Booze Porn

Recently, I read Anthony Bourdain’s book The Nasty Bits. It’s a treatise on his experiences working in the restaurant world, interspersed with his philosophical ramblings about the nature of food, fame and life itself. It’s sometimes vague, intermittently vivid, occasionally profound and always from the heart. And, its part of what inspired me to begin writing again. If I ever meet him, I’ll thank him profusely for shaking me out of my stupor.

In reading his book, I was introduced to the concept of “food porn”. This is a rich, sensual, adjective-sprinkled narrative about the simple pleasures of eating good food, written in an erotic style normally reserved for pleasures involving more sweat and nudity. They are wonderful to read if you are possessed of any imagination and/or appreciation of a fine meal. (Personal note: Before I die, I’m going to eat sushi at Masa’s. After reading Bourdain’s description, I simply must know if it is as good as he says it is.)

As I read his book, several things occurred to me. The first was that it was pretty damn cool. The second, that I could easily do something similar if I tried. And the third, well…if we have food porn, why not booze porn?

I am a whiskey drinker. I love whiskey, Scotch and bourbon in all its myriad forms. Well, except Canadian; to my mind the Canadians understand whiskey about as well as street mutts understand gourmet cooking. I am not a peat-sniffing single malt snob either; I love Maker’s Mark, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Bushmill’s with equal intensity. Hell, I’ve even had my Wild Turkey/Southern Comfort binges; blaring Poison from my iPod and careening precariously around my living room, bottle clenched in my fist, hair flying about my face like a latter-day Viking. Sometimes I even scream out, “I am a GOLDEN GOD!” at the top of my lungs for no particular reason. It’s something every white boy should do at least once.

But sometimes, if you want a truly transcendent experience, you have to part with some cash and go upscale. Here’s how I do it.

I take a pilgrimage down to Usce’s, a convivial Dublin-themed pub in the middle of the understated liveliness that is downtown Bellingham. I try to come during off-peak hours; the ceilings are high and echoing, and the Friday night college crowd churns out a fairly consistent roar. I like to see people having a good time, but if I want to get deafened I’ll purchase tickets to an Iron Maiden show instead.

I also try and time my arrival for when the owner is working the bar; she’s an elegant woman, with charming laugh lines on her cheeks and a delicate grace to her movements. She pours fine Scotch the way I think it should be poured; slowly, reverently, generously, and with the knowing smile of one that understands the worth of what she’s serving. I stand at the bar, and patiently wait my turn. I don’t usually have to order; she, like all successful barmaids down through history, remembers me and my tastes. (Glenmorangie 18 year, straight up, and a glass of water.) I hand her my twenty bucks (a princely sum for me to part with in my income bracket) and watch her work her magic. She hands me my ticket to bliss, and I search for an empty corner table.

I don’t sit at the bar; I usually try to sit as far away from everyone else as possible. I’m not antisocial, but I believe that sensual indulgence of any form is best done in as much privacy as can be managed. My favorite table is by the window; from there, I can watch the often rain-soaked Northwestern night, observe the passage of humanity through a protective veil of smoked glass, and generally not get bothered.

While searching for a seat, I take a couple of good swigs from my water glass to clear the flavor residue of tobacco, food and whatever off my palate. It’s one good piece of advice for anyone who wants to try wine, scotch or anything else with a complicated evolving flavor; your tongue is about to be overburdened enough, so give it a fresh start. Once seated, I set the water aside and begin seducing the whiskey in front of me.

I cradle the glass and admire the sight of that somber amber hue. I hold it up to the light and marvel at the shades of gold, umber and rich chocolate. At this point I can just make out the faint fragrances that waft up from it. Like admiring the body of a woman as she sheds her clothes before you make love, it is part of the whole experience and shouldn’t be skipped.

I don’t bother taking a sniff over the glass. Good Scotch is surprisingly volatile; you’ll be breathing it almost as much as you’ll be drinking it, and the cradling of the glass in my hand warms it enough that I can perceive the scent without extra effort. (Second piece of advice; with Scotch, don't let it sit too long, or the flavor will go flat.) Besides, sticking my schnoz in the snifter feels pretentious. And it’s my glass.

Nothing compares to that first sip. I take a small one, not enough to swallow; it vanishes on my tongue like a dream in the light of day, leaving behind a riot of flavor. Honey, cream, anise, smoke, cold Highland air and rich earth hold hands on my palate and sing bawdy songs. The wood comes on next; sharp, intense, almost bitter but not quite unpleasant. The sensations are as different as can be, but somehow they all get along. .

The next sips are deeper, so I can feel the warmth in my chest, spreading slowly through my muscles (“like the wings of an angel” as a poetically inclined fellow Scotch drinker once put it) and gently sweeping aside the tensions of everyday life. As the glass gets lighter, the problems and cares of existence fade into the background, and I stop trying so hard to enjoy it and just let it happen.

The buzz from a glass of good highland Scotch is a singular pleasure; it is warm, philosophical, relaxing and utterly sublime. As I drink, my mind begins to wander away from the glass in front of me, and I let it. I picture the journey of this whiskey from its origins in lichen-crusted mountains to its terminal arrival in my small Northwest town. I imagine the grain, the wood, the peat, the blending and the mixing of all those elements and the passage of years required. My meanderings are probably more fanciful than accurate, but I care not. They please me.

I drink until the glass is gone; too soon but probably just soon enough, it is. My head is suffused with a wonderful glow, and I finish the other half of my water before the wonderful tastes on my tongue can turn sour. I carry my glasses back to the bar and hand my earthbound angel of a barmaid a five-spot (note to readers; if you can’t afford to tip, and tip well, drink at home). I am rewarded with another of her warm smiles, and I step out onto the sidewalk for a smoke.

I smoke a pipe most days; it’s healthier, cheaper and more pleasant to bystanders than cigarettes. I load a pinch of vanilla Cavendish into my beat-up briar, lean up against the wall, light up and ruminate. The noise fades to a pleasant hum, punctuated by the occasional passing car, and I give my mind free reign to go on a walkabout. Some of my best creative notions have resulted this way.

As the glow begins to wear off, the thoughts often turn sad. I think of old friends I haven’t seen in years and lovers long gone. I observe the stars on their heavenly courses, and wonder if the woolgathering of my poetic soul matters to anyone but me. I watch the puffs of smoke from my pipe climb up to greet the moon, and I like to imagine that someone up there is listening, watching, and smiling. By the time the pinch in my pipe is burnt to ash, my head is clear, my day measurably improved.

You may be wondering why I do this, why I would spend what amounts to a large chunk of my discretionary income on such a transitory pleasure. Well, if you are, then turn in your humanity badge right this instant. Give it to someone who’ll make better use of it. God, Fate or evolution gave us our five senses and a soul with which to enjoy their input. I intend to take full advantage of the fact, and you should too.

As to why I drink my favorite Scotch in a bar (when, for the price of six glasses I could buy a bottle and have it whenever I want), the bar is part of the experience. And something that rarified should be an occasional treat, not an everyday pleasure. Besides, if I drank at home, I wouldn’t have an elegant, Hepburn-esque beauty to pour it for me. And to me, watching her do it is a pleasure worth paying a premium for. Someday, if I ever make it big, I’ll buy a bottle to celebrate. And I’ll invite that lovely woman over so I can pour for her.

Enjoy yourself. Try it sometime. It doesn’t have to be fine Scotch; hell, it doesn’t have to be alcoholic at all. Just get yourself the best of your chosen indulgence, and revel in the experience, all aspects of it. Seize that transitory moment, open yourself to it. You’re selling your soul short if you do not, once in a while, live.