Acquired Tastes

by Peter Mayle

  But where among the Lagavulins and Lochnagars and Glen Mhors and Balvenies and Old Fettercairns do you start? You have more than a hundred confusing but delightful options, and there is a limit to the amount of research you can drink. My best advice, as a researcher of long standing, is to sample three very different single malts that I try to keep in the house despite the kind attentions of visiting friends. These three, which are not difficult to find, will give you an idea of the enormous range of flavours that can be found in what is technically the same drink.

  The first is Glenfiddich: light, with just a touch of peat, and at least eight years old. It is generally considered to be an excellent malt for beginners, and it is the best-selling single malt in the world. One nip will tell you why a bottle of single malt is £20.

  It is, however, outsold in Scotland by Glenmorangie (pronounced up there with the emphasis on the o, as in ‘orangy’), which is aged for ten years in old bourbon barrels before being bottled and has what the malt men describe as a medium body. ‘Morangie’ is said to mean ‘great tranquillity,’ which may or may not have something to do with the end result of an evening’s enthusiastic consumption.

  My third single malt is Laphroaig, pronounced La-froyg. It comes from the Scottish island of Islay, which would be my first choice of place to be shipwrecked, since it must have the highest concentration of whisky makers on earth: eight distilleries in the space of twenty-five miles. Laphroaig is a big whisky, bottled at either ten or fifteen years old, with a lot of peat in its flavour, together with another characteristic that, depending on the literary style of the taster, is said either to betray its proximity to the sea or, more bluntly, to have a whiff of seaweed about it. Don’t let this put you off. The makers describe Laphroaig as the most richly flavoured of all Scottish whiskies, and they’re not exaggerating.

  So there you have three to start you off, with the pleasant thought of another hundred-odd to try. But to appreciate fully the subtleties of taste and colour, the sweetness of the malt and the dryness of the peat you’re going to have to revise your scotch-drinking habits.

  Ice is forbidden. In Scotland, it is regarded as a more serious offence than wife-beating to anaesthetise a single malt with lumps of frozen tap water. Whisky should be drunk as you drink cognac, at room temperature. Water is allowed (indeed, some Scotsmen take their malt half-and-half, ‘with plenty of water’), but it must be pure spring water that hasn’t been laced with chlorine, fluoride, or any of those other chemical blessings that health conscious authorities insist we consume.

  There is nothing complicated about drinking single malts. Unlike wines, they don’t need to be opened beforehand to breathe, or to be decanted. They don’t need glasses shaped like young balloons, swizzle sticks, slices of fruit, olives, sprinklings of salt or ritualistic paraphernalia of any kind. There are, as there always are, optional refinements concerning the size and form of your glass—a small cut-crystal tumbler sets off the whisky’s colour beautifully, for instance—and when to drink a particular malt (light bodies before dinner and something fuller afterwards), but there is nothing pretentious about single-malt whisky. It is a clean, honest drink that needs no ornamentation.

  And it is reputed to be good for you. Nothing official, of course, but if you were ever to ask a Scottish doctor what he would prescribe for good digestion, a sound night’s sleep and a long and healthy life, he would quite possibly suggest a daily tot of the malt. The same view is held by enlightened Englishmen, and it has been the subject of some learned discussion in the House of Lords.

  Lord Boothby, arguing that the level of taxation on scotch should be reduced, put it like this: “In the modern world, scotch whisky is the only thing that brings guaranteed and sustained comfort to mankind.” He was supported by one of his political opponents, Lord Shinwell (who had once tried to make scotch available under the British National Health Service). Shinwell went on to propose that members of the House of Lords should be allowed to claim scotch as an expense, “since there is general consumption of this liquid by noble lords, and since many of them cannot do without it because it is in the nature of a medicine.”

  Lord Shinwell was ninety-nine at the time.

  20

  The Writing Habit

  Next to the defeated politician, the writer is the most vocal and inventive griper on earth. He sees hardship and unfairness wherever he looks. His agent doesn’t love him (enough). The blank sheet of paper is an enemy. The publisher is a cheapskate. The critic is a philistine. The public doesn’t understand him. His wife doesn’t understand him. The bartender doesn’t understand him.

  These are only some of the common complaints of working writers, but I have yet to hear any of them bring up the most fundamental gripe of all: the lifelong, horrifying expense involved in getting out the words.

  This may come as a surprise to many of you who assume that a writer’s equipment is limited to paper and pencils and a bottle of whisky, and maybe one tweed sports coat for interviews. It goes far beyond that.

  The problem from which all other problems spring is that writing takes up the time that could otherwise be spent earning a living. The most humble toiler on Wall Street makes more in a month than ninety percent of writers make in a year. A beggar on the street, seeing a writer shuffling toward him, will dig deep into his rags to see if he can spare a dime. The loan officer in the bank will hide under his desk to avoid saying no yet again to the wild-eyed and desperate figure looking for something to tide him over until he finishes the great novel. He knows that the man of letters is not a good credit risk. ‘Writers’ and ‘money,’ like ‘military intelligence,’ are not words that fit together with any conviction.

