Yet, the one place outside the wineries where our wines could be introduced and enjoyed by locals and visitors – but has historically been neglected or treated very carelessly – is the South African restaurant. I have written before about the ruthless mark-ups imposed on wine by restaurants. These margins come with precious little value added to the bottle. All we can do about over-priced lists is vote with our feet, or complain. 300 percent mark-ups still amaze me, since friendlier wine prices always result in higher turn-around and happier customers.

On another front, restaurants have generally not invested in the training of wait-staff in the nuances and details of the wine that they are serving. Again, it seems a no-brainer: you will certainly sell more if the waiter charmingly explains a wine you may not be familiar with. However, in a competitive industry, where part-time staff come and go, the restaurateur’s argument is that this may well be time and money wasted.

Wines of South Africa, the non-profit international marketing arm of the industry, have come up with an ingenious solution. Spurred by 2010, and to enhance the foreign visitor experience (but with the clear spin-off of making our experience better too), they have launched Project Laduma – the training of 2010 restaurant wine stewards by 2010.

It’s certainly ambitious, but what a great idea. Half of this number represents waiters and waitresses already in the industry and the other half will be a fresh crop drawn from the currently unemployed. Project Laduma is being launched this weekend and you can contribute by buying the Project Laduma wine.

The Laduma wine range has been selected through a blind tasting by the Cape Wine Makers’ Guild and will be sold in restaurants and retail outlets across the country for a limited period at approximately R120 (retail) and R150 in restaurants. Proceeds of all the wine sales will contribute toward the SETA accredited training programme. A total of 17 500 cases will be available for sale, with the hope of raising R4, 5 million for Project Laduma.

It does make some sense that the pulque bars are taking it in the teeth. So many of the world’s ancient and noble drinks are dying out, swamped by the wave of new fashion drinks and the pools of beer it leaves behind. What happened to mead? What happened to gira-kvass, the Lithuanian tipple? And what about lamb’s-wool, a drink made from mulled ale with added spices, sugar and the pulp of roasted apples? It is a minor miracle that absinthe has made something of a comeback, though I am assured by an artist friend of mine that the hallucinations are nothing like the real thing.

Pretty soon the most exotic drink that we are going to have is a gin and tonic, god forbid. Other Brit-cool drinks like the Pimm’s cocktail are pretty much gone. As for the more continental drinks, I always get strange looks when I order my Campari and soda or my Pernod and water. I think many bars still stock the bottles only for their decorative value and the way they make the place look sophisticated.

Anyway, back to the pulque. If you have never tried it, this ancient drink (it goes back 2000 years at least) tastes pretty good but its texture is something like saliva. Doesn’t smell too good either, but when last did you take a whiff of Red Bull? It’s the fermented sap of the agave plant, and if you had to distil it, you would end up with tequila.

Pulque quickly gained a legendary reputation in those early days, the old Mexicans reckoned that the gods, especially the rabbit gods, really liked the stuff and from then on the scale of your pulque inebriation was measured in numbers of rabbits, with a 400-rabbiter the ultimate.

I say let’s celebrate the old artisan drinks. It will be a sad day when only the same drinks are found in every bar in the world. In that spirit, I’m off to get rabbit-faced on mampoer.

A RECIPE FOR BREAD KVASS (Duonos gira)
1/2 kg dried, black rye bread
5 litre water
20g (4 teaspoons) yeast
1 cup raisins
Cover bread with boiling water and let sit for 24 hours. Strain, add yeast blended with sugar, and remaining sugar, mix well and let ferment for 1-2 days in a warm spot.
Pour fermented liquid into glass bottles, add several raisins to each bottle and close tightly. Store in a cool place. Kvass is ready to drink the next day. It will be drinkable for up to 2 months, if kept in a cold spot.

A man like Teddy clinched a few big deals in his life. These were not deals like those grinding bureaucratic fiddlers where seething accountants jockey to score the best rate on inkjet refills; these were deals that required old-fashioned men with straight-talk and steady eyes. It was useful, in such deal-making, to be absolutely hammered.

Teddy could face up to big players like Trotsky, and we know how Russians deal with their liquor. He even had a whole economic principle in the States named after him – the New Deal. Some people say his New Deal led to the Great Depression of the 1930s, some people will say anything, especially after a three-martini lunch.

