken — at leisure, and at length. When I left my staff position to embrace the itinerant lifestyle of the comedian-writer-actor, I found myself extraordinarily available for lunch, and so, inevitably, there would be occasions on which I would join him. Top stories 1 High street banks are on borrowed time Saving & Investing Here, I would learn that a martini is a thunderously exciting start to a meal. It cuts through the beige drudgeries of reality and hits like a bolt of lightning, sweeping away banal small talk and kicking open the door to proper, profound, let's-get-down-to-it conversations. A second martini can also, I learnt, serve as a superb end to a meal. But three? Really? The notion of the three martini lunch is a concept that has long loomed large in the collective psyche — primarily as a vestigial memory of mid-20th century American largesse; of WASPy boardroom execs, or slightly crazed Hollywood producers, or self-congratulatory ad men delightedly expensing a $3,000 lunch on the basis of having devised the slogan “Gloves: the socks for your hands!” (or something). And perhaps in London's boom years it was, for a coterie of bankers, insurance brokers and glossy magazine execs, a regular indulgence. But on both sides of the Pond, it's a chapter that has long gone. For the most part, we now trudge through a benighted era — distracted by our Slack channels and peptide stacks and Oura Ring sleep scores — honing our personal brands. But, of course, a three martini lunch is still possible, should we will it into existence. And now, finally, it was time to roll up my sleeves and conduct the necessary research. But where? Max's first stop is Wiltons in St James's I fire out a series of inquiries to some of London's last great trenchermen and women — a cabal of editors, authors, actors and food critics — asking where they might go if they were intending to embark on such a quest. Advertisement The responses all converge around a heartening list of dining rooms that are more than fit for purpose: Bellamy's — Gavin Rankin's exquisite French(ish) restaurant in Bruton Place, famously one of the few restaurants ever visited by the late Queen; Maison François — the vast, all-day brasserie near Piccadilly Circus; Town — Stevie Parle's ambitious new arrival, which offers thoughtful miniature martinis that pack a punch while remaining, arguably, a far saner size for general consumption; One Club Row — Shoreditch's much lauded New York-style tavern, and the St Clement hotel — Nick Jones's splashy new opening, which contains three different bars across which one could comfortably hop. And then there's Wiltons . Of course there's Wiltons. The rules as pertains to Wiltons are more or less universally agreed upon — go absolutely whenever you can, and ensure that you are never, under any circumstances, the one picking up the bill. It is, simultaneously, a delightful fish restaurant, a timeless culinary institution and a slightly worrying insight into the national psyche. Here, waitresses clad in nanny-adjacent costumes (so as to represent the only female authority figures men of a certain stripe are capable of responding to) serve food that is both perfect and immaterial. Sure, plates of flawless smoked trout or Dover sole meunière might drift on and off your table, but really you're here to bathe in the extraordinary atmosphere of a place which has had a presence in St James's since 1742, and quite possibly some of the same regulars. Wiltons is less “ladies who lunch” and more “Lords who luncheon”. It is eternal — and surely the ideal destination to begin my reporting. A table is secured. Read more luxury reviews, advice and insights from our experts Wiltons has been an institution since the 18th century I take an old friend, Johnny, another senior editor at Esquire and a willing accomplice. Advertisement Our waitress Yasmin has been briefed on our mission, and is fizzing with excitement to enable this important work — two ice cold martinis appear at our table, exquisitely cloudy with brine, mere seconds after we arrive. Spurred on by the first warming jolt of seawater-adjacent vodka (and honestly, as far as I'm concerned, there is no higher praise), we happily settle in for an afternoon of fond reminiscence, scurrilous gossip, general nonsense and some unparalleled people watching. Wiltons, blithely immune to the rhythms of the real world, is packed. There are incredibly glamorous elderly couples. There are families of tourists. There are languorous business meetings in which, seemingly, little to no business is being conducted. An older man sits at the oyster counter, heroically solo lunching while reading a book (what a life). Across from our table, some ruddy-faced, pin-striped gentlemen are each prodding a prawn cocktail while tucking into glasses of brown liquid which, from a distance, could almost be Coca-Cola if it weren't so implausible that these men had ever even thought of consuming such a drink. Meaning it can surely only be one thing… “Is that… a Bullshot?” I ask, in hope and wonderment. “Yes, absolutely,” a passing sommelier says smiling. “Beef consommé with a shot of vodka. Served cold, of course.” Of course. (My enduring fascination with the concept of a Bullshot is a topic for another day.) Wiltons really is another world. Advertisement It's a golden, charmed afternoon. Yasmin, clearly the world's greatest waitress, joyfully procures our second martinis. Tucked away in one of Wiltons' booths, Johnny and I have a series of searing insights into the human condition which we fail to record in any way, shape or form. When I cheerfully check the time, I realise we have been there for three and a half hours. It's an amount of time I could have happily doubled — were we not shamefully late for our final “course”, due to take place just across the road. Dukes Bar is perhaps the world's premier martini destination. For it is here, for the past two decades, that the revered Alessandro Palazzi has concocted famously lethal martinis from his beloved trolley. To be so near and to not sample his handiwork would feel almost sacrilegious. Alessandro Palazzi in action at Dukes Bar Claude Okamoto Dukes, as Palazzi takes pains to remind people, is not just a martini bar — it's a cocktail bar. His white-blazered Italian bar team are more than capable of whipping up any classic you might desire. But it's the martinis that draw people from across the globe. They're made in style, tableside, and they're ferociously strong (mainly due to being enormous), to the point that there's a two martini limit. We take our seats. Around me, it becomes clear that most of the guests here have based their day — if not their entire trip to London — around this one moment. The martini, more than a mere drink, is a maker of (slightly blurred) memories. Stick that in your Oura Ring. We could, theoretically, have ended on a Vesper — that James Bond-inspired combo of both gin and vodka for which Dukes is world-renowned but, frankly, had we done so it's unlikely I'd be capable of writing these words. Instead, it's the comparative restraint of one more vodka martini, poured by the maestro. It's undoubtedly magnificent — as Johnny and I fail to communicate with anything more than, by this point, a near-meaningless series of grunts of approval. Advertisement Gradually, we swim to the end of our martinis, thank Alessandro and his team for their forbearance, and — with great focus and precision — stand up. As we emerge into the afternoon, at an unspecified time, a queue of optimistic pilgrims are waiting in line, quietly, for the opportunity to pay their respects to Palazzi. I stride home, raring to file this piece, and instantly fall asleep. I awaken the next day feeling as though I've been punched in the brain. Perhaps the size and strength of the average martini has shot up as much as the price since the glory days. Perhaps the big beasts of the boardroom were just built differently back then. Or, perhaps, the three martini lunch never really happened that much, after all. But, as my diligently taken notes, then my hastily scrawled notes and ultimately my total lack of notes make abundantly clear, while the concept of the three martini lunch has an undeniable, aspirational appeal, it is, in practice, a myth, a nonsense. An unworkable, unwieldy mess. The two martini lunch, however, is utterly, utterly perfect. Life & Style LUXX Share Share this article Email Twitter Facebook Link Save