Drinks
The Flâneur would remind everyone that a rather profound difference exists between aperitif and digestif. One could liken their discrepancy to the opening and concluding pages of a novel, foreplay and coitus, offense and revenge, caterpillar and butterfly, engagement and consummation. Beginnings and endings, both temporal and necessary, are, in other words, essential to the nature of such things.
Moreover, opening a meal with the medicine meant to settle it, or piquing one’s appetite after the fact, seems fundamentally absurd. And yet, I see the integrity the two categories intentionally obfuscated at almost every restaurant and dinner party. One can imagine that even privately, in the solitude of one’s home, people have begun to drink ignorantly or, what’s worse, intentionally unmindful of the distinction.
Out the other night, at my favorite café, enjoying a helping of lamb and greens, I even saw a gentleman sipping single malt with his meal. In response, I took a large sip of my claret and eyed him with derision. The statement, I think, was sufficiently made. I did, however, later regret that the poor chap had borne so incommensurate an amount of scorn. I must admit, my frustration is with a larger society, not primarily with him. But there he was, playing into my anger and courting my displeasure like a fool!
Of course, in response to my complaint, one might say, “My dear Flâneur, why preserve the past for its own sake? Why preserve a difference or a practice simply because that’s what’s always been done?” And it’s true that the thrust of the present is toward the new. Disdain of the old is everywhere, and I’ve never resisted this or criticized this fact. A true man of my moment, I would never preserve a distasteful tradition indefinitely for the sake of the past. Rather, I’d retire it immediately, like last season’s top coat.
Time and taste simply seem out of joint when ends come before beginnings, beginnings after ends, or when such bookends are ignored entirely (as was the case with my single malt friend). The intellectuals and artists of our moment have done much to highlight, and even create, this radical reinterpretation of reality, and I simply wonder if drink and repast shouldn’t be the last holdouts, giving us some grounding in a chronologically distorted world.
Indeed, drink has always, for me, proven a grand refuge against all manner of distortions, the rhythm of a meal even more so. It is, after all, the greatest tonic for a rollicking day.
