Cup of kindness
All this talk of single malt has put me into a story-telling mood. With the power of the internet at my calloused fingertips, and aware as I am that this would otherwise be deadly boring(!), I have added colour and dimension to this post with a few lame pictorial aids - enjoy!
OK, my love affair with single malt begins in 1995 at Warwick University, when a sophisticated finalist bought me (a lowly, vulnerable and impressionable fresher) my first measure. I cannot remember what brand the stuff was, nor how many measures we sipped down, but for you to picture the scene here is a shot of the bar where it happened:
Warwick bar
Despite the further drinking and laughter that ensued, alas I regret that no intimate mischief took place - something for which I am forever regretful, as she was 3 years older than me, and damn foxy with it too (sigh)... All the same, she who will remain nameless takes the credit for undoing my single malt virginity.
Fast forward to 1997. I am living in Blois, France. My regular watering hole is the legendary "Orangerie" bar in the Rue St Lubin. Set in the bowel of the old town, it was tucked away perfectly in a sleazy cobbled back street, with a long-established brothel upstairs. It was there that my drinking buddies and I would adjourn after the day's work, buy drinks and banter (innocently) with the "putes". The table in the centre is where I first tasted what was to be the love of my life:
orangerie
Yes, it was in the Orangerie that my lips were first made wet with Oban. I remember the night well. As was our custom, the trip to the bar began at 11pm. We would rock up to the door stone sober, and within half an hour (and several choice tipples later) we'd be lulled into happy abandonment and beseeching the barman to play Sneaker Pimps or Robert Johnson. I remember at the time we were partial to dark tequila, complemented with slivers of sweet mandarin orange and a dusting of cinnammon. But for some reason, on this occasion we elected to draw whiskey - kick it back easy, we thought. Barman pops out the Oban on his own recommendation, takes 35 francs from us for a decent measure, and then settles back to ring up a few more when seeing my face collapse into unfettered joy...
oban
I won't pretend I could detect peat or spice or any such gustatory refinement. The whiskey just went down without a perceivable burn - I waited for the back of my tongue to arch, for an exhalation as the sting hit, but instead there was just warmth, and a fumeless smokiness. Thus, in an evening of indiscriminate pleasures, Oban leaves an impression that will persist - others will come, some with more frequency, others with greater labels, but I am left forever in thrall to Oban.
Fast forward again to 2001, and I'm working in Munich. Although the tech stock crash is dawning on everyone, for us it is still a time of plenty, and the expenses policy is at its peak. My colleagues and I spend our evenings in the bar of the Arabella Sheraton Grand, where we are staying:
arabella
The bar is shameless sleaze, masked as class. The routine is simple - cocktails are tabbed and put on room numbers whist a lounge singer called "Jerry C" regales us with Lionel Richie covers and scrounges drinks off us. One night, Kris and I finish up at the office at about 11:30pm, jump in the chauffeured Benz and head back to the Arabella. Pleased with our evening's work, Kris suggests we treat ourselves to a Cuban - being from Dayton, he's making the most of the Cubans with impunity. Never having smoked a cigar in my life, I'm nonetheless game for anything. We're on the verge of ordering a Bush Mills to accompany, when I spot a fresh bottle of Oban on the rack. Duly ordered, I settle to experience a pairing of sensuous enjoyments incomparable to anything.
Now, I make no apology for the what appears an incongruously luxurious image when you consider my present, much more modest, circumstances - not yet 30 years old and already harping on about whiskey and cigars? It sounds very old world, with fat, old fucker bankers farting about in some members' club. Let me say this, people: those fuckers don't do it for no reason! A smokey amber in one hand, and a rich burnt flavour of rolled leaf in the other... you just close your eyes and forget everything else. Hell, if I could afford it, I'd probably dispense my pocket money happily on the combination - albeit in much lighter surroundings.
With or without the cigar, single malt has been, is, will remain the rinse of this sullied, penitent mind - nothing betters it. It punctuates great moments, more than be recounted here; happy times, comfort, loss of self, abandonment, retrieval, rescue, the throb of temples and eyeballs in the morning, but never regrets.
