No. 3 London Dry Gin launch at Berry Bros

I bought a gramophone last week. I'm terribly proud of it. I found it at an antiques fair in Ardingly and it works perfectly. The day after buying it, desperate to get it home, I schlepped it up to London on the train.

That night I had to lug it across town to Berry Bros in St James's as I was keen to attend the launch of No. 3 London Dry Gin. Having been at Decanter three years, I've heard a lot about the Berry Bros HQ - tales of magnificent tastings in their impressive cellars and stories of bottles from the 19th century being dusted off and enjoyed. I was curious to see the cellars for myself.

Rocking up late and limp limbed, I checked in the gramophone. The ticket guy gave me a funny look, which I relished. I love eccentric gestures in deeply traditional haunts – swaggering in and checking in my machine as if it were perfectly normal to bring a gramophone to a cocktail party. I could have handed over a stuffed kitten or a kalashnikov for the look he gave me.

I was ushered down a narrow staircase, past Dead Poets style black and white photos of football teams and ancient Berry Bros alumni. The whole place breathes with the lungs of nostalgia. You can feel the history humming off the walls. A staircase later and I was down in the basement, standing under an arched, bomb-shelter like ceiling.

To my right an enthusiastic jazz band played frantically on their sax, double pass and trombone, giving the place a prohibition era feel. Everything from the underground setting to the abundance of decadent and delicious cocktails screamed of forbidden pleasures and clandestine reverie. With three bars to choose from and two cocktails being shaken at each bar, I didn't know where to begin. After a sensible No. 3 gin and tonic, I got a little more adventurous and opted for the No. 3 Mojito with Chambord (raspberry liqueur) and mint mixed by a guy from Hix. It was divine. I went back to his bar three times.

The jazz continued to be belted out, silenced only for a brief interlude when a Berry Bros rep spoke, apologizing for managing director Simon Berry's absence due to a detached retina, 'not caused by No. 3 London Dry Gin', he quickly added, raising polite laughter from the monocled, moustacheod crowd. Moving on to something slightly stronger, my fellow imbibers and I headed to Alessandro Palazzi of Dukes Hotel's bar. His Martinis are both the best in town, and the most lethal. Rumour has it he only gets six cocktails out of a bottle of gin - they're pretty much pure alcohol furnished with a few drops of angostura bitters.

Like a magician, Alessandro made a few flamboyant hand movements in the direction of the glasses, then poured the gin with military precision, ending his trick by dusting each glass with Amalfi lemon peel. He then proudly presented me the glasses, which I distributed among my group. Taking a sip I soon realised there was no chance I could actually finish the Martini. So as not to look impolite, I resorted to taking bird-like sips every now and then. I'd be on the floor if I drank the whole thing, and I had a gramophone to think about.

My journey home was interesting. The gramophone was so heavy and cumbersome I had to decline a goodie bag, which was deeply disappointing, but I couldn't physically carry it. Limping up the incredibly smart St James's street, passing besuited gents and perfumed ladies, I could no longer support the weight of the gramophone along with the sheer size of the horn and resorted to wearing the horn on my head like a witches hat.

I assure you, dear reader, that this was in no way in a bid to attract attention - which it certainly did, but rather a desperate space saving measure. I looked absurd walking up this most rarefied of streets with a hunk of shell shaped metal on my head, but it got the machine home in one piece. On arriving back at my flat I set up the gramophone, fixed on a fresh needle, wound it up and put on a foxtrot. It crackled as the 78 spun round on the turntable. Soon a mellifluous voice sang out from the horn and for two blissful minutes, time stood still.

Martini masterclass at Dukes

Keen to learn more about cocktails (through drinking as many of them as possible), on Saturday I attended a martini masterclass at Dukes Hotel in Mayfair.

Christened 'the home of the perfect martini' by The New York Times, Dukes Bar has a reputation for making the best martinis in the world – Charles and Di used to stop by and Bond author Ian Fleming was a regular. Legend has it he coined his double agent's famous 'shaken, not stirred' line during a particularly fruitful drinking session at the bar.

With such a reputation, I was excited to sip on one of the world-class martinis myself. Run by Italian bar manager Alessandro Palazzi, an amiable John Malkovich lookalike dressed in a white tux, the two-hour class walks us through the history of the martini, from its original form, to the truffle-infused martinis of today.

With 36 years in the trade under his belt, Palazzi is full of praise for London, dubbing it 'the capital of cocktail innovation', and concedes that France and Italy are still conservative in their approach to cocktails, doing things boringly by the book rather than taking risks.

Dukes are keen to keep the theatrical element of cocktail making alive – Palazzi makes all his martinis at guests' tables on a wooden trolly. The bar itself is surprisingly small, which only adds to its charm.

The masterclass begins with the 'original' martini, made with Angostura bitters, red vermouth, Old Tom gin and Maraschino cherry liqueur. A lot of the ingredients, like gin and vermouth, were originally used for medical purposes. To finish, he dusts the rim with a strip of Almalfi lemon peel, then drops it into the glass to garnish. The glass gets passed round and we all take a sip. It's delicious but ludicrously strong. We're basically drinking pure alcohol, albeit wonderfully mixed. Luckily a sip is all that's required at this stage.

The class is made up of six martini fans, and we each get the chance to make a different take on the drink. One of Palazzi's golden rules is that martini must be served cold – the colder the better, but ice should be avoided. With each new martini he magics a bottle of gin or vodka fresh from the freezer. Martinis should also be, contrary to Bond, stirred, not shaken. Another tip is to stick to gin, as the botanicals give the martini more flavour.

The 'classic' martini couldn't be simpler – a few drops of dry vermouth to coat the rim of your glass, a generous measure of gin (preferably Beefeater or Plymouth), and a strip of Amalfi lemon peel. Palazzi folds the lemon peel over the glass and squeezes out drops of lemon oil, giving it a zesty lift. The glass gets passed round. It seems even stronger than the last. Much more of this and I'm going to pass out.

Soon it's my turn and I'm summoned to the trolly. I'm tasked with making the Vesper martini, named after Bond's lover Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale. In an unashamed homage to the secret agent, all the martinis on Dukes's list are named after Bond characters. To make the Vesper, I coat the glass with Angostura bitters and pour in one part Potocki vodka and one part Crown Jewel gin, topping it off with Lillet dry vermouth and the customary twist of Amalfi lemon. It's a lethal combination. The glass gets passed round and eventually finds its way back to me. I take a few tiny sips. Palazzi clocks this sidestepping and warns me that I'm not allowed to leave until my glass is empty.

It's a charming afternoon, and I feel wonderfully civilized sitting in Dukes Bar slowly sipping a martini made by a barman at the top of his game. 'Simplicity and balance are key', Palazzi tells us. 'It doesn't matter what you throw in a martini, it's how you throw it in.' Before we go I have one last question: 'why the olive?' 'Ah', Palazzi says with a grin. 'The olive brings out the saltiness, but it's meant to be served on the side. Franklin D. Roosevelt always had three'.