Tim James: Drinking alone and searching the spirits cupboard

I do realise that this title would itself provide ammunition to the prohibitionist lobby, but I’ll try to mitigate the effect. In the course of an everyday WhatsApp chat not long ago, a friend wrote something to the effect that “I abhor drinking alone”. I can’t remember the context, but I think the implication was something more general than a personal preference being expressed – if the word wasn’t “abhor”, it was certainly one that carried some implicit moralising suggestion. Or perhaps, as someone who frequently drinks alone, I was over-sensitive to it. (Actually, I rather think that this rather noisy and highly social friend doesn’t much like doing anything alone – whereas I do; I also enjoy eating and drinking with others, but not too often.)

“Drinking alone” … The idea of the “solitary drinker” has a negative resonance in our culture, and for all I know it’s frequently merited (I’m far from denying the terrible, widespread effects of alcohol abuse, whether amongst solitary drinkers or rowdy party-goers). It certainly doesn’t immediately suggest someone cheerfully opening a selected bottle of wine to go with the dinner he’s (usually) carefully prepared for himself, or lying back on the sofa afterwards to rewatch an old episode of the Sopranos with feet resting on the sleeping dog, and a glass of – ah, here’s the rub, perhaps  – brandy. It all somehow surreptitiously suggests that the purpose of the drinking is to get drunk, and that the drinker is probably a miserable old bastard.

I daresay I’ve been called that more often than I realise. And I do confess to enjoying a slight alcoholic buzz (surely that’s part of the point?). But, generally, I don’t think about my “drinking alone”, nor do I worry those who might care about me as far as I know. Nonetheless I can’t help wondering if I have to some extent internalised the prejudices against, especially, the solitary drinker of spirits. Perhaps this was behind a vague decision a month or two back to cut down on the postprandial brandy to which I have become accustomed in recent years (note the avoidance of the word “addicted”) – while simultaneously cutting down on wine, and probably reducing overall alcohol intake (see here).

The practical content of this move was to decide not to immediately order in a case, when my stocks were running out, of my “house” brandies – KWV 10 Year Old, with the finer 12 Year Old for when I feel I deserved it. (There are many excellent local brandies around, but the KWV to my mind offers the best value for money, and I like the stuff very well and, differently from wine, don’t mind not having much variation.) It seemed a not bad idea to see for myself whether in fact I was indeed entitled to say “accustomed” rather than “addicted”.

I fear the evidence is not entirely soothing. Once the 10 Year Old had run out, the 12 Year old quickly went in the same inevitable direction. Perhaps the pace was slowing, but I was still feeling the urge for something with that sublime intense power of a good, unadulterated spirit (I can’t bear diluted brandy – or whisky). So I started reaching to the back of the cupboard where I keep such things.

Predictably, I mostly found stuff that had drifted out of easy reach either because I was unlikely to want it, or because it was too special to take lightly. Among the latter group were some bottles with just a tot or two left that I suppose I was saving for a special occasion. An occasion like this, for example…. So, over the next few nights I finished the dregs of my last Wilderer grappa (properly known here as “husk spirit”) – Wilderer is arguably the best of the local grappa producers, though Dalla Cia fans might disagree. And, even more sadly-happily, I finally emptied the exquisite bottle of exquisite Spirit of FMC – made from the dregs of the famous FMC chenin, and the loveliest single local grappa I know, in the modern, fragrant Italian style. I wonder if they still make it; it’s certainly not easily available. And then, farewell to that even more rare creature, Eben Sadie’s hanepoot witblitz, Blitsem; so delicate and refined, despite its 48% alcohol.

I haven’t touched the half bottle of Oude Meester Souverein, the 17-year old that to my mind was easily the best local brandy in regular commercial production before Distell (as it was then) unforgivably ditched the label. A very special occasion will be needed for that. And there’s an oldish bottle still untouched of a good Cognac, Château Fontpinot – no special feelings about that, except that it must get consumed with appropriate care. The other foreigner in my cupboard (Portuguese) was not exactly at the back, as I do have a satisfying glass of it occasionally (it falls into the careful treat category); anyway it is too intense, almost pungent, to just toss back: Niepoort Aguardente Velhíssima. “Extra Old” is what the label says, and I believe it; “Hand Selected Casks” it also says, which I sufficiently don’t doubt that I wonder why they need to make such a silly, cheap blandishment.

Among the largely unwanted and therefore ignored were three bottles, all of which proved (from gingerly sips) to be more pleasing than I remembered. Not so much, the apple brandy that Paul Cluver  experimented with quite a few years back; it succumbed partly to marketing difficulties, partly – I’d guess – to its being not so great. Kaapzicht’s expensive and portentously packaged 20 Year Old was, it seemed to me back then, to show the problem that estates (bar Boplaas) have when offering old brandies and special selection compared with the big producers: they just don’t have sufficient choice to select from. This brandy also shows that age isn’t everything: it had lost some freshness and gained a lot of oaky flavours. But I did rather enjoy my sip last night, and will have some more.

And lastly, what is almost certainly the best and most subtle of its type: Cape XO Buchu Brandy, traditionally a medicine, and produced by an outfit called Kaapse Liqueurs. Rather nice in its refinement, not at all requiring one to be sick before sipping. I’m glad to have it in the cupboard, with its sprig of buchu still infusing in the bottle, and I’ll happily haul it out now and then.

But. But. If my brandy-drinking career, solitary or convivial, is to continue at all, I need more than bottles offering just the occasional great treat or attractive curiosity. Perhaps it should be consumed with ever-greater circumspection, yet I confess the cupboard needs replenishing with some house brandy. And I know where to find it.

• Tim James is one of South Africa’s leading wine commentators, contributing to various local and international wine publications. His book Wines of South Africa – Tradition and Revolution appeared in 2013.