Vodka, coffee liqueur and a fresh shot of espresso shaken hard enough to build a proper crema on top.
Chill a coupe or martini glass.
Pull the espresso and use it straight away.
Put the vodka, coffee liqueur, espresso and sugar syrup into a shaker with plenty of ice.
Shake hard for 20 seconds. The shaker should be painfully cold and you should hear the ice break down.
Double-strain into the chilled glass.
Wait ten seconds for the foam to separate and rise into an even pale head.
Float the coffee beans in the middle.
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Bitter first and sweet second, which is the reverse of what most people expect from something that looks like a dessert. Fresh espresso is genuinely bitter — that is roast, not a fault — and it arrives ahead of everything else. The coffee liqueur comes in behind it with molasses, vanilla and a little burnt sugar, and the two together read as very dark chocolate rather than as coffee and syrup separately. The vodka contributes almost no flavour and a great deal of structure: it thins the liqueur out, stops the drink being cloying, and puts a clean alcoholic warmth at the back that a cup of coffee does not have. Underneath all of it there is a faint sourness that belongs to coffee itself, and if it becomes the main thing you are tasting, the shot sat too long before it went in.
Almost entirely fresh coffee, and much stronger than the small volume suggests, because shaking drives the aromatic oils into the foam and the foam sits directly under your nose. Cold suppresses most volatiles but coffee aromatics are stubborn. Under the coffee there is vanilla and dark sugar from the liqueur and a thin spirit sharpness. What you should not smell is anything stale, papery or ashy — that is old coffee, and it will taste the way it smells.
The first mouthful is mostly foam and is genuinely creamy despite containing no dairy — very fine bubbles read on the tongue as fat. Underneath, the drink is thin, cold and clean, with only the sugar keeping it from feeling watery. That contrast between the two layers is most of the pleasure and it disappears as the head does, so a drink left standing turns into a thin cold coffee. Nothing in the glass has any body of its own.
The shake is the loudest twenty seconds in the room and it changes pitch as it goes — a bright hard rattle of whole cubes turning duller and heavier as they break down. Then the seal breaks with a crack, and the pour is thick and quiet. In the glass there is a real sound if you put your ear near it: the head crackles faintly for the first minute as the largest bubbles collapse, the same noise as the head on a pint settling.
Foam first, which is aerated and mild and mostly aroma. Then the cold hits, then sweetness from the liqueur, and only then the roast bitterness, which builds rather than arrives. The finish is the longest part: dark chocolate, a dry coffee tannin that grips the sides of the tongue, and a slow warmth from the vodka low down. It ends drier and more bitter than it starts, which is why it works after a meal and why the second sip follows quickly. Over the glass the arc runs the other way — as the ice melts in it goes sweeter and softer, so the last mouthful is the least interesting one.
Very cold, from a hot ingredient, which is the trick of the drink. It leaves the shaker at about minus 3°C and it should be drunk within five minutes — it does not merely warm up, it comes apart. The foam collapses first, then the coffee starts tasting sour rather than bitter, and by ten minutes it is a sweet iced coffee. Serve it in a chilled glass or you lose two of those five minutes to the glass.
It is a pudding, so treat it as one. Dark chocolate, anything with a high cocoa percentage, chocolate tart, tiramisu — which shares nearly all of its flavours and is either a perfect match or too much of the same thing depending on the company. Salted almonds. A plain shortbread. Affogato territory generally. Where it fails is at the start of a meal or against savoury food: it flattens everything it meets, and the caffeine and sugar together make it a poor aperitif however elegant the glass looks.
Easy to make and easy to make badly, and the difference is almost entirely timing rather than skill. There is one hard shake and one fine strain in it; nothing needs practice. What it needs is that the espresso goes from the machine into the shaker while it is still hot, because the thing everybody wants from this drink — the dense pale head — is made of something that stops existing after a couple of minutes.
Moderate per drink and awkward to start. The vodka and the coffee liqueur are ordinary bottle costs and both last a long time; the espresso is pennies. The real outlay is whatever pulls the shot, and that is the reason this is a drink most people order out rather than make. A moka pot or an AeroPress will do it — see Shopping for it.
