Food & Drink

The October 15 issue of the Wine Spectator carries two intriguing features. The first is a series of reports, with lavish photographs, on “The World’s Greatest Vineyards.” This list of ten superstars is followed by a cast of twenty supporting actors, wineries the editors regard as “world class” but relegate to slightly lower rungs on the scale of vinous celebrity. You might think that any such listing would be powerfully subjective. Isn’t one’s taste in wine a classic instance of de gustibus non disputandum est? Well, yes and no. You don’t have to be Immanuel Kant to appreciate that in judging wine there are some objective, or objective-like, features, as well as wholly subjective ones.

A new DC bar dedicated to crossing partisan lines, “Political Pattie’s,” has taken the “political” out of its name... though Cockburn will note the removal is “temporary.” Owners Drew Benbow and Sydney Bradford dropped an Instagram post on Tuesday about their name and logo change, as the “representation of the red elephant was hurtful to the community.”  “Political Pattie’s aims to be a fun, inclusive space that pokes fun at politics, not the pain politics often causes,” the post read. The disclaimer and apology (or more accurately, apologia) came after “mean-spirited online backlash.” But here’s the tea: Benbow and Bradford bought out “the Dirty Goose,” an LGBTQ bar.

I once read the back cover of a book with a brilliant premise: a Silicon Valley wage-slave with a dull, lizard-person sort of existence suddenly has the care and feeding of a legacy sourdough starter thrust upon her. The thing promptly takes over her life and she emerges from the grayscale of soulless app-designed routine into the wild drama of an existence ruled by the whims of a yeast-ridden bacterial culture. Some are born to fermentation cultures, others acquire fermentation cultures, and yet others have fermentation cultures thrust upon them. I am among the latter school, a mostly grateful victim of fermentation-culture imposition. (Is this what they mean by Stockholm syndrome?

It was nine on a Monday morning, and whereas my fellow commuters were heading to the office, or their classrooms or a lecture hall, I was on my way to Parcafé in the Dorchester Hotel, right next to London’s bougie shopping district, Mayfair. It’s a place to buy Ferraris and Bugattis and shop at the Row and Goyard and be passed by an endless convoy of black Rolls-Royce SUVs. Waiting for me at the hotel would be a man with a little golden cup, containing a freshly brewed portion of mankind’s favorite black nectar. And his is the best, uncut stuff on the market. The man is Amir Gehl, founder and CEO of Difference Coffee, which sources some of the best, rarest coffee beans in the world.

There’s nothing quite like the third swig of a gin and tonic at the end of a long summer’s day. Or of an Old-Fashioned combating Old Man Winter’s chill. The bite on the tongue. The slow burn in the belly. The gradual easing of emotional and physical tension. Except for the hangovers. There’s nothing quite like those, either. As I — sigh — age, I’ve developed a relationship with alcohol that has become increasingly love-hate: I love it, it hates me. A slight intolerance to booze, German/Irish heritage notwithstanding, has always given me a rosy flush that on round three deepens to an unflattering scarlet that could be mistaken for theatrical rouge.

Some undetermined time in the long past, possibly in 1890s Montana, a miner had finished a long and tiring day and needed a refreshing beer. But after aparticularly taxing shift, a beer wasn’t going to cut it alone. He asked the barman for a shot of whisky as well — and washed it down with his pint. It’s hard to call the boilermaker a cocktail, and inventing one certainly wasn’t on the mind of our tired protagonist. To this day, mixing beer and spirits is not generally the province of mixologists; it’s a combination more often favored by partygoers looking to get slammed as entertainingly and quickly as possible.

Want to get drunk, fast? To most, that’s the point of the Long Island Iced Tea. It’s not so much a drink as a chemical formula designed to make an enormous percentage of alcohol consumable in a single glass. When I worked at a cocktail bar, a man once ordered two, and I asked if he would like me to hold on the second until his guest arrived. He replied, “No thanks, they’re just for me.” He proceeded to down both within a few minutes, for what surely began either a wild or very bad night. For the unfamiliar, Long Island Iced Tea contains almost every liquor you can imagine and no actual iced tea (though it shares its color).

Are the rich different from you and me as F. Scott Fitzgerald posited in 1926? Or do they just have more money, as Ernest Hemingway allegedly retorted? Whatever the answer, they’ve certainly become wealthier. While many of us normies have been sweating fallout from inflation and skyrocketing interest rates — buying a dozen eggs, never mind a new home, requires major budget adjustments — we can take comfort that at least the 0.001 percent are doing fine. According to the latest Oxfam International Inequality Report, the five richest men in the world have doubled their fortunes since 2020 — from a measly $405 billion to $869 billion. What do they sip as they stroke their fat white purebred cats atop piles of gold? It’s wine you won’t find at a store.