Drink

Anyone paying attention to the pumps at their local recently might have noticed something peculiar: a swathe of old-school logos. There’s the red triangle of Bass, the red right hand of Allsopp’s, the yellow bees and barrel of Boddingtons.   Despite fighting long-term decline, cask ale is having a moment. At some of London’s trendiest new pubs, like the Robin in Stroud Green, McIntosh Ales in Stoke Newington or the Pocket in Angel, cask makes up a significant portion of available beers.   While it would be overstretching to say the American-inspired craft beer movement is over, the recent administration of Brewdog, and anecdotal tales of drinkers growing tired of high-strength IPAs that taste of grapefruit could

Imagine going into an English pub and slapping a tenner down on the bar. ‘All I can drink, please,’ you say. ‘Certainly sir,’ says the barman. ‘You’ve got two hours.’ ‘Right then,’ you say. ‘I’ll start with a pint.’ Ten minutes later: ‘Whisky, please, no ice.’ Shortly afterwards: ‘I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary.’ Then: ‘Pint of that there. The green one. Please.’ Shortly afterwards. ‘Large white wine.’ And so the night wears on. You can have absolutely anything you like: cocktails, double G&Ts, rum and coke, Jack Daniels and Jack Daniels. Two hours is enough to render you senseless. You have drunk the equivalent of £100 of booze

I was in Scottsdale, Arizona and, to put it mildly, a little squiffy. Most folk go there to play golf (yawn) but I’d gone there to drink and, after a lengthy tequila masterclass in La Hacienda and several cocktails at Platform 18 (‘best US cocktail bar’ in the 2023 Spirited Awards, incidentally) in nearby Phoenix, I was also more than a little disorientated. No, don’t laugh. Firstly, La Hacienda – a fancy bar in the Fairmont Scottsdale Princess resort – has more than 240 different tequilas and mezcals on its list and, thanks to the resort’s resident Tequila Goddess (its term, not mine), they just kept on coming. And secondly,

Travel to Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island, and I imagine one of the last things you’d expect to find is a Frenchman making wine. But tucked away in Hakodate, Etienne de Montille, a ninth-generation winemaker from the 300-year-old Domaine de Montille in Burgundy’s Côte de Beaune, is challenging preconceptions about Japanese wine. The de Montille family has been synonymous with Burgundy for centuries, but Etienne decided in 2016 to try something different, setting up vineyards in both Hokkaido and Santa Barbara, California.  ‘I was touched by what I saw,’ Etienne told the Japan Times last year. ‘[Unlike in France] where we have the proper winemaking infrastructure, there isn’t a formal school for winemaking in

Join me, if you will, for a short stroll down the Charing Cross Road, back in the days when it was festooned with bookshops and Morris Oxfords. At Cambridge Circus, there was a large catering equipment shop owned by my great-uncle, Bill Farnsworth. He made it big when he sold water coolers to the American military. Above the enormous ground-floor showroom was his counting house, where men in tailored suits laboured over ledgers on high sloping desks, dipping their nibs into ink pots. This would have been about 1960. Were you to have a meeting with Bill in his office, say in the late morning, he would invariably turn to

On Christmas morning, as you make your first tea or begin mixing your eggnog, spare a thought for our armed forces. Since the 1890s, they have been starting Christmas Day with a drink that sounds more like a bizarre hangover cure than a festive pick-me-up.  Known as ‘Gunfire’, the drink is made of one part rum to three parts black tea. By tradition, the beverage is taken hot and is served by senior officers to junior soldiers, making it one of the few occasions in which the ordinarily inflexible roles of the military are reversed.  Although no one is quite sure how Gunfire got its name, the most compelling theory, according to

At the end of the 1970s, when I had my first taste of wine, the choice was limited. It was either cloyingly sweet German Liebfraumilch, or something from the Don Cortez or Hirondelle types, both of which were sour and brash. That, younger readers, was how bad things were, and why many of us during that time stuck to lager and lime. When Le Piat D’Or came on the market, it was, frankly, a relief. But things have changed, including my palate. Sweet or semi-sweet wines can be delicious, and bear no resemblance to the cheap German variety of my youth. Many moons ago, invited to my first posh dinner

Bring back brothels! It’s not your typical political slogan, but Marine Le Pen’s National Rally has launched a campaign to reopen and regulate France’s brothels for the benefit of sex workers. In an interview last week Jean-Philippe Tanguy, one of Le Pen’s senior MPs, said his party would table a bill to reopen the brothels – known as maisons closes in France – which were closed in 1946. ‘The prostitutes would be empresses in their own kingdom,’ explained Tanguy. Le Pen’s party believes that regulated brothels would better protect sex workers from violence. But some on the left are outraged at the proposition. In an op-ed in the left-wing L’Humanité newspaper, 12

‘Be not solitary; be not idle,’ wrote Robert Burton in The Anatomy of Melancholy. Now, 400 years later, one bar is taking his instruction to heart and banning solo drinkers. An Altrincham venue which goes by the gloriously 1990s nightclub name of Alibi will only allow groups in after 9 p.m. Owner Carl Peters said he introduced the policy after certain individuals had been ‘mithering other groups’ – ‘mithering’ being a northern word meaning to pester or make a fuss. Alibi also has a strict dress code: ‘No sportswear/trackies, no Stone Island, no ripped/frayed jeans, no baseball caps, no roadman vibes.’ I should point out to Spectator readers that a