I’m not sure if it’s my impending fatherhood, or my recent watching of many episodes of Mad Men, but I’ve been recently obsessed with Scotch, and more specifically with the consumption of Scotch, and its purest form, that delicious and delightful drink, Scotch on the Rocks.
While the wife was trying on bras in a maternity shop yesterday, I was in the bottle shop next door, scratching my patchy stubble and staring at bottles of Scotch and wondering what they tasted like. Yes, rather than the usual indulgence of peeking through curtains for a glimpse of skin (that’s normal, right?), I was tenderly touching bottles and reading labels like they were poetry.
I am curious about the drink, its origins, and my own reasons for drinking the bloating and burp-inducing beer on most occasions instead of something more refined and delicious. There is a culture here that equates the consumption of beer with manliness, so much so that at the age of eleven I stole a beer from Dad’s fridge and forced myself to drink it alone with my dinner, despite the protests of my palate and my very small stomach. The beer ruined my dinner and was pointed at and cursed, set aside and earmarked to be poured down the sink later and the evidence destroyed.
Of course, that’s not to say that beer is bad, or undelicious, it’s just that my eleven-year old self preferred to eat that horrid plastic cheese folded into squares, and drink chocolate milk rather than drink something bitter. I’m guessing that’s the grand thing about acquired tastes like oysters, and beers, and chili, and olives, and sushi and all those lovely adult things, that the young ones will leave you alone long enough to enjoy it, and all you need to do to get rid of them is offer them a taste.
So certain things have become clear to me; that blue cheese is strangely delicious, and that good wine is equally delicious if you can afford it, and that the two together are quite the pair if you’ve got the brass razoos to rub between your bony fingers. A good book is also delicious if I can force myself to read it instead of watching Seinfeld, and Scotch on the Rocks is refined and delicious and it beckons to me from the cupboard on certain nights when the mood is good in the lounge room.