Drinking

There are many reasons to admire America, and also a few reasons to disapprove. On the plus side there is free speech, the right to protect oneself, a relatively dynamic economy and 198 versions of beef jerky. On the downside, an inconsistent attitude to turning right at lights, too much fructose and the possibility of a civil war on the way. However, on a recent long trip up the American West Coast, from palm to pine, I came away realizing that America has one great advantage over Europeans: a serious understanding of the concept of eating at bars in restaurants. By which I don’t mean nibbling nuts and necking a cocktail while waiting for a table. I mean actual eating, of a proper meal, while seated on a barstool.

Here we are at the beginning of a new year. Since I don’t have any childcare “learing centers” to offer my readers, I thought, the weather being frigid here in the northeast, I would reach out with the warmth of – no, not “collectivism,” to which I am allergic – but of some recent discoveries in the world of wine. Much cheaper, believe me, and much more palatable. It is only fairly recently that the Santa Cruz Mountains have come into their own as a California wine-producing region. I was deeply impressed by the 2021 Estate chardonnay from Rhys Vineyards. Sourced from three spots in the mountains, with elevations ranging from about 700 to 1,400 feet on a variety of soil types, this chardonnay is exceptionally well-structured.

I am standing in a sunny courtyard in the little town of Gijduvan, waiting for a drink. Just in case you don’t know, Gijduvan is a way station on the old Silk Road, in the far west of Uzbekistan: it is known for ceramics, Sufi mystics and loud celebrations of the Persian spring festival, Nowruz. As part of this festival, the locals make a special soup/beverage called sumalak. The recipe, I’m told, dates to Zoroastrian times – more than 3,000 years ago – and includes “wheat sprouts,” “cottonseed oil” and, I am not joking, “stones.” I can already see the sumalak bubbling away in a vast steel pot. It looks like viscous brown cow slurry. To be honest, I’m not brimming with eagerness.

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.

During a recent chat with my twin brother, I told him about a wholesome community event I was preparing to attend. Being the evil twin, he joked, “You should bring a flask.” This idea got us talking about just how, when, and where one is supposed to use a flask. Is one supposed to use a flask? My experience has often been that flasks are shady things, carried by alcoholics or sipped from covertly at events that would be intolerable without a numbing agent. Yet I wonder sometimes if any public behavior these days is really off-limits. America’s major cities all reek of weed, a cohort of busy moms recommends micro-dosing psychedelics, it’s socially acceptable to self-identify as a cloud, and people actually vape in public.