The current corporate culture doesn’t encourage such a heroic style of deal-making (although it seems American presidents still do what they like, drunk or sober), so the thirsty man’s advice for deal-making is much the same as that for a conversation with a stranger at the bar.

1> Always maintain an air of mystery by frequent pauses and piercing looks. Loose lips sink ships (and deals). 2> Make sure he keeps his hands where you can see them, make sure he keeps hold of a drink. Or, at the boardroom table, something like an important paper. Hands tell you the whole story – is he nervous? Is he reaching for a knife? 3> Under no circumstances be the first to go to the WC. That’s a sure sign of weakness.

But the one thing I want to stress is that you must try to avoid – at all costs – doing business with a cold beer in your hand. Show some initiative! Show that you have grand designs! Show that you plan to rule the world! You won’t do this with a humble working-class brewskie by your side, no sir. You need a drink with mystery and power.

Here’s a cocktail that means business. It should smooth the path towards a handshake, (of some sort). Rather poetically, it’s called a Blue Monday. Keeps ‘em guessing.
2 measures vodka. ¾ measure blue curacao. Stir with chilled ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a lemon twist.

Now, I was prepared for the speech. You know the one, about lifestyle, about punishing the body, about the changes I was supposed to make. But I had my answer ready, the perfect alibi: “Doc, I don’t smoke”. This was definitely the ideal cover, whatever else he was going to accuse me of, he couldn’t pin that vice on me, and I was about to remind him of it all the way. I would get off, as they say in the legal realms, on a technicality.

So just before going into his room, while sitting in the reception area (they really should have mini-bars in these places, they already have the potential waitresses), I was trying to work out just how many drinks I consume in an average week. Last week wasn’t average, because John Rodger, my bird, died. The week before wasn’t average, because there was too much television coverage of our rugby teams being drubbed. I think the week before may have been average, but I can’t remember it at all.

I was still doing the maths when I found myself in front of a strangely quiet doc. He listened to my story; his face barely registering emotion when I mentioned I didn’t smoke (was he trying to double-bluff me?), and when I blurted out that I may have about three drinks a night (you have to average these things out when you talk to medical men), he seemed unfazed.

After prodding and poking around, and asking some questions which, though I found them rather irrelevant, did reassure me of his character (like how to make the perfect martini), declared that I was in striking health. “But Doc,” I wheedled, “what about these strange pains?” “Eat more fibre,” was all he said, presenting me with a handsome bill.

So, in his honour, the perfect Bloody Mary recipe, filled with fibre – just make sure you eat the celery:

1 1/2 measures vodka
1 small tin tomato juice
A squirt lemon juice
7 drops Worcestershire sauce
3 drops Tabasco sauce
Several shakes of freshly ground pepper
1 dash of celery salt
Freshly grated horseradish
Stir with ice; pour into a glass filled with ice. Garnish with slice of celery.

Because whisky makes you happy, it stands to reason that knowing a bit more about them will make you an even happier person, so here follows my essential whisky primer.