To all and any readers - if our paths should ever collide, be assured that in the spirit of warmth I'd gladly buy you what Burns lyricised as "a cup of kindness".
OK, my love affair with single malt begins in 1995 at Warwick University, when a sophisticated finalist bought me (a lowly, vulnerable and impressionable fresher) my first measure. I cannot remember what brand the stuff was, nor how many measures we sipped down, but for you to picture the scene here is a shot of the bar where it happened:
Warwick bar
Despite the further drinking and laughter that ensued, alas I regret that no intimate mischief took place - something for which I am forever regretful, as she was 3 years older than me, and damn foxy with it too (sigh)... All the same, she who will remain nameless takes the credit for undoing my single malt virginity.
Fast forward to 1997. I am living in Blois, France. My regular watering hole is the legendary "Orangerie" bar in the Rue St Lubin. Set in the bowel of the old town, it was tucked away perfectly in a sleazy cobbled back street, with a long-established brothel upstairs. It was there that my drinking buddies and I would adjourn after the day's work, buy drinks and banter (innocently) with the "putes". The table in the centre is where I first tasted what was to be the love of my life:
orangerie
Yes, it was in the Orangerie that my lips were first made wet with Oban. I remember the night well. As was our custom, the trip to the bar began at 11pm. We would rock up to the door stone sober, and within half an hour (and several choice tipples later) we'd be lulled into happy abandonment and beseeching the barman to play Sneaker Pimps or Robert Johnson. I remember at the time we were partial to dark tequila, complemented with slivers of sweet mandarin orange and a dusting of cinnammon. But for some reason, on this occasion we elected to draw whiskey - kick it back easy, we thought. Barman pops out the Oban on his own recommendation, takes 35 francs from us for a decent measure, and then settles back to ring up a few more when seeing my face collapse into unfettered joy...
oban
I won't pretend I could detect peat or spice or any such gustatory refinement. The whiskey just went down without a perceivable burn - I waited for the back of my tongue to arch, for an exhalation as the sting hit, but instead there was just warmth, and a fumeless smokiness. Thus, in an evening of indiscriminate pleasures, Oban leaves an impression that will persist - others will come, some with more frequency, others with greater labels, but I am left forever in thrall to Oban.
Fast forward again to 2001, and I'm working in Munich. Although the tech stock crash is dawning on everyone, for us it is still a time of plenty, and the expenses policy is at its peak. My colleagues and I spend our evenings in the bar of the Arabella Sheraton Grand, where we are staying:
arabella
The bar is shameless sleaze, masked as class. The routine is simple - cocktails are tabbed and put on room numbers whist a lounge singer called "Jerry C" regales us with Lionel Richie covers and scrounges drinks off us. One night, Kris and I finish up at the office at about 11:30pm, jump in the chauffeured Benz and head back to the Arabella. Pleased with our evening's work, Kris suggests we treat ourselves to a Cuban - being from Dayton, he's making the most of the Cubans with impunity. Never having smoked a cigar in my life, I'm nonetheless game for anything. We're on the verge of ordering a Bush Mills to accompany, when I spot a fresh bottle of Oban on the rack. Duly ordered, I settle to experience a pairing of sensuous enjoyments incomparable to anything.
Now, I make no apology for the what appears an incongruously luxurious image when you consider my present, much more modest, circumstances - not yet 30 years old and already harping on about whiskey and cigars? It sounds very old world, with fat, old fucker bankers farting about in some members' club. Let me say this, people: those fuckers don't do it for no reason! A smokey amber in one hand, and a rich burnt flavour of rolled leaf in the other... you just close your eyes and forget everything else. Hell, if I could afford it, I'd probably dispense my pocket money happily on the combination - albeit in much lighter surroundings.
With or without the cigar, single malt has been, is, will remain the rinse of this sullied, penitent mind - nothing betters it. It punctuates great moments, more than be recounted here; happy times, comfort, loss of self, abandonment, retrieval, rescue, the throb of temples and eyeballs in the morning, but never regrets.
To all and any readers - if our paths should ever collide, be assured that in the spirit of warmth I'd gladly buy you what Burns lyricised as "a cup of kindness".
posted by nickwong8 at 10:36 pm
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