Gin. A most maligned spirit. Relegated to scorn by a generation of craft beer drinkers and those charmed by the exclusively virginal oak notes and all-important authenticity of bourbon, perhaps effeminate in once-familiar spheres such as the Long Rapids Pub of Huntingdon, Quebec, where Labatt 50 is “a man’s beer,” or any given college bar, where Budweiser is described identically. Even for me it is an unlikely appreciation, the flavors consisting, of course, of juniper, of coriander, grains of paradise, flavors I despise in beer, my main interest and hobby in the realm of refreshing adult beverages.
On offer at my local corner bar are two varieties, ten or twelve in the dimmest corner of Toledo’s largest liquor store, situated between the lightweight travelers of schnapps, brandy, and the service door. My friend and coworker (name and address withheld) feigns a gag whenever I mention it, and mutely accuses me of inconceivably poor taste when she laments, ‘so you’re a gin guy now.’ But yes, despite the execration I must incur, I suppose I am.
Gin and its celebrants are often connoted in present day to be pretentious and hipsterish, yet there lacks the ubiquity and oversaturation of festivals like those devoted to beer, or kitschy (quaint?) tours of distilleries like those offered at countless wineries across the nation, populated by minivan-driving Gen Xers in polo shirts determined to have a nice vacation, damn it, swirling, sipping, and spitting. Observing the lack of interest and hype, I struggle to see from where this accusation could stem. Of course, the appeal could come from the fact that gin is something of an archaic presence enjoyed by our grandfathers, though probably not my own, consumed now in an ironic way or perhaps to convey difference, introspectiveness, willing pariah-status, or worse, intellectual “depth.”
Hipster gin bars are mocked at length in one episode of the brilliant FXX, then FX, comedy It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, depicted as places lacking in sunshine and variety, peopled by an obnoxious clientele of twenty-somethings who “shushh” the more fun-loving and working class ‘gang,’ who later nonetheless offer at their own bar ‘old timey drinks in strange containers,’ in this case aluminum spaghetti cans.
Even amongst the finest of British Literature gin carries a connotation of undesirability, consumed reluctantly by the protagonist in the beginning John Fowles’s 1965, revised in 1977, masterpiece The Magus, and later by a racist and crudely mannered peer, self-confident and yet known by the reader through a flourish of dramatic irony to be a fool, some 600 pages later. Perhaps I write this in order to avoid finishing the final ten pages.
My first experience with gin came with other liquors to which I was more immediately drawn, though ultimately abandoned, in the form of 50 ml airline bottles. These included, but were not limited to, Skyy vodka, Jagermeister, Old Grand-Dad, and Bird Dog blackberry-flavored whiskey, the latter of which was then on sale for $.75/bottle. At the time I was visiting the region of New York State East of Albany pressed geographically and culturally against the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts, visiting my then-girlfriend, now best friend. It was July 17, 2013, and I was 21 years and one day old.
This is not the part of the narrative, despite the leading nature of the previous sentence, despite the fact that the skeptical and amused cashier at the liquor store over the hill in Pittsfield, MA wished me a happy birthday, in which I discover and begin a years-long affair with a sophisticated and mysterious drink, following a liminal period of enjoying begged, stolen, or found Pabst Blue Ribbon, as are so often the trials of an underaged American. On the contrary, I hated it. Poured over ice, the Fleischmann’s gin immediately provided the answer of ‘not me’ to Paul Stanley’s stage banter preceding the song ‘Cold Gin’ on the seminal 1975 KISS live album Alive!, in which he asks of the audience, “is there anyone out there who likes the taste of alcohol?”
She didn't like it either. To this day she attests that our mutual affinity could be due to "reform/ growth, or that we've destroyed our tastebuds so much that we can't determine what's good anymore."
She didn't like it either. To this day she attests that our mutual affinity could be due to "reform/ growth, or that we've destroyed our tastebuds so much that we can't determine what's good anymore."
This position remained essentially unchanged until this most recent April, when I was on a date with a young lady, (name and address withheld) who ordered a gin cocktail at one of downtown Toledo’s finer restaurants (a glowing endorsement, I know.) I was puzzled by this occurrence, the drink order that is, and detailed it to a friend of mine on my post-semester visit to Upstate New York. After an evening of beer drinking and checkers, I was offered a dubious concoction, the only kind he can be associated with, his primary literary interests including Hemingway, introducing it as ‘a bastardized gin and tonic.’ It was good. I suppose I should save the flowery language for the poet, though.
I will grant you, it is an acquired taste, and perhaps one that I have not fully acquired, but must also add that many of the best things are, including balsamic vinegar, tomatoes, and Kate Bush- though I do not know what she tastes like.
One, or at least I, cannot deny a certain nostalgia, wrapped in strangeness and sentimentality, of gin in the summertime. As I drink, often for thirst and sometimes for effect, a gin and tonic, I cannot help but think of England, perhaps not unlike that described by Ray Davies in the 1966 Kinks hit “Sunny Afternoon,” though the speaker in the song in fact was drinking beer.
With that, I suggest that you ‘try it, you’ll like it,’ with all of the sincerity and persuasiveness of a playground ruffian certainly meant to be avoided, as depicted in the D.A.R.E program handbook, C. 2001.