  From time to time, of course, mistakes happen. Money originally sent off on some adult and worthwhile mission gets diverted somewhere along the way and finds itself in a writer’s pocket. Its stay there is short; not, as any writer will tell you, because of foolish extravagance, but because of the demands of the profession.

  The first of these is the need for peace, which is not easy to find these days. City living disturbs the concentration. That traditional haunt of the urban writer, the garret, has become insupportable; the landlord is forever hammering on the door for his $2,000 a month, and in the brief moments between his visits the cockroaches make a terrible noise on the bare boards, the dripping tap bores into the brain, and the force-eight gale howling through the brown paper stuck over the broken window rattles the back teeth. Emigration to the country is the only solution. Look what it did for Thoreau.

  But it can’t be an old tar-paper shack miles from anywhere and anyone. That is too much peace. In fact, that’s enough peace to send a man gibbering into the woods looking for a tree to talk to after a day spent on his own. Peace is all very well as long as there’s a place to go when work is done, a place where a sympathetic ear can be found to complain to. And what better ear, who more sympathetic, than another writer? He knows how tough it is. He understands.

  That is how writers’ colonies come into being. And inevitably, as soon as they are established, they also attract agents, editors, publishers and owners of funky restaurants, as well as real estate operators on the make. Peace and the simple country life gradually disappear. The local bar sprouts ferns and starts serving complicated drinks, and the whole place goes to hell. Time to move again.

  But we can’t allow these domestic upheavals to interfere with the act of creation; God knows, there are enough interferences as it is.

  Let’s take, for example, the question of research. To the outsider, this probably suggests a few hours in the library or half a dozen phone calls, and maybe that’s all it used to be. Today, however, writers are expected—more than that, required—to produce work that is totally authentic in all its details. Imagination and a couple of blobs of local colour aren’t enough; the reader has to know that the writer has been there and done it. Direct personal experience is the thing, and don’t try to fob off that sharp young editor with anyt
hing less. You’re going to write a novel about love and death along the Bolivian border? Wonderful. Off you go. See you in six months, and don’t forget your cholera shots and medical insurance.

  The writer in the throes of research can often be seen in some of the world’s most uncomfortable and dangerous corners. (For some reason, presumably expense, very little research is conducted at the Ritz or in Palm Springs.) In Beirut, in Nicaragua, in the stews of Hong Kong and the oven of the Australian outback, you will find him soaking up the atmosphere, crouched intently over his notebook. But if you should look over his shoulder expecting to see the jewel-like phrase or the telling observation, you might be disappointed. The poor wretch is more likely to be doing his sums to see if his advance will stretch to a plateful of beans as well as a beer.

  After a few months of this, and a brief but costly check-up in the hospital for exotic diseases, he is technically ready to start work. The ream of blank paper awaits. The pencils are sharp. A saga of epic proportions, the stuff of which Pulitzer prizes are made, swirls around in his head.

  But can he get the damn thing out of his head and onto the paper? He paces up and down. He stares out of the window (writers watch a lot of weather) and monitors the progress of a fly on the wall. Eventually, he recognises the problem as a severe case of writer’s block. (Or, according to Arnold Glasgow, writer’s cramp: “an affliction that attacks some novelists between the ears.”) The words aren’t ready to come out yet. A catalyst is needed, something to start the flow, and you can be sure that whatever the catalyst is, the writer isn’t going to find it in the room where he works.

  Cures for writer’s block are many and various and usually involve getting into debt or into trouble. Women and drink are the two old favourites, but most writers, ingenious and creative fellows that they are, resist the straightforward solution of finding local women and local drink. They want a change of scene as well, preferably a few days of high-speed roistering in New York or Paris, draining life’s cup to the dregs until the credit cards are cancelled. It is what Hemingway described as “the irresponsibility that comes in after the terrible responsibility of writing.” Except that, in this case, the writing hasn’t actually been done. But it will be, it will be.

  And to help it along, now that the research has been done and the block has (we hope) been unblocked, it is time to call in modern technology so that the torrent of words can flow as fast as thought. Those primitive pencils must go, to be replaced by the latest in desktop computers, complete with the author’s software package. It is even worth ambushing the loan officer at the bank for this; great steps forward in efficient productivity can be achieved here, and all for a miserable few thousand dollars.

  At last! The words are beginning to come out, and none too soon either, because the spectre of deadline has become a constant companion, and those calls from the editor that used to be so friendly now have a distinct air of do or die about them. There is a thinly veiled threat that if the manuscript isn’t delivered, the advance (by now long gone) will have to be returned.

  This sets off a chain of events and emotions familiar to all writers. It starts with panic, as realisation dawns that time and excuses have both run out. Panic is followed by exhilaration, as the pages pile up and look increasingly promising—a bestseller at least, and possibly a movie too. Exhilaration is followed by relief, as the manuscript is delivered. Relief is followed by anticlimax when nothing much happens—and won’t, for at least six months. And anticlimax is followed by massive doses of doubt and consolation.

  The period in between finishing a manuscript and seeing a book is bleak. Nobody calls anymore. It’s too early for galleys. It’s too early for reviews. It’s too late to change anything. The work has vanished, and postnatal depression can easily set in unless the writer’s reward system is activated to help him through the limbo months.

