Sipsmith Gin Palace

A few weeks ago I wrote on the topic of my love of gin, and about the enormous and very cool history of this wonderful spirit. Little did I know that one of the distilleries I recommended would have had a similar idea. Only, they had it a bit earlier than I did. And they acted on it. Basically they just did it better. Mostly because they persuaded a rather grand hotel to dedicate an event to the history of gin through the ages. Clearly demonstrating rather poor research and organisational skills there, James. Anyway. Sipsmith gin, riding a wave of their own popularity and the resurgence of cocktail drinking have brokered a deal with the Langham Hotel to host a little night called the Sipsmith Gin Palace.

 

Running over six weeks this event is being hosted by the Langham, one of the first Grand Hotels and one frequented by little known names such as Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle. It is being held in the ludicrously opulent and almost ridiculously Art Deco styled Palm Court and the whole event could have been lifted from a Poirot episode. The already somewhat rarefied atmosphere further augmented by the presence of a live, and rather good, jazz band who managed to deftly keep their musical accompaniment audibly present but not intrusive. This earns them a solid ten points from this Whisky Dog.

But, sport, we weren't really there for the location – even if it wouldn't have looked out of place at one of Mr Gatsby's parties. The cocktail menu is one of gin through the ages; from the Dutch-influenced Gineveristic of 1689 through to the molecular cocktail of the present day: http://london.langhamhotels.co.uk/pdf/SipsmithGinPalaceMenu.pdf The menu itself forms a time line, with dates attached to each cocktail. Seeing this, and reading through the essay on the development of gin printed upon the reverse, we promptly ordered the most contemporary offerings. Not quite sure that was how it's supposed to work. 

My compatriot started with 2012's Spontaneity – a complex mix of gin and falernum with copious lime to cut through the sweetness and a strongly flavoured oil (which, of course, had to be added at the table, out of a bottle on a silver salver, using a pipette). I chose the slightly less up to date Transition, from 1882, a sweet and citrusy mix of gin, byyrh, mandarin bitters and maraschino. This proved to be a brightly coloured cocktail which is, slightly incongruously, served in a bottle. With a straw. Perfectly pleasant, but it did seem a little out of tone with the rest of the evening.

Spontaneity:

 

Round two then, and the other end of the timeline. I chose a Secret Method, from 1770, a potent combination of gin, vodka, lemon, lime and sugar served long. And it is fantastic. Crisp, refreshing, and dangerously easy to drink. One could drink these all day. Well. No. One couldn't. There is a worrying amount of alcohol concealed in each of these glasses. I would like to think that this, or something very like it, was the preservative of choice for naval officers in the Caribbean. In fact, this is probably what Admiral Duckworth was sipping as he drove the French out of the West Indies. This was accompanied by a cocktail called Escapades, from 1731. I say cocktail; this seemed rather closer to a dessert and was served with a piece of gingerbread on top. Apparently gin was once a sweet drink, sold in gin and gingerbread shops for medical purposes. Certainly puts that 'spoonful of sugar...' thing in a different light.

Finally we had Pink Gin. I'd always had an image that pink gin would be, well, pink. As such this cocktail proved to be very different to my long-standing, fallacious, assumption. It is, in fact, a shot comprised of gin and Angostura Bitters. Two shots, actually. One silver and one gold. There are lots of ways I could describe this. I could call it potent, or powerful, or heady. These are all good descriptions. What it was, though, is lethal. Lethal, yet delicious.

Pink Gin: 

And with that we departed the Langham with depleted bank accounts and satisfied palates to face the wilds of Regent Street. The Gin Palace is running until the end of October and is absolutely worth attending. It's on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Book a table. Right now. Here's the contact information: http://www.toptable.co.uk/palm-court-reservations-london?restref=31369 . Hurry.

