...droll opinion from Christopher Buckley:
Booze as Muse
By CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY (NYT)
MY first real job in journalism was as a junior editor at Esquire, a magazine with a venerable literary pedigree. I imagined myself having three-martini lunches with Tom Wolfe, and explaining to “Tom” (surely we would be on a first-name basis by the third martini) that his latest 25,000-word article was not bad, exactly, but needed another run through the typewriter before we could even think of publishing it.
This absurd, callow reverie was summarily dashed by my first assignment. I was told to call up someone famous — “anyone famous” — and get his or her favorite Bloody Mary recipe for the summer issue. I called an old girlfriend who had married a certifiably famous movie director.
“He only drinks Scotch neat,” she said. “But we’ll just make something up.” The ghost of Esquire’s founder, Arnold Gingrich, winced over my shoulder as she and I went to work devising her famous husband’s fictional Bloody Mary. It ended up consisting of 20 or so ingredients, 15 of which contained toxic levels of capsaicin. For months after it was published, I lived in fear that we’d be sued for immolating some poor reader’s esophagus.
I think back on my first shameful venture in “legitimate journalism” every time I come across the latest improbable recipe for some new cocktail. I don’t mean to imply that their creators are as spurious as I was; they’re fun to read, and the more improbable the better.
Kingsley Amis, author of the indispensable “Everyday Drinking,” referred to the genre as “dipsography, the alcoholic equivalent of pornography.” Dipsography is continuing ed of the highest order. How satisfying and knowing it is to drop savvy remarks like “Did you winterize your margarita this year?”
At the same time, it’s best not to overdo the dipsography, at the risk of getting yourself a rep as a “cocktail bore,” “beer bore,” “aquavit bore,” etc.
Who among us has not been held captive by a wine, single malt or vodka bore? Thanks to the recent proliferation of boutique vodkas, it is now possible, indeed likely, to have your eyes as frosted as a Grey Goose bottle while someone holds forth at Homeric length on potato versus grain versus molasses versus organic wheat versus Australian sugar cane. My eyes glazed over just typing that sentence.
Booze — for present purposes, let us include in this category wine, beer, eau de vie, moonshine, the blushful Hippocrene and all varieties of intoxicating liquid refreshment — is a compelling subject. And dipsography has evolved pari passu with the progress of the Internet.
Surfing a large wave of ethyl alcohol recently, I came ashore on the Web site of the Museum of the American Cocktail. The home page noted that it was World Cocktail Week. Beneath that was a notice: “There are no seminars or events scheduled at the current time. Please check back later.” Had I possessed hacking skills, I’d have been tempted to insert a “ — hic — ” somewhere in the last sentence.
For classic literary dipsography — and counter-dipsography — log off from the Internet and turn to the bookshelf. Roald Dahl’s short story “Taste” is the ultimate takedown of the wine bore. A rather sinister dinner guest proposes to his host a contest: if he identifies the wine the host is pouring, he wins the hand of the host’s daughter. If he fails, then the host gets both his houses.
I won’t ruin it for you; it’s white-knuckle reading all the way to the finish. When Alfred A. Knopf read the story in The New Yorker in 1951, he signed Dahl to write a collection, and a brilliant career was born. Come to think of it, surely the magazine’s most celebrated cartoon remains James Thurber’s: “It’s a naïve domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you’ll be amused by its presumption.”
Benjamin Disraeli is not principally known as a maker of bons mots, but in his 1845 novel “Sybil,” he gives us Mr. Mountchesney’s unimprovable remark: “I rather like bad