Everyday Drinking_ The Distilled Kingsley Amis - Kingsley Amis [48]
The manufacture of malt whisky has been simplified over the years, but the science of the thing is even now only broadly understood. The aroma and flavour of the finished product depend on a number of elements, starting with the local water, which, thanks to Scotland’s peculiar geology, can change distinctly from one small stream to the next. Less obvious factors include the method of heating the still, the humidity of the warehouse and the size of the cask. Legend says that the proprietor of a famous Speyside malt once refused to have the spiders’ webs cleaned out of his distillery, just in case.
Anyway, the variety to be met with among malt whiskies is very great. Glenmorangie, for example, a well-liked brand, has been called delicate and mild, even faintly sweet; Glenfid-dich, fruity and well balanced; the Glenlivet, mellow, ripe and peaty; Macallan, my favourite, powerful and yet smooth. And so on. It’s a marvellous field to browse in and in the last few years some pubs have taken to carrying a selection.
Malt whisky is a quality product if there ever was such a thing, all told only 2 per cent of the market in Scotch, nowhere near as widely known as it deserves to be. It should be drunk on its own, never with ice, perhaps with a little water—that’s how I prefer it.
Yes, but what water? These days good water is harder to come by than good whisky. The head of a leading firm recommends Volvic. I think Highland Spring is very good.
Dealing with wine in a restaurant used to be quite a nervous business, and the chief generator of nervousness was, of course, the wine waiter himself. Although theoretically on hand to help you enjoy your meal, he often seemed set on spoiling it. He would frown or raise his eyebrows at your choice of wine, not serve it till after your food had arrived, shift to and fro with unconcealed impatience while you went through the ritual of tasting, and get stroppy if you presumed to do some pouring yourself when he was across the room. The only way of winning his approval was to be rich.
Then the trattoria–bistro–taverna revolution came along and broke his power, or at least reduced his territory. Finally the recession put the lid on things by ruling out forays into the wine list. The other day we took a vote at a wine merchant’s lunch and, according to ten out of twelve of those present, ordering a carafe of the house red or the house white is what you do at any normal restaurant meal.
Just now and then, though, for one reason or another— a spirit of adventure is a good one, and so is someone else’s money to spend—you may run into an old-fashioned wine waiter. To be old-fashioned he doesn’t have to be old. In fact a really old wine waiter in a British city is apt to have had his spirit broken by generations of expense-account customers. Anyway, test him out by asking him what he recommends. If he shows no interest in what you’re eating, or refers to a wine just by its number on the list, he’s no good. Alternatively, order a wine on the list by name. If he has to lean over to see where you’re pointing before he can identify it, he’s also no good— he doesn’t even know his way round his own cellar.
Do nothing with this information beyond letting it expand your files. It isn’t worth antagonizing him at this stage. For the same reason, if the wine arrives in one of those cradle or basket affairs, just notice the fact as a handy sign of a suspect restaurant; don’t do what is very tempting and take the bottle out and stand it on its end. On the other hand, if the chap has really annoyed you and if you’re sure you won’t be that way again, proceed as follows.
Having deviously asked for an extra