James

Sussex

Once upon a time, a few weeks ago, the Whisky Dogs attended a party in the Sussex Down. A fairly small affair: gazebo, bar, punk covers band, piles of food and, as all parties should have, a peacock. Peacocks are brilliant. They're conversation starters. They're funny to look at. They're..well. That's actually about all they are. But that's their appeal. They're funny and you can talk about them; perfect thing to have at a party. Nestled below the Firle Beacon on Nicholas Gage, 8^th Viscount Gage's estate the party was held in the manicured garden of a coaching inn turned small holding and certainly possessed a picturesque, Sussex charm. One which was only added to by the presence of a large number of the local hunt. The whole thing did become a bit...horsey. Not a bad thing, of course, and certainly led to some unusual conversations. Never had I thought to hear so much on the topic of horse dieting.

And so we drank the night away. I recall a case of Thornbridge's Wild Swan vanishing before the sun set. Very tasty it was too. There was also a bottle of Ballantine's 17 Year Old, the best whisky in the world in 2011, which disappeared in moments. Also there was some gin. Quite a lot of gin. Possibly rather too much gin. And so it went, singing, dancing, gin. Then we fell asleep in our tents or, erm, cars; only to be woken by the charmingly rural sound of the inhuman banshee shrieks emanating from the bloody peacock. They do not make pleasant noises.

There we were. Hungover. Hungry. Tired. In tents. Facing the unrelenting, baking sun of a summer's morn in southern England. This was truly a day not seen since the Luftwaffe contested the skies over the verdant rolling hills of the Downs. It was desperate. It was also rather unpleasant. We tried everything our striving, suffering minds could think of to improve our situation. Food. Coffee. Tears. Sleep. A bracing cliffside walk. Striding into the sea, chased by a spaniel. Nothing was working. Were we doomed?

Eventually we came to the obvious conclusion. We needed a beer. We needed it badly. It wasn't easy. Body and mind rebelled; it was too hot, we were too hungover. Using the lessons learnt the previous evening from our red-coated, fox-slaying brethren we took our hangovers in a firm hand and retreated to the Pilot Inn for a pint of Harveys.

Harveys is a family-run brewery in Lewes which has been in business for some 200 years and is something of an institution in the southern counties; especially East Sussex. This is a beer which belongs to a place like few others. Other regional beers can be enjoyed practically anywhere they can be found. Thornbridge's offerings may be at their best on a windswept hilltop, peering out at the persistent drizzle that characterises the Peaks, but they're as wonderfully palatable regardless of where they're enjoyed. Another coastal brewery, St Austell, may actually be better enjoyed inland and away from the salt tang of the Cornish air.

Harveys, much like a foaming ale version of Antaeus, loses something when taken away from its chosen ground. Away from sea and cliff and Down the ale tends to fall a little flat. Maybe it just doesn't travel well. As such the Pilot was probably one of the better places to indulge in several pints of the stuff. The sea is ever present and the place is basically perched on the edge of a cliff, at the eastern edge of the Downs. Maybe it was the location, maybe the context, maybe the tortured state of our nerves and livers. Whevs.

That pint of medicinal ale was, without exaggeration, one of the best pints I have ever savoured. Everything came together. Sat in the sun, pleasantly tired, with sand in my shoes and the sound of sea and gull that first sip was like a snatched taste of Elysium. And, frankly, if that isn't a reason to go drink a beer by the sea then nothing will ever persuade you.

James

Also, ignore everything positive previously said about peacocks. Squawking monstrosities.

Theatre

On Sunday I was having something of a dearth of social options, let's say, and the idea of staying in and watching Downton Abbey – for what else does one do on a Sunday? - was proving a little difficult to bear. So, I thought I'd go to the theatre. I should really have come up with something terribly catty to put in here about theatre-going on a Sunday and then ascribed it to a certain dowager, but I can't seem to think of anything. Which must be why Julian Fellowes gets the fame and fortune and I, ah, don't. Anyway. I went to a small place in Lisson Grove called the Cockpit Theatre to see a show called A Broken Rose. Awfully good it was, too.