1. Whisky is enhanced beer.
All whiskies are made in the same way – you make a beer by fermenting grains and then you take the beer and distil it. All whisky begins its life as beer. That’s the easy part to understand.
2. You get malt whiskies and grain whiskies.
Malt whiskies are made from barley grain that has been “malted” or germinated and then dried before being brewed into beer. Sometimes peat is used for the drying and this imparts a particular smell and flavour (Islay whiskies, like Laphroaig, have this in spades). Malt whiskies are distilled in small batches in copper pot stills and they’re considered the premium because they have more flavour and complexity. Grain whiskies are made from any neutral, unmalted grain in industrial steel stills and in large quantities.
3. Most whiskies are blends, single malts are not.
Most commercial whiskies (J&B, Bell’s, Johnnie Walker) are blends of a small proportion of malt whisky with the bulk being the cheaper grain whisky. Most of the big brands contain 50-60% grain; this can go right up to 95% in the cheaper blends. The malt component is usually made up of dozens of malts from different distilleries, as many as 40 or more. On the opposite end of the scale are single malts, these are an unblended whisky from only one distillery. They are considered the premium for flavour and singular character. You have hundreds to choose from; a couple I like are Talisker, Lagavulin, Highland Park. Newer on our shelves are blended malts (with no grain), like Bell’s Special Reserve Pure Malt and Famous Grouse Malt Whisky.
4. Wood equals flavour.
Scotch whisky is aged in wooden casks for a legal minimum of three years. The casks impart flavour, particularly strong ones if the cask is charred (like with bourbon). Most of the complexity of flavour comes from the different barrels and how long the whisky lies in them. Whisky without wood has little flavour.
5. Whiskies have different ages.
While three years is the minimum, whiskies can mature in cask for decades. The age on the bottle gives you an idea of the average age of the liquor – the older, the more expensive it tends to be. Respect your elders, but enjoy your youngsters regularly.
6. Whisky is not whiskey.
Scotch whisky must be made in Scotland, but this drink is made in many other countries, including Japan (Suntory ) and South Africa (Three Ships). When it’s Irish, its spelled “whiskey” and they claim they made it first. Historically, the differences between the two is that peat was not used in the process of making Irish; and that Irish whiskey is triple distilled as opposed to the double-distillation of Scotch. Today there are some exceptions to the rule, but it is still generally true. The result is that Irish (like Jameson’s) is a lighter, softer drink. The Americans also like to call their tot a whiskey, but…
7. Not all American whiskey is bourbon.
American whiskey is made from corn and rye grain, never barley. They are generally aged by law for two years, but usually more like four. The casks are charred, giving it that richer, mellow flavour. Bourbon is a sub-category of American whiskey, made from mostly corn and also aged in charred casks. Tennessee whiskey is a close cousin (you know the redneck porch jokes), but the difference is that this is filtered through a bed of Sugar Maple charcoal (Jack Daniels, Wild Turkey, Maker’s Mark).
8. Confused? Then don’t add ice.
Whisky gives you the best impression of its flavour when you taste it with only a dash of water, no ice. Cold ice locks most of the flavour in and distorts what’s left. This is especially important to remember with single malts.
9. Not confused at all? Then add ginger ale, you smug man.
If you are after something different and rather refreshing, try adding ginger ale and a dash of lime to whisky on ice in a tall glass.

On the other end of the scale, a friend of mine came back from doing some “research” in the Scottish highlands the other week and brought back so much mineral water from one particular stream that he claims he couldn’t fit a liquid gift into his luggage for me. He may be a liar, but the quality of his whisky selection means he remains my friend. Anyway, the water is the very water that a particular distillery uses to make its whisky, and now he has frozen the aqua and uses the blocks for that particular whisky. I don’t know what you think, but that either ranks high on a scale of class or on a scale of ponciness. But, as I said, he is my dear friend, a classy position to hold.

The gist is that water is typically not very good for drinks. I’ve heard an eminent scholar of the high art of blending saying that “it takes away and gives nothing in return.” It is the taxman of liquids. Water dilutes, it robs of essence. All that skill and mastery and all that mind-enhancing flavour is thinned out when water is added. You’ve paid good money – why remove flavour?

Water needs to be adulterated to mean something for alcohol; it needs to be transformed into something useful, like soda or tonic water, resulting in popular (though admittedly light-weight) drinks like gin and tonic or vodka, lime and soda. In these languid summery times, carbonated water comes into its own, and another friend recently introduced me to a charming drink called a Rickey which employs carbonated water to very good effect.

A Rickey is named after Colonel Jim Rickey, an American gent from the 1890s. A swash-buckling type, he gave himself the title “Colonel” and proceeded to rip people off in various business deals, a skill that would have taken him very far in South African politics or reality TV. You can make the Rickey with various types of liquor, like apricot brandy or cherry liqueur, but in homage to his birthplace, try this one with Southern Comfort.

A Comfortable Rickey

50ml Southern Comfort
Half a large lime
Sparkling water

Squeeze lime into a tall glass, add liquor and four ice cubes. Stir. Fill with sparkling water and stir again.

I salute fermentation because it is the act of creation that springs into life all those pretty bottles with their pretty labels in the hands of the pretty waitresses. My fat grin after a few sips of fine liquor doesn’t come from nothing, it is the by-product of some serious effort on the part of a whole bunch of crazy yeasts, all partying on like there’s no tomorrow.

And for yeasts there is no tomorrow – since they sacrifice themselves in the process of bringing us a noble alcoholic beverage and a buzz in the head. A little explanation may be in order. Alcohol is created in the process of the yeasts gobbling up sugars and wildly procreating until the rising alcohol levels and dipping sugar levels eventually kill them all off. What a life: one big party with loads of sex, and then death by boozing. Sounds like the life of countless Hollywood stars. Which makes them like yeasts. Which makes you think.