A shaker, and a hard one: the head is built by shaking, so a shaker that leaks under pressure will cost you the drink. A fine-mesh strainer as well as the shaker's own, because a shard of ice landing in the glass punches a hole through the foam. A coupe or martini glass, chilled. And something that makes real espresso under pressure — a machine, a moka pot, or an AeroPress. Filter coffee, cafetiere coffee and instant will make a drinkable dark cocktail with no head on it at all.
After dinner, and not before driving anywhere or sleeping soon. It is a five-minute drink — make it when the person drinking it is ready to sit down with it, not while they are still in the kitchen.
None. It is the same drink in July and December, which is not true of much.
The shaker frosts over completely and your hand hurts. In the glass, a pale tan head about a centimetre deep separates cleanly from the dark drink underneath within ten seconds, with a level, matte surface — not a scatter of large bubbles. If the head is thin, patchy, or has visibly collapsed by the time you sit down, the coffee was not fresh enough.
The head should be firm enough to hold three coffee beans on its surface without them sinking. That is the whole test, and it is why the garnish is traditional: it is a working measurement wearing a decoration.
Nothing raw and nothing to worry about. Worth stating plainly that this is a strong drink with a stimulant in it — around 20 per cent alcohol in the glass plus a full shot of caffeine — and it goes down like a dessert, which is a combination people underestimate late at night.
Using coffee that has been standing. This is the mistake, and it accounts for almost every headless espresso martini ever served — the crema that becomes the foam is made of coffee oils and dissolved gas, and both are gone within a couple of minutes of the shot being pulled. After that: shaking for too short a time, which chills the drink without aerating it; skipping the fine strain, so ice shards land in the glass and punch through the head; using a warm glass, which halves the drink's life; and adding the sugar syrup before tasting, which is how a drink that was already sweet enough becomes a milkshake.
No head at all: the coffee was stale, or it was filter or instant rather than espresso. Nothing can be done to the drink in the glass — start again with a fresh shot. A head that appears and then collapses within a minute: the glass was warm, or the drink stood before it was garnished. Too sweet: you added the syrup without tasting, and the only fix is more espresso and more vodka in proportion, which means making a second drink and combining them. Too bitter or sour rather than bitter and sweet: the shot was over-extracted or old. Watery: not enough ice in the shaker, so it melted rather than chilled.
Only partly, and it is worth doing for a crowd. Vodka, coffee liqueur and syrup can be measured into a bottle in advance in whatever multiple you need and kept in the fridge; the espresso must be pulled and shaken to order. Batching everything including the coffee produces a drink that is correct in every respect except the one people order it for.
None. This drink does not keep for ten minutes, let alone overnight — the head collapses, the coffee oxidises and turns sour, and the dilution keeps going.
Not applicable, and worth saying: there is no version of this that survives being made in advance and revived.
No.
There are none from a single drink, which is the argument for making them one at a time even for a table of six.
Two at a time is comfortable in a standard shaker; three is the point at which there is not enough room left for ice, and without enough ice the aeration fails. For a table, batch the spirits as above and shake in pairs.
Coffee liqueur is the one worth thinking about: Kahlúa is sweeter and more vanilla-forward, Tia Maria is drier and more obviously coffee, and the difference is large enough that you should taste before adding any syrup. A good aged rum in place of the vodka makes a rounder, less clean drink that is arguably better and is no longer an espresso martini. Vanilla vodka is a common shortcut and pushes it towards dessert. What cannot be substituted is the espresso: cold brew makes a smoother, less bitter drink with almost no head, and instant makes no head at all.
Vegan and dairy-free as written — there is no cream in this drink, whatever the colour of the head suggests. Gluten-free depending on the vodka, which for most brands means yes. There is no meaningful non-alcoholic version: the foam needs the espresso but the body needs the spirit, and every zero-proof attempt ends up as sweetened iced coffee.
For the coffee: any espresso will do and a darker roast will do better, because the bitterness is doing structural work and a bright, fruity light roast tastes thin and sour against the sugar. If you have no machine, a moka pot is the best of the alternatives and an AeroPress with a fine grind is a close second — both produce enough pressure and enough dissolved gas to build some head, which nothing brewed by gravity will. For the liqueur, taste before you buy if you can: the gap between the sweetest and driest on the shelf is the single biggest variable in the finished drink.