But first, and in keeping with the general purpose of this blog, my compatriot and I went to sample the pubs in and around the area. Well, pub, anyway. After peering into, and quickly retreating from, a number of, um, shall we say less than salubrious establishments we chanced across a Moroccan pub. Well, shisha bar. It was nice, it had shisha, so I suppose it lived up to expectations. Its supposedly-imported-but-actually-brewed-in-Slough European lager tasted like supposedly-imported-but-actually-brewed-in-Slough European lager. Which is always good. Um. The music was quite entertaining, and the fug of smoke made it fairly atmospheric. It probably has other good qualities, too.

Then we saw the play! Which was actually fantastic. It was billed as a dark, twisted fairytale and, to my happy surprise, turned out to be a dark, twisted tale about fairies. Performed in the round and with some excellent set and costume design it was the story of a girl's possibly real, possibly psychosis-induced invisible fairy friends. All happily mixed up with a smattering of substance abuse, domestic abuse, unwanted pregnancy, stage blood and a quite shocking – although in hindsight somewhat inevitable – conclusion. A solid Whisky Dog recommendation. Which we give to plays now, despite the name. And the other entries. 

So, we're out of the theatre, but it's a Sunday night, what to do? Still not wanting to return home and watch Downton, despite the appeal of Lady Mary's eyebrows, we ended up happily ensconced in the Allsop Arms. Located about halfway between Marylebone and Baker Street stations this pub carries the arguable mark of quality that comes from being the second pub on the Kensington and Marylebone arm of the Capital Cask Ale Trail. We at Whisky Dog like ale trails, so this was a good sign.

I would heartily recommend this pub, and its really very good Allsop Ale, to anyone who finds themselves with some time to waste in the area. It would be an excellent place to cleanse the palate if you were unfortunate enough to have had to face the grotesque appeal of Madame Tussauds, located about 5 minutes away.

In conclusion; a better evening than one spent watching Downton Abbey. And, really, what more can one ask for? 

Apart from Lady Mary's eyebrows, obviously...

Gin

Gin has had a bit of a varied history, to say the least. Gin is pretty quintessentially English, as compared to whisky which is currently a bit of a cross between Scotland's entire export economy and a Chinese businessman's penis extension. A pretty wonderful cross, but a cross nonetheless. There's just so much more associated with gin. Gin is burnt into the national character. It is the symbol of our nation's history and a chart of just how much we've developed as a society since it first came to the fore. It's also quite good mixed with other things in a glass. I realise that this is a blog about whisky but I for one haven't drunk much of it recently because it's been what we in England call summer and summer is a time for gin. And Pimm's, but that's another matter entirely. And I believe that gin is a little under respected, a little under appreciated, insomuch as an alcoholic liquid can be, anyway. There's art to do with gin, albeit portraying the stuff in a fairly unflattering light.

Gin started out as a cheap way for poor people to get as drunk as they possibly could as quickly as they possibly could so they could escape their dangerous, miserable, drudge-ridden and generally impoverished existence in the docks of London. It probably didn't help that the water then would kill you, the government had significant duties on foreign spirits (hence why smugglers and, by extension, Hastings exist) and, oh yes, there was no licensing of this powerful spirit. People were literally making it in their bathtubs. Well, figuratively, since they didn't have baths. Anyway. As you might expect gin got rather a bad name at this point seeing as how it maybe, possibly, probably singlehandedly stabilised London's burgeoning population explosion through a charming combination of death, child mortality and alcohol-fueled crime. Probably tasted pretty horrible too.

 Anyway, people got a little wise to just how much of a problem gin was becoming and clamped down on production and distribution, times changed and eventually almost all the gin production in London stopped. Out in the colonies, at that slightly fluid moment where the Empire was rushing out just fast enough for new and exciting diseases to kill the colonists, there was a slight problem with malaria. At that time there was only one solution to catching malaria, and that was to consume a large amount of quinine which, by all accounts, tasted pretty awful. The solution? Soak it in water then pour gin on top until it tastes palatable. And so the gin and tonic was invented on some sun-baked verandah in Ceylon or some other far flung outpost of her Majesty's empire and came to characterise a completely different aspect of England. Not just for the poor, gin was the respectable drink of the colonial adventurer. I expect that, if he were real, Allan Quartermain would have been perpetually squiffy on G&Ts, much like this:

