Okay, so I do get invited to bushelfuls of
book launches. I also get a few invites for art openings and film showings and a
very few for theatre and music performances accompanied by ‘refreshments’ or
‘cocktails’. And every time I wake up the next morning and see on Page 3
that some embassy or wine marketeer had had a ‘gala dinner’ to promote such
and such a firangi liquor or wine, I feel as if I’ve been at the wrong party
the night before. I may not know a lot about wine, I tell myself, but I’ve
read enough of my Jancis Robinson and that Parker guy to be able to pretend real
good; and as for the harder liquors I have drunk enough to know my Glenmorangie
from my ganjee or my Starka from my parka. So, why is that not me in that
snapshot, standing there rubbing shoulders with his excellency the Spanish
ambassador, discussing fine Riojas and jamon?
Knowing how keenly I feel this lack in my life, a kind friend took me along to a
carded launch for a Single Malt whisky. "How come, me?" I asked my pal.
"She wasn’t free," he said tersely, "she hates whisky."
And so I found myself at a usual-suspect 5-star, rubbing shoulders with English
marketing geezers trying to speak in a Scots accent, surrounded by brown waiters
looking very unhappy in standard-issue Scotland Tourism Board kilts, with my
ears assailed by a wandering straggle of BSF bagpipers, queuing while trying to
look like I wasn’t, all to taste the offerings from the distillery at Glen
Nochtooguid. "Aye, we want you to start with the 12-year old and work your way
up to our 28-year old very rare bottling," said the Marketing Geezer. "Nae
wukking fay, laddie," muttered my pal and led me and another friend straight
over the little moat to the island bar. "Arre bhaiya, jaraa woh 18-year old
Nochtooguid dikhana." The barman put the bottle before us without arguing.
We peeled off the wax, poured and tasted. "Nochtoo...," said pal,
"...guid." We finished.
We decided to give each bottling a two-dram taste test; in a couple of hours, we
made our way to the ‘legendary’ 28-year-old. We had trained the barkeep in
the correct way of constructing a single malt drink: about a finger and a half
of the whisky and a tiny drip of cold water to open up the taste. He was just
getting the hang of it when a bunch of suits crowded around the bar. "Is that
the 28-year wala?" said one, snatching the bottle from the
bartender’s hand. "Yes, sir." The suit poured himself a huge drink,
grabbed two fistfuls of ice and dunked it on top of the whisky and then topped
the whole thing up with a soda. Then he took a swig, before turning to us and
demanding: "Haw’rr yu finding this 28-year’s?"
We looked at each other, took a decent mouthful and replied with the unison of
Highland Flingers. "Too good!"
This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, January 15, 2006