The coffee liqueur is where the money goes and the cheaper ones are noticeably sweeter rather than noticeably worse — buy the cheaper bottle and drop the sugar syrup entirely, and you will land in the same place. Vodka is the one ingredient here where paying more buys almost nothing: it is 30 per cent of the volume and close to none of the flavour.
The coffee is the only ingredient with a real footprint worth thinking about, and it is a very small amount of it. Buying a bag you would drink anyway rather than a bag bought for cocktails is the whole of the advice.
Around 200 calories and roughly 1.7 UK units of alcohol, most of the calories coming from the coffee liqueur rather than the vodka. It also carries a full shot of espresso, which is something like 60–80mg of caffeine — a real dose, taken late, in a drink that does not taste like it.
Worth it, with a caveat. If you own something that makes espresso, this is one of the highest-return drinks you can make at home — it looks like it came from a bar, it takes ninety seconds, and the version you make will be better than most of the ones you are served, because yours will have a head on it. If you do not own one, buy a moka pot before you buy a bottle of coffee liqueur.
London, in the early 1980s, at the hands of Dick Bradsell — one of the small number of modern classics with a documented author. Bradsell is credited with much of the revival of serious cocktail-making in Britain, and this is the drink of his that travelled furthest.
Vodka Espresso originally, and Pharmaceutical Stimulant for a period afterwards. It only became the Espresso Martini later, on the same wave that attached the word martini to anything served up in a V-shaped glass.
As it looks in English. The Italian word espresso has no x in it, and 'expresso' is the single most common mistake made about this drink in print.
There is no martini in an espresso martini. No gin, no vermouth, no dilution profile in common with one — the name describes the glass it was served in during the 1990s and nothing else. This is worth knowing mostly so that ordering one in a bar that takes martinis seriously does not come as a surprise.
Bradsell told the story of its creation repeatedly and consistently: he was working with an espresso machine beside his station, a young woman asked for something that would wake her up, and he built her a drink from what was to hand. He declined to name her, and the widely repeated claim that she was a particular famous model is not something he ever confirmed. The drink spread through London bars during the 1980s and 1990s and became genuinely global in the 2010s, by which point it was appearing on lists of the world's best-selling classics — a very fast ascent for a drink younger than most people ordering it.
It occupies a slot almost nothing else does: a dessert and a stimulant in one glass, ordered at the end of an evening rather than the start. In Britain it has become the default 'one more before we go' drink in a way that says something about how the country drinks, and it is one of the few cocktails routinely ordered by people who otherwise do not drink cocktails.
After dinner, late, and at the point in an evening where the alternative was going home. It is a poor choice before food and a strange one at lunch.
Hard shaking with plenty of ice, and fresh espresso. Both parts of that were in the original and both are still what separates a good one from a bad one forty years later. The one technique that has changed is straining: fine-straining is now standard and was not always, and it visibly improves the head.
The liqueur moved around — Bradsell's own versions are variously recorded with Kahlúa and with Tia Maria — and the sugar became a variable rather than a fixed measure as coffee got better and liqueurs got sweeter. The more recent change is the arrival of pre-batched and bottled versions, which are a genuinely different drink: they can be cold and sweet and correct in every respect except that nothing pre-batched has a head on it.
Australia adopted it more thoroughly than anywhere and has probably done more than Britain to keep it in circulation; Melbourne's coffee culture is the usual explanation and it is a reasonable one. Italy, which supplied the coffee, has never much taken to it. Common variants swap the vodka for aged rum or tequila, add a salted-caramel or vanilla note, or serve it long over ice, at which point the head — the entire point — is gone.
Very little. The measures here are the modern consensus build. The two things stated more firmly than most recipes bother to are that the espresso must be used within a minute of pulling, and that the sugar is a correction to be tasted rather than a fixed 5ml, because a drink built on two commercial products of wildly varying sweetness cannot have a fixed sugar measure and be right.
Credited throughout to Dick Bradsell, who described its creation in interviews over many years. The account of the customer's request is his own; the identification of that customer with a named celebrity circulates widely, was not confirmed by him, and is not stated as fact here.