Then the middle-classes got a grip on the stuff. This was the time of gin in teacups and hammered housewives smashing the stuff back to cope with 60's suburbia. And still is, if my mother's liquor cupboard is any indication. But gin, like all good alcoholic drinks, is undergoing a bit of a renaissance. In 2009 the first gin distillery to open in London for 189 years started production of the absolutely brilliant Sipsmith gin, in their still called Prudence. This is gin as it should be made, not by the thousands or millions of gallons by Diageo, but in 300 bottle batches in a residential street with water from the Cotswolds and barley from, well, a nearby field. After a bit of a slow start Sipsmith gin is now available all over the place – so long as that place has a Waitrose – and is well worth trying.

Although gin is best known as being from London (or Plymouth, for some reason) sometimes it's best to look further afield. So far afield, in fact, that you're rapidly running out of Britain before you get there. Shetland, that windswept, barren, and sheep filled island is about as far from the traditional homes of gin drinking as you could realistically get before you cross the Arctic Circle. Yet Shetland is the home of Blackwood's gin which is made using locally collected Wild Water Mint, Meadowsweet and Sea Pink flowers. I don't know what any of these are, but the end concoction is absolutely delicious by itself or mixed at half and half with tonic and a slice of lemon. 

And that's all there is to it; now I hope you'll all mix a drink, sit back, and savour the taste of history and the last, somewhat overcast, days of summer.

James

Cocktails

Cocktails

Cocktails have a bit of a mixed reputation; both in life and here at Whisky Dog. On the one hand they can be delicious, impossibly cool looking to drink and have a decidedly insalubrious effect. On the other hand, they can be horrifically syrupy bile in colours Dali might have thought twice about using. Although it does still tend to have a decidedly insalubrious effect. Yes, I'm looking at you, 'Woo Woo'. The humble, or decidedly extravagant cocktail has also taken a bit of a battering at the hands TV shows like Sex and the City, with its obsession with Cosmos. After all, what is more female than a cocktail? It really doesn't help that cocktails are a good way for bars to make money and so, generally, are...underpowered, to say the least. For too long we have suffered at the hands of chain bar cocktail menus which always comprise of a half pint of ice, a single measure of cheap vodka, then a copious amount of some unknown substance from a plastic bottle below the bar – a frankly bewitching sounding combination which then costs half your day's pay and then is gone in minutes. It can't be savoured, and tastes only of E-numbers and high fructose corn syrup. Or something.

But it doesn't have to be this way!

I suppose we have Mad Men to thank for a lot of this, but a good cocktail; made with whiskey, is now within our grasp. All we have to do is reach out and take it. Or find a bar that makes it. Or, you know, learn the recipe ourselves. And, chaps, it is always whiskey. I've seen concoctions made using single malt scotch and that, well, that just seems wrong.

First; the bar that makes it: The Old Fashioned

This is THE whiskey cocktail, beloved of Don Draper and everyone else who tries it. In fact, my first taste of this cocktail was when someone shoved one into my hand in a bar with the words 'This is what Don drinks'. I hadn't seen any of Mad Men at this point so I nodded, and smiled, and then drank the single best mixed drink I'd ever tasted. On one level so simple, and yet undeniably brilliant, an Old Fashioned is basically bourbon, a drop of Angostura bitters and some brown sugar mixed with water. There are many, many, many variations of this. In fact, the bar in question, located in impossibly trendy Camden has two variations of it themselves. However, this is by far the better version:

Old Fashioned (two)
Woodford Reserve and a dash of maraschino liqueur are balanced out with a brown sugar cube, orange bitters and slowly stirred over Ty Nant mineral water ice cubes. These drinks take time and passion to create – expect to wait 5 minutes per drink.

That last part is vital. This is a cocktail which is crafted so you get layers of sweet, bitter, sour boozy, and that delicious orange twist. The bar staff must hate them, which is a sign of a good cocktail. And just look at it. 

