Boozehound - Jason Wilson [56]
—Letter from a Danish lord to the Archbishop of Trondheim, Norway, 1531
NEW YORKER ART CRITIC Peter Schjeldahl once compared looking at Edvard Munch’s paintings to “listening to an album of a certain blues or rock song that, once upon a time, changed my life. I can’t hear the songs, as I can’t see the Munch images, without recalling earlier states of my soul, as if to listen or to look were, beyond nostalgia, an exercise in autobiography. Each song, each image, reminds me of myself.”
I was thinking about this around 4 a.m. on a summer Saturday morning as I walked back to the Hotel Munch after an evening out in Oslo. I’d met some lovely people who’d taken me to a country music club to listen to a band called Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash, and then to a rock club where a heavy metal cover band played Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” for its last number, with everyone singing along.
By then, it was late, or early, and I had to wake up in a few hours to meet some Norwegian spirits industry people for a tasting. As I walked home, past lines of people waiting for kebabs and hot dogs, the sky was that amazing shade of dark blue it only turns during a Nordic summer, when the sun never quite goes away.
The Hotel Munch provides clean, agreeable accommodations for budget travelers on a side street in downtown Oslo. It’s a nice enough place, a step up from the dormitory at the youth hostel, though the rooms are small and a bit overheated. One hot shower will turn the poorly ventilated space into a steam bath for several hours afterward. The shower will also leave water all over the bathroom, because “shower” is a loose term referring to a curtained-off corner where water spills down into a drain on the floor. I could tell you I chose to stay at this hotel only because its namesake is an artist whose work I have always loved. Though that is true, I was also staying at the Hotel Munch because it’s as cheap as downtown rooms get in this ridiculously expensive city.
That beautiful Saturday morning, at my hotel, I was scheduled to meet representatives from two small, craft-distilled Norwegian aquavit brands. I had not intended to host a tasting of premium spirits in my steamy little room at the Hotel Munch. I don’t believe the thought of a premium spirits tasting has actually ever crossed the mind of anyone at the Hotel Munch. I’d planned to do our tasting at a restaurant—perhaps the same restaurant where we also planned to have lunch. But the day before, the distiller for both brands, Ole Puntervold, emailed saying, “Norway is a civilized country, so tasting should perhaps be in your room at the hotel, not in a restaurant while you are eating lunch!”
At first I thought he was kidding, but no. Two brand representatives, Henrik Holst and Sven Hauge, showed up at the hotel before noon with bottles and promotional material and aquavit glasses. We crowded into the tiny elevator, took it up to the third floor, and entered my room; the air was still muggy from the shower and redolent of the previous late night. We set up the glasses on the tiny IKEA-like table next to my skinny single bed strewn with dirty clothes. I dumped out the dregs from a paper coffee cup, which would serve as a makeshift spit bucket. Munch, who reveled in this type of shabby bohemian milieu, probably would have been pleased.
We wiped the sweat off our brows, and Sven and I took our jackets off. Meanwhile, Henrik took up the prime position next to the window, which was the kind of northern European window that you can only open the merest crack at the top. We all chatted awkwardly, trying to avoid looking at my dirty socks and unmade bed, and then began our tasting.
“Well,” said Henrik with a nervous chuckle, “I guess we can call this a David-versus-Goliath tasting.” The Goliath he was referring to was Arcus, the giant Norwegian distillery that, until 2005, had for decades operated a state-run spirits monopoly. Henrik’s and Sven’s are two of the first spirits brands made by privately licensed distillers in Norway.
I’d actually