alcohol

JOHNNIE WALKER BLACK LABEL—RIP Christopher Hitchens

My Fellow Inebriates,

I promised one of my mum’s Facebook friends that I would weigh in on the authenticity of the Shroud of Turin. But first I have to disclaim a bit:

  • I’m no expert on religious relics. I’m not sure there are any bears in the field.
  • This isn’t a sindonology forum, although admittedly the topics get a little loose.
  • I am totally freaked out by religious artifacts, especially wraps for the dead.
  • I was completely hosed when I offered to comment.

But here goes.

We still don’t know definitively how old the shroud is. Three teeny pieces of it were sent to three separate labs for radiocarbon dating; in 1989 Nature pronounced its age “AD 1260-1390, with at least 95% confidence.” This was a tough pill to swallow for those who believe it to be Jesus’s burial wrap, so they disputed the findings, suggesting that the wrong pieces of the garment (medieval repair patches perhaps) had been sent to the lab and that other, better pieces (which could not be spared) would have yielded a much older date—say, AD 30. Enough criticism was generated that the issue could be labeled a controversy, and so it’s all up in the air.

I know this is an awfully dumb question, but why don’t they send some more fibers for carbon dating? Some better fibers? I know they don’t want to wreck the shroud, but it’s really big! It’s bigger than a beach towel. And then everybody could stop arguing about its age—the biggest piece of the puzzle.

The latest scientific buzz on the shroud is that its image could have been made only by an electromagnetic discharge—a camera obscura effect that arguably could not have been achieved by any known mechanical method at the time, whatever time it was.

I thought I would contact Christopher Hitchens for a quote on the issue but it turns out he’s dead of pneumonia following a very public battle with stage IV (“there is no stage V”) esophageal cancer. Esophageal cancer is a major bitch; it claimed the grandfather I never knew way back in the eighties when Madonna first started warbling away on MTV and before the Shroud of Turin got carbon-dated.

A lot of theists are speculating where Hitchens has ended up. Some of the happier, nicer characters posit that if he repented in the last second of life, he could very well be enjoying Johnnie Walker Black Label in the sky right now. It’s a very comforting vision, especially given what a friendly mixer Black Label makes, with its introductory, welcome-to-scotch aromas of wood grain, butter, fruit and just a touch of peat. For anyone who’s not sure about scotch, Johnnie Walker is a good starting point: softer and more drinkable than some of the more peaty single-malt whiskies. Hitchens called it “the best blended scotch in the history of the world.” Humans have been making booze of various kinds since the beginning of time, so that’s a decent accolade.

Hitchens’s death is especially poignant, leaving me as it does with a sumptuous pile of good reading that has suddenly been rendered all the more finite. If only I had some Johnnie Walker Black Label to go with it.

TANQUERAY SPECIAL DRY GIN

My Fellow Inebriates,

My mum told me she dreamt last night that I was doing my own typing. With my paws, no less.

It's okay to serve pancakes.

This dream sounded ominous to me and possibly related to yesterday’s suggestion of a breakfast brainstorming session with the gents from BROKER’S GIN with my mum slinging pancakes on the sidelines.

Her dream did seem tinged with threat. I said, “Don’t worry, proper gin enthusiasts skip breakfast; they just mix their gin with juice in the morning.”

Silence.

“So you could just squeeze us some OJ or something.”

I had a split second to ponder the angst my mother’s humorlessness and now undeniable middle age must cause her before she chucked me in the toybox.

Also by Dan Lacey

Thankfully the box got cleaned with Windex yesterday. I could even taste the residue on the plastic. So at least it wasn’t full of weird detritus and petrified mysteries. So I had time to think about all kinds of miscellany: When will my Obama & Penelope the Unicorn print arrive? What kinds of juice go nicely with Cachaca? Is Dolly somewhere in the box? Is it true about the carbon dating on the Shroud of Turin? Why hasn’t Hanukkah Harry visited yet (or has he started consolidating eight visits into one to be more environmentally friendly)?

But mostly I was thinking about a nice gin & tonic. I’ve been so fixated on BROKER’S GIN lately that I haven’t given much attention to its competitors. Let’s talk TANQUERAY.

Even older than the venerable BEEFEATER, TANQUERAY SPECIAL DRY GIN dates back to 1830 when son-of-a-clergyman Charles Tanqueray first “traded in the church for the still.” Quadruple-distilled, TANQUERAY boasts a slightly smaller botanical array than many of its competitors: juniper, coriander, angelica and licorice. The result is a snappy, focused gin that makes a distinctive martini while being powerful enough to punch through the tonic in a G&T.

I had no idea (thank you, Internet) that TANQUERAY had merged with GORDON’S in 1898. This upset me a little because GORDON’S really has nothing on TANQUERAY, making the merger a typically cynical bid to cover all bases in a market with variable purchasing power. Don’t get me wrong; I would drink GORDON’S, but not if I could have TANQUERAY, which admittedly I would drink even if you wrung it out of dirty underwear into my mouth.

Which is to say TANQUERAY really is all that. Straight up it conveys pine to the nose, and then delicate juniper and citrus undertones. The distinctiveness of these flavors is the reason TANQUERAY makes such a rad martini, although purity aficionados (and habitual vodka drinkers) would no doubt prefer its cleaner-tasting super-premium sibling TANQUERAY 10. I’d honestly rather have the dirty little original at two-thirds the price—it has more character, and if you truly appreciate gin, character is what it’s all about.

Finally my mum retrieved me from the toybox. She said it was hard to channel my thoughts when I was so unhappy, but that if I ever expressed any further notions about her stringing on an apron to serve my Old Boys dick-stroking gin-drinking club she would %&*#!/$* bury me. OMG!

 

BROKER’S GIN—Part 4!

My Fellow Inebriates,

I received another lovely note from Julia Gale of Broker’s Gin the other day mentioning she’d been ill and sending holiday greetings. I know exactly what it’s like to feel ill, as I frequently inflict it upon myself, so I send her my most positive, healing wishes.

If I keep mentioning Julia, it’s because the boys who run Broker’s have decided to leave her at home when they visit in the New Year to address the Broker’s drought here in British Columbia. Now, if I were running Broker’s Gin I would certainly include someone as warm and thoughtful as Julia in my Canadian delegation. (Of course, if I were running Broker’s Gin, there would be no gin in stock, obviating the delegation.)

Still, I wonder how to entertain these English chaps once they arrive. There isn’t much in my neighborhood besides Walmart and Costco, although there are a few seedy bars that might do in a pinch. There’s also a scruffy-looking casino, which might be our best bet.

If their gin consumption isn’t so far gone that they eschew eating like yours truly, perhaps I’ll invite them over for some breakfast. According to the kids, my mum is okay at making pancakes, although her omelets are wretched. She won’t mind stringing on an apron, I’m sure, and serving the three of us while we discuss how to re-introduce Broker’s Gin into western Canada. I will make sure we have some grapefruit juice to combine with their fine gin.

The visit is still a couple of weeks away, besides which it never pays to over-plan things, so I’ll just sit tight until the gentlemen contact me.