Forget the bright colours, forget the Cosmos, forget everything you think about cocktails in bars. It just looks impossibly cool. As will you drinking it. I guarantee*. This is a drink that should single handedly make men drinking cocktails cool again, and reclaim it from the stigma of town centre Friday nights and crying girls.

Especially if you drink one in here.

Second: learn the recipe yourself: The Stonewall

While an Old Fashioned is pretty fantastic, sometimes it just doesn't hit the spot. In the same way that a generous glass of scotch just isn't going to be what you're looking for as the sun dips on a sunny day. That's where the Stonewall comes in. It's simple, it's refreshing, it's delicious, and it's not massively sweet. This is something you could mix in really big jugs and have set between friends in a garden of a summer's eve. You'd probably have to crawl back into the house afterwards, but it'd be worth it.

You'll need bourbon, cloudy apple juice, ginger ale and limes, lots of limes. Then mix a generous measure of bourbon in a glass with the apple juice at a 2:1 apple to whiskey ratio. Squeeze in some of the juice and gooey bits from a lime, stir, then top up with ginger ale. Garnish with a slice of lime and, hey, done. Then go and set the world to rights as the shadows lengthen.

Hopefully this has rescued cocktails for you. Now, I don't expect to see you drinking cocktails in your local Slug & Lettuce again. Ever, actually. But if you must, stick to the gin – even they can't mess that up.

*Guarantee not valid in any actual real-world situation.

The Trans-Pennine Ale Trail

Britain may no longer rule the world but it is safe to say that Britain did go about inventing most of it. Not just the obvious stuff either, you know, rule of law, parliamentary democracy, gunboat diplomacy, cricket. Britain also invented railways, the jet engine, the pub, concentration camps, ale, the deep fried Mars bar and the myth of Welsh nationalism. All of which came about by taking something which already existed and making it actually work well – or in the case of the Mars bar, turning it into a precision guided killing machine. In batter. I mean, the ancient Greeks invented the steam engine but it took a slightly odd Cornishman and the allure of obscene amounts of money to make it actually do anything worthwhile.

As to this, allow me to return to this site's new apparent purpose; ale. Bit of a misnomer at the top of the page, but let's ignore that. Right. As I was saying about British inventions, they're all built on previous ideas made better. And what's better than taking a bunch of good ideas and mashing them together? Thermodynamics says you can never get out more than you put in but, in this case, frankly, I disagree. Take four of the best things to come out of Britain – trains, pubs, ale (obviously), and architecture. Architecture? I hear you cry, but this is the country that glorified Brutalism! To which I say, basically, shut up. Add to this mix the beauty of the Pennines and, with a stroke of maniacal genius, you have just invented the Trans-Pennine Ale Trail.

Running through the northern reaches of the Peaks from Manchester in the west through to the outer environs of Leeds in the east the trail comprises most of the stations between Stalybridge and Dewsbury. Charmingly, most of the pubs and bars in question are actually within the stations themselves. This is a throwback to a bygone age of rail travel, where most of the larger stations would have had a general tea-room which occasionally served something a little stronger. Now, with the exception of the detestable franchises selling unrecognisable styrofoam cups of grey, scummy liquid, upsettingly few remain. Those that do are often in some of the most ostentatious Victorian stations; most of which are located in the northern counties where new industrial money produced some truly remarkable examples of architecture.

First, the Dewsbury, at the easternmost end of the trail, is a town located about halfway between Hudderfield and Leeds. Here, nestled below the typical wrought iron gridding, is a pleasant bar of time-darkened wood named the West Riding Refreshment Rooms. The beer here appears to tend towards heavy, full headed varieties, which I wasn't quite sure we'd be able to cope with. This concern was not helped when two pints of white foam were deposited before our slightly concerned eyes. Given time and patience these coalesced into a surprisingly clear and light pint, perfect to take the remaining sharp edges off a hangover. However Dewsbury is not a place where one can spend a day; the bar is fairly small, chaotic and perpetually crowded, and so on to Huddersfield.

