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Thursday

The Spectator

Favourite cocktails from Matthew Parris, Jeremy Clarke, Martin Vander Weyer and more

We asked our writers to write about their favourite cocktails, from aperitifs to nightcaps, all the way through to the hangover cures. Here’s what they said. Matthew Parris The Iron Lady For years in the 1980s I tried to develop a cocktail to be called the Iron Lady. There were problems: the signifier for iron is really red, while she was clearly blue; and the only blue liqueur I could find was Blue Curaçao. My final prototype consisted in vodka and Blue Curaçao, with a cube of ice impaled by a steel nail (freeze with nail in place, or heat the nail and push it through). It was OK — but the Curaçao was so sweet that you could only use a little, and the whole thing lacked the kick or bite that I think she would have wanted.

Thursday

Jonathan Ray

What it takes to be Best Sommelier of the World

It is blossom time in Tokyo. An unruly pack of journalists, photographers and TV crews prowls the corridors of the Grand Prince Hotel Takanawa, where a world championship is taking place. Where’s the smart money going? Who’s looking good and who’s out of sorts? Who stayed out last night and who was tucked up in bed nice and early? ‘That’s Bruce, the coach of the Canadian team, he’ll know what’s cooking,’ mutters a colleague as an anxious looking guy scuttles past. ‘And there’s the European champion,’ whispers another as a dark-suited young man darts out of a door and hurries away. A Japanese film crew sprints off in pursuit. Finally, an official corrals us together and solemnly hands out the behaviour rules for the final.

Camilla Swift

The delicious return of Gin Lane

In 1751, William Hogarth was asked to create two prints: one depicting the evils of gin, the other the virtues of beer. Hogarth must have received a pat on the back from the brewers who commissioned him, because ‘Gin Lane’ cast gin as the greatest of all evils. It ruined mothers, and caused starvation, insanity and suicide. In ‘Beer Street’, industry and commerce thrive — and everyone is a picture of health. Gin drinking did get severely out of hand in the 18th century. In one notorious case, a woman named Judith Dufour collected her two-year-old child from the workhouse, strangled him, dumped the body and sold his clothes for 1s 4d to buy gin (the detail from ‘Gin Lane’ above is Hogarth’s version of her).

Lloyd Evans

Red wine… with a hint of Diet Coke

A mixed case arrives from Corney & Barrow. My orders are to improvise so I pull out a bottle at random. Here it is. El Campesino, a 2013 Chardonnay (£7.13), from Chile, which has a full, direct flavour and a slightly bitter tang that cuts against the sweetness. The Dionysian experts who scour the earth on Corney & Barrow’s behalf describe it as ‘fresh’ and ‘modern’ but not ‘overly oaked’. That, I presume, is a reference to cheapskate vintners who chuck oak shavings into the barrel to enhance the flavour. No crime there, I’d say, if it produces results. Customising wine is as old as wine itself.

David Blackburn

My own private craft beer World Cup

11 p.m., Saturday 14 June. Football fans gather before the TV in anticipation of England vs Italy. There is quiet, save for the click and hiss of fresh lagers being opened. Football and beer are indivisible. The football was forgettable, and so — in most cases — was the lager. When was the last time you guzzled Carlstellabourg and were conscious of taste? You drink lager without noticing it. Craft beer is another matter. You can’t help but notice it — and not always in a good way, as a panel of eight seasoned drinkers discovered on the night of the England-Italy game. While waiting for kick-off, they worked their way through 15 British craft beers, and marked each against their ideal branded lager.

Melanie McDonagh

Politically correct wines worth drinking

When the editor of this special suggested I might try some wine for him (did he need to ask twice? No!) it’s fair to say that New World wines weren’t my first pick. ‘How about Eastern Europe?’ I said, with an eye to Macedonia. Or failing that, Germany? It’s far too long since I’ve tasted Frankenwein and you can’t get the best stuff here for love nor money. I was perfectly game for English wine. But nope. Everyone else had got the Old World stuff first; it was the New World for me, and I am one who feels subconsciously that things have been going downhill since 1492. Private Cellar, who supplied my case, were keen I should try a couple of South African growers. This brought a different set of preoccupations into play.