Anyway, I don’t plan to go the way of the yeast, because I have to be ever-vigilant and monitor the work they’re doing. Actually, that’s more the role of wine-makers, brewers and stillers, in effect all they are doing is checking up on the work done by millions of yeast cells. They are custodians of yeast. Seems strange that they get the big bucks. (But then again, Trevor Manuel is the custodian of bread, another yeast invention, and he also gets big ones).

By the time you and I come along to check up on matters, the yeasts have long gone the way of Elvis. It is their noble work that we find, the drinks like the Mayan temples and pyramids of a former civilisation. So I salute them, the hard little workers that they are. I am paying homage, for you see, for The Thirsty Man isn’t going to be reporting from the coalface anymore. I believe I have led you to the water; the rest is up to you.

So a toast to the yeasts, a toast to fermentation and a swig of Astral Gateway:
Put into a tall glass, with ice: two shots vodka, one shot Blue Curacao and a dash of lemon juice. Fill glass with ginger ale. Drink. Listen for the call of the yeasties.

Fortunately it’s that time of the year that summer is all around (as the song goes) and so all the amateurs, all the poseurs and dilettantes are on the beach or engaged in some highly energetic and ultimately unfulfilling physical action. This means the bars are pleasantly uncrowded for most of the day – that is until the sun begins to dwindle and the happy set move in to partake of the “sun-downers” ritual.

While I prefer the sun-riser and noon-in-Rangoon as my moments to celebrate with a particular beverage, I can’t argue with a sun-downer either, so long as it’s not your only salute to the heavenly motions. Sorry to be rude, but here I am referring to that type of person who seems only to be able to sip an alco-pop when the weather is good and the beach sand is clinging to their toes, but generally would rather skip this part and go straight to the movies or some rave party where they can chase cartoon pills with over-priced water.

The best sundowner starts around four pm, giving you time to settle in and know exactly what kind of drink you should have in your hand by the time the sun does finally bow out. You should by no means rush to the nearest bar and take a sip just as the orange flatlines and sucks away. That is a life badly planned, and, as someone once said, a badly planned life is not really worth living.

What to drink? There is always the classic G ‘n T if you lack the desire to think too hard (never a bad thing at this time of day), but sundowner time is also the perfect time to experiment with all those drinks that you have only read about on cocktail lists but never tried. Even the ones with the silly names, because this is the one time that a drink with an umbrella is allowable, so long as you laugh riotously as you drink it and preferably wear a Hawaiian shirt. You need long, cool drinks; drinks with colours and drinks with fruit. You need to be saying, through your techno-coloured drink: “Look at you old sun, you may be stealing another day from me, but I am just dandy – in fact I am the king! I’m having a party while you are flaking out! I mock your lack of staying power! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

At the same time, you should take care that the sundowner is not too powerful, because it should be setting you up for the rest of the evening’s festivities – the sun is going down, not you. Here are a few that will do the job very nicely, lifting the spirits, soothing the brow and giving you that comfortable the little dose of immortality.

El Presidente – think about America and dream…
1 1/2 measures white rum, 3/4 measure dry vermouth, and a splash of red Curaçao
Shake on ice and pour.

The True Daquiri – keep it simple
Two measures of rum, a teaspoon of white syrup, and one measure of lime juice. Too much rum, and the taste becomes overpowering; too much lime, and it’s bitter and sharp; too much sugar, and you might as well toss it out. Shake on ice and pour.

Booze unlocks the truth of a person. It is a truth serum. Some people don’t want anything to do with the underlying truths that their dark hearts conceal and decide never to touch the bottle. On the other end of the Index is the guy who throws himself into the cauldron of truth like Obelix was chucked into the magic strength potion. Not many are strong enough to cope with utter and relentless truth that they discover here; it makes them, at best, embarrassing drunks, at worst, embarrassing presidents who destroy nations.

But in the middle of the Index is the joyful ground where booze allows self-analysis, a peaceful contemplation of who you are and what the world is all about. The bar becomes a school of higher learning and the barman so much more than a skanky failed plumber with a taste for karaoke and muscle shirts. This is where The Professor’s observation is so relevant; because people who haven’t spend a little time under the spell of the truth serum will always be untrustworthy – simply because they do not know themselves. When you knock on their doors no-one is really home, they’re just a mix of received wisdom and shallow understanding.