  It may be a further plunge into the fleshpots, a trip (this time without the notebook), a new hobby, an old flame, a second honeymoon. Whatever it is will undoubtedly involve another visit to the moneylenders, because no consolation worth having is cheap. But at least there is the hope of becoming a rich literary lion before too much longer.

  Occasionally, just often enough to encourage optimism, this does happen, and we see the bestselling author toying with a six-inch Havana while he waits for the Brink’s truck to come up the driveway with his royalties. But the odds are long. Most writers aren’t so lucky. For them there is nothing for it but to try again. Or to get a job, pay the bills, live a regular, orderly life and generally behave like a responsible member of society.

  I don’t know how other writers feel, but I’d rather live precariously in my own office than comfortably in someone else’s. My powers of concentration in meetings have atrophied. Wearing a tie gives me a rash. Corporate routine makes me claustrophobic, and I have a deep horror of attaché cases, with all that they imply. The lure of the solitary endeavour, at whatever cost, is irresistible. Is it a habit or an affliction? I’m not sure. But I do know that a writer’s life is the life for me. Please send the cheque by registered mail.

  21

  Feeding The Hand That Bites You

  Almost every day, in what we like to call civilised urban society, we are being mugged. It is only minor mugging, not usually physically violent, and it’s perfectly legal. But it is mugging nevertheless. An empty, demanding hand is thrust at us, and we press money into it.

  Of all the pleasant old customs that progress and affluence have twisted out of recognition, one of the most savagely twisted is the business of tipping. What used to be an occasional bonus for special effort and attention has become a nagging, continual obligation, a form of servile blackmail that is practised in varying degrees from the diner to the four-star restaurant, with countless stops along the way.

  The origin of the word is interesting and revealing. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, ‘tip’ probably took on its present meaning sometime in the seventeenth century, as part of what the dictionary describes with admirable accuracy as ‘rogues’ cant.’ Somehow or other—maybe the passage of a century or two helped—the word has become respectable and the act of tipping unavoidable.

  Today, the tip vultures are everywhere. In France, for example, a man diving into a public toilet in need of relief is likely to find a large, moustached woman glowering at him as he enters. In front of her is a saucer, suggestively sprinkled with coins. If he should fail to add to the collection, there will be muttered curses and possibly a farewell flick from a wet mop. In France, you are expected to pay for your pipi.

  I have often wondered why it is that most of us are prepared to add a surcharge to what we have already paid for food or drink or services. What causes our endless generosity towards people who are often surly and careless? It can’t be the original reason for tipping, which was to reward service above and beyond the call of duty. Can it be that we want to be liked by the tipping mafia, that we’re happy to pay good money for the two-second twitch that passes for a smile? Or are we just benevolent souls who delight in helping the less fortunate by slipping them a little of the milk of human kindness, in folding form?

  No, definitely not. Kindness has nothing to do with it. We tip because we feel, for one reason or another, that we have to—that if we don’t, embarrassment or worse will be inflicted upon us, and that we’ll be made to pay for not paying. Many and various are the pressures and unspoken threats involved, as this review of tipping and its motivations shows.

  Tipping for insurance

  The man in charge of the parking lot runs a speculative eye over your new car. “Nice machine,” he says. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.”

  Translation: Do you want to see your hubcaps again? Do you want to find your paint job scratched, your fender mashed and your tape-deck stolen?

  Of course he’ll take care of your car—providing you make it clear in advance that you’ll take care of him when you come to pick it up. But that is amateur stuff
compared to the mass extortion that takes place every Christmas in your comfortable and well-run apartment building. The doorman, the super who lives in the boiler room, the garbage-collection serviceman, the maintenance man—they’re all in on the act, beaming with goodwill and the expectations of a well-filled envelope. Tip them if you know what’s good for you; otherwise, be prepared for a series of domestic disasters in the year ahead.

  Tipping for comfort

  When you finally persuade the girl of your dreams to have dinner with you, don’t ever think it’s enough just to make a reservation at an expensive restaurant. Even expensive restaurants have cheap tables, carefully placed by the doors that lead into the kitchen so that you can enjoy the sound of smashing dishes and the curses of the chef as you eat. And don’t expect prompt service. It is an established fact that the tables nearest the kitchen are the last to be served. To avoid them, have your money ready as the maître d’ greets you. More on that later.

  If you should go to a club after dinner, the same principle applies. Unless you want to spend the evening sitting next to a six-foot speaker vibrating with maximum decibels, tip someone—almost anyone—as you come in.

  Tipping to avoid public ridicule

  The undisputed champion in this situation is the Manhattan cabdriver. He will take you grudgingly where you want to go, at a dangerously high speed. It will be a most unpleasant journey, and you will be a nervous wreck at the end of it. But every cabdriver expects a tip as his divine right, and if it’s below his expectations, watch out. As you turn to walk away, there will be a torrent of abuse: “Hey! You! Here’s your fucking dime! You need it more than I do.”

  These exchanges, irritating as they may be, are at least quickly over. Much worse is the lingering humiliation that lies in store for anyone who tries to ignore the Miami Squeeze.