Steven Mcgregor

Discovering bourbon on Brick Lane

When I was stationed in Kentucky I never drank bourbon. It wasn’t until I came to London that the drink became something special to me. I always passed a bowling alley on Brick Lane with fluorescent lights and unmarked taxis waiting by the door. One night they had two for one drinks, so I went inside. It was just as I suspected: clattering pins and certified drunks. But the barman, Mike, loved bourbon. ‘People here only have this with Coke,’ he lamented, and snuck a drink from a small tumbler without ice or water. Booker’s, an uncut, small-batch bourbon made by Jim Beam, was his choice. But behind him on the shelves there were about 20 other options.

Rose Prince

Rose Prince’s summer wine match menu

It may seem like stating the obvious, but to me the best wines are food wines, meaning those that should never be far away from a plate of something they match perfectly. A dish with the right wine is a meeting of two halves to make a whole experience that stays in your memory for ever. The best of British ingredients are very deserving in that respect. Who can deny the mineral flavours of salt marsh lamb a wonderful Languedoc red, or sweetly spiced Cornish crab a golden Pouilly-Fuissé? For this midsummer menu we matched the best with the best, kept it simple, and witnessed some very happy marriages.

Thursday

William Boyd

Christmas Short Story: The Road Not Travelled

Today Meredith Swann is driving in her new car under the M40 flyover checking on her GPS system to see if she’s following the flowing arrows correctly. She has switched off the woman’s voice — ‘Turn left in 200 yards’ — because it reminds her uncannily of her mother, all calm, quiet advice with a subtext of disapproval. She turns and turns again. Now she is on a road of towering glass office blocks. Is she lost? No, there it is — Sainsbury’s Homebase. She parks, steps out of her car and pulls down her T-shirt to cover the neat dome of her pregnant belly. The car magically locks itself as she walks away, its lights giving her a knowing wink of acknowledgement. In the vast Homebase she is daunted and diminished by the size of the place.

Susan Hill

Susan Hill short story: The Boy on the Hillside

Listen to Susan Hill read The Boy on the Hillside: [audioboo url="https://audioboo.fm/boos/1816403-susan-hill-reads-the-boy-on-the-hillside"][/audioboo] The boy, Seth, stirred in his sleep. ‘Cold…’ He had pushed the blanket off, with his tossing and turning about. ‘Here, here.’ The man seated on the ground nearest to him rearranged Seth’s covering, pulling it up and tucking it under him until he was swaddled like a baby. His head rested on an old fleece. There were five men and the boy out on this first night of bitter weather.

The Spectator

Spectator survey: What would you tell your 14-year-old self?

Joan Bakewell Broadcaster and journalist Those early teenage years are a time of doubt and discovery. Take time to be alone and speak honestly to yourself. Weigh up what you think others — family, friends, teachers — think of you. Then consider what you feel about the world and your place in it. Read the world’s great books and see the best of theatre and cinema. Take time to be thoughtful, and then come out bold and confident in yourself. Aim for the good things in life, which are not money and property, or even travel and glamour. Instead learn to value friendship, the beauty of nature, kindness across generations and the deep pleasure of the arts. Then get on with enjoying life to the full.

Thursday

J.R.H. Mcewen

The soul of a single malt

Scottish people, known to be a bit touchy on occasion, sometimes wonder if that customary attitude of jocular condescension displayed towards their country by, in particular, the nearest neighbours, does not disguise something like envy. Jealousy would be forgivable: as a brand, Scotland has all the trimmings: the scenery is fabulous in what Alex Salmond likes to call ‘the undisputed home of golf’, the beef and raspberries first-rate, the knitwear coveted around the globe. And as for delightful cultural inessentials, what other country of comparable or of any size can boast such a collection of instantly recognisable and authentic national signifiers?

Douglas Murray

Cocktails: Cupboard love

At the back of every drinks tray or cabinet there are always some stray bottles. Some deserve to be lonely, others just end up that way. But it is occasionally worth sifting the wheat — or at least grain — from the chaff. Here is a guide for doing so. Vermouth Only keep your bottle if you make your own martinis. If you drink them as they should be drunk you will need so little that only a martini alcoholic could ever reach the bottom of the bottle. You won’t need to buy two in a lifetime. So keep it, but on no account ever drink it on its own. Curacao and other brightly coloured things Abandon all hope. You will never find a use for them. They cannot be used in the home. Try to dispose down the sink, otherwise at a local authority waste site.