Now, while all alcoholic drinks have the power to unlock truth, they are not all equally potent. So your selection of drink is directly proportional to the speed with which you need to get to the heart of the matter. Let’s take the flirtation game. Want to get to know her name and occupation? A glass of white wine will do. Want her to show those little quirks that give you some ammo to flirt with? A champagne cocktail like the Arctic Kiss will do nicely. Want to know where she lives (and get a guided tour of the premises)? Now you want a few shooters (your choice, but keep it classy) or something tequila-based in her hand; like the classic Margarita or try the drink called 9 ½ Weeks…

Some drinks are better at getting people to externalise their truths. That’s The Professor’s term for getting them to talk. Generally, drinks with bubbles are good for this, that’s why men sitting drinking beers can talk crap all day. If you want to get a sweet young thing talking, give her the bubbly drinks and stick to flat ones yourself, that way you won’t bore her and you can concentrate on giving her deep, smouldering glances while she exposes more and more about herself. Or should that be of herself? The naked truth is the best truth, after all.

Arctic Kiss
A shot of chilled vodka poured into a champagne flute and topped with bubbly. Make sure it’s all very cold.

9 ½ Weeks
Into a cocktail shaker over ice go:
2 shots Absolut Citron
½ shot orange Curaçao
Splash of strawberry juice
Splash of orange juice

A pastis? You may think that’s a rather fancy request, a rather poncy order. I have to say, at a bar in a small beach-side town on the east coast it was a rather poncy request, but I was in one of those moods. It was going to be a pastis or a Campari. Or a martini. I needed something sophisticated, something out of the ordinary. I had just reached a major life realisation. I realised just how much the music I listened to in the early nineties had messed me up. Unfortunately this meant I needed a drink that they were likely not to have or struggle to make.

For those unfamiliar with the term “pastis,” what I was after comes in the brand names of Pernod or Ricard, it’s that aniseed-smelling liquor that goes yellow and cloudy as soon as water is added (which is part of its charm, it looks like an alchemist’s drink). It’s the drink of French cafés, of revolutionaries and poets (the artists like a little absinthe, which blongs to the same family with its aniseed heart).

Many cultures have a knock-out drink with aniseed as its base. The Greeks have ouzo and the Italians sambucca. But pastis is the least afflicted by images of old men in bazouki bars or someone with his moustache aflame. It’s the drink to have when you are in a reflective mood, pondering the complexities of life.

It certainly had the barman pondering. He was sure he had some, but couldn’t quite explain the bottle to me. He kept clicking his fingers and tapping his temple. It belonged to that class of drink that sits at the back of the rack, slowly being moved deeper and deeper in as the new gimmicky drinks made their presence felt. In bars where they pride themselves on cocktails you are likely to find it (they believe in being booze completists), but here the barman only had a vague reflex impression of it.

I was losing hope. For years, the French were too, for pastis was once banned there for ten years as being a dangerous drink, along with all other aniseed drinks. Of course, it is dangerous if you don’t handle with care. Pastis is made with up to 72 herbs and 6 spices, soaked in alcohol and then distilled. It’s serious business and a taste that some people love, others hate. I love it, as one of the most refreshing drinks around, but today my love was in vain. I had to settle for a whisky. The barman felt my pain.

Drinking Pastis

The traditional way is a shot of pastis in a lowball glass, topped up with water, no ice – some think it curdles the drink.

For a more exotic look at pastis, try this challenging cocktail, called a Café de Paris:
White of one egg
1 teaspoon pastis
1 teaspoon sweet cream
Shot dry gin
Whisk together and think Moulin Rouge.

Pastis Pointers
It is pronounced “pahs-tise”.
What it is:
Pastis is the generic name for the brands Pernod, Ricard and Pastis 51. Pernod is stocked at most bars, Ricard is considered the slightly better brand and is less available.
Ordering it:
In this country (with the general drinks ignorance) you are best off asking for a Pernod. You will then be asked how you want it – you say please bring me some water on the side and you then fill to taste. If they plonk ice in it without asking, send it back.

The music that messed me up:
Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, Lloyd Cole – beautiful songs about emptiness.