Henry Jeffreys

Seasonal drinking: Fortify yourself

I’ve just received my latest energy bill and it appears that I’ve been living this last year in a draughty manor house rather than a three--bedroom ex-council flat. This winter, I’m going to have to choose between a warm flat and decent-quality booze. Of course it’s going to be the booze; I’ll just have to wear a woolly hat and fingerless gloves whilst drinking. At times like this, I thank God for the ingenuity of the British. Other cold countries have drinks to combat the winter — the Russians have vodka, the Swedes have schnapps and the Mongolians have fermented yak’s milk. These are drinks to achieve oblivion rather than to savour. We, however, have a whole smorgasbord of drinks to help us through the winter.

A.N. Wilson

G without T

G and T, the favoured cure for gyppy tummy in Himalayan hill-stations, bubbled home from the Raj to the English suburbs to become the aperitif of choice in Betjemanic golf clubs and panelled bars from Altrincham to Carshalton. There is a particular pleasure in being in a London pub at the end of an office day, and hearing the clink of ice in glass, as barmaids ask ‘Do you want lemon in that?’ and office workers, happy that the tedium of toil is done, say, ‘Yes, and make those doubles.’ Larkin wrote about the pleasure of making G and T, but it was never my drink.

Simon Berry

Bring back the pint of champagne!

When I’m gathered, as my granny used to say, I’d like to be remembered as the man who reintroduced the imperial pint of champagne. I’m not an ambitious creature, by and large. But we all want to leave our mark upon this world somehow, and that’s where I’ve set my sights. I’ve been trying for over 30 years, and sadly I’m no closer to winning this particular battle. But, as my old granny also said, pointing to a picture of Robert the Bruce and the spider, ‘If at first you don’t succeed…’ The imperial pint makes for a perfect-sized bottle. You get four proper-sized glasses from it — as opposed to six from a bottle, or three from a half-bottle. Champagne is designed to be shared, preferably with one other person.

Thursday

The Spectator

Cure addiction the Mao Tse-tung way

Yes Trinny Woodall I’m Trinny, I’m an alcoholic and I’m an addict. When asked whether addiction is a disease, I didn’t have to think twice. Knowing that I have a disease is how I manage to have a healthy life today. All I can tell you about addiction is my experience. I grew up in a very normal home. Both my grandfather who was an alcoholic and an uncle who was alcoholic died of this illness. When I went to my first rehab I kept wondering: why I am an addict? They told me: ‘Don’t be concerned with why you have developed this disease. It’s in you, you have it, and you need to live healthily knowing you have it for life.’ Nobody starts taking whatever it is they’re addicted to because they hate it.

Thursday

Henry Jeffreys

Sorry, Champagne, but cider is the original fizz

It has become a commonplace fact, beloved of pub quizzes, that an Englishman, Christopher Merret, invented Champagne. There is even an element of truth to it: Merret gave a paper to the Royal Society in 1672 outlining how to make wine fizzy. But he wasn’t the first to induce bubbles in a bottle. In the West Country, scientifically inclined gentlemen had been doing it for years — only they used cider, not wine. In the 17th century there was a wine crisis in England. Home-grown vines had been killed by prolonged cold weather — something now known as the Little Ice Age — and imports were severely curtailed because of wars with France, the Netherlands and Spain. The problem became acute when Cromwell passed the Navigation Act of 1651.

Sophia Waugh

Auberon Waugh’s way with wine

The cellars at Combe Florey, the house in Somerset in which I grew up, were a place of mystery and fear. You walked down wide, shallow stone steps to a large door on which my father had stuck a postcard which read ‘I know who you are’ when, in a fit of paranoia, he decided that a neighbour was stealing his wine. Once through the door, there were more steps down until you found yourself in a large, cool, faintly musty-smelling room. Bats, furious at the disturbance, swooped around you until they sulkily returned to their lair in some dark corner. Off each wall were more cellars: in one, a large red boiler rumbled and groaned, a ridiculously grand chandelier hung, totally out of place, and a portrait of Queen Charlotte leered out at you.

Harry Eyres

Italian red wine: The start of the affair

I was taught to admire and respect, even revere, the great red wines of France: the growths of Bordeaux, the crus of Burgundy, Hermitage, Côte Rotie. No one taught me to admire Italian red wines; I simply fell in love with them. The prelude to the affair was a wine tasting hosted by the occasional group of shippers and experts called Forum Vinorum in London in 1987, masterminded by Nicholas Belfrage MW. This was a revelation — or a series of revelations. Valpolicella, at least as made by Quintarelli, did not have to be the thin insipid stuff which had given us hangovers and heartburn at student discos, but could have marvellous depth and purity of fruit. Bardolino from Guerrieri Rizzardi was capable of red cherry freshness and bite, not just sourness.