'Uddersfield, as the man on the train called it, proved to be a revelation. I was expecting a slightly decayed post-industrial town (shameful southern bias, I'm afraid). In contrast I found a huge station of pale stone, which opened up onto a similarly large esplanade of very impressive civic buildings. I mean, the one opposite the facade of Doric-columned stone which forms the station's entrance had a very large reclining Brittania placed on its roof. Its neighbour settling for the slightly less showy but always classic lions. The better of the two bars in this station is the Head of Steam, a slightly incongrously '50's diner-themed bar divided into four sections; in principle for dining and accommodating children and the like. The beer here is impressively varied in character and locality, with ciders being fairly well represented in addition. Having been amused by the name I settled in to a good few, very pleasant, pints of Copper Dragon, which I would recommend to all and sundry. My compatriot, clearly possessed of a more varied palate, sampled far more widely – even venturing so far as to try a beer from South Yorkshire.

And then...

Well, and then we went home. This is the inherent flaw of the Ale Trail; there are nine stops. Train services, while regular, and not as often as would be ideal and so it is very difficult to do all nine stops (or even more than two) in a given day unless you are starting in Manchester or Leeds. The train times/opening hours/point at which the sun has crossed the yardarm get into a bit of a snare otherwise. Starting late, with a hangover, was probably not the best approach to take. We do apologise.

Perhaps the most difficult part of the day was the slightly arduous journey back to the the relatively tame southern Peaks from the wilds of the Pennines, which caused some complaints. It is apparently very difficult to get around in the north. Not sure I agree. I mean, we managed to cover nearly two hundred hungover and drunken miles with fairly little fuss, confusion or tears. By contrast the very next day I managed to get in a bit of a muddle over the three stations in West Hampstead and, let's face it, that's just a road, a few houses and some grass. For all their complaining these northern jessies don't even know they're born.

James

The Ale Festival

Although we here at Whisky Dog Blog are primarily concerned with distilled beverages, I feel it worthwhile to discuss the CAMRA Ale festival I recently attended in Derby’s historic roundhouse; a wonderful building now used as part of Derby College. I have previously been to one of these events held in Stoke-on-Trent, accompanied by the two other writers on this blog and they will be unsurprised to know that the clientele was much the same: middle aged men in CAMRA t-shirts talking loudly about the superiority of their chosen tipple.

Upon perusing the large selection of cask ales on sale, I noticed a far smaller stand catering to those who wanted to taste U.S craft beers as well as beers from Europe. I ignored this section at first, instead tucking into many a half of fine English beer; admittedly focusing mainly on Pale Ales. Although the beer was good, it just wasn’t hitting the spot. It was all quite samey and I was dying for something to hit me and make me take notice.  So I decided to wander over the aforementioned stand.

Now (and this is relatively important), I have long been of the opinion (as I imagine many Englishmen have) that American beer is just mass produced, watery, tasteless, shite that can only be drunk without risk of mockery when consuming a pizza. It was with delight on this evening that I discovered something that allows me to completely repudiate this view. I was first, however, confronted with the spectacle of Scotsman aggressively yelling “your bein’ fuckn’ uncouth” at a pretty inoffensive looking English student for swigging his beer straight out of the bottle. When the guy enquired as to whether it was appropriate for a member of CAMRA’s staff to speak to festival goers in this fashion (adding quite rightly that once he had paid for the beer he could consume it in whatever way he saw fit) and also adding that he was rather offended by the incident, the Scotsman responded “Good! I meant to fuckn’ offend ya!”.

I will first of all confess that the main reason for choosing to try Rogue breweries ‘Yellow Snow IPA’ was for two aesthetic reasons: firstly, the bottle looked cool. Secondly, the name made me giggle. Be that as it may, I was quite astounded upon tasting it. There is no doubting that it was the right choice, this truly is a marvellous beer. It has everything you look for in a quality IPA, it is hoppy and strong tasting, it doesn’t feel thin on the palate and although a few bottles can make you feel a little worse for were the day after, it truly is a beer that forces you to take notice of its quality. I was quite astonished by how good this ale was and purchased a couple to take home. I later began wishing and hadn’t consumed them straight away, but it really is that tasty.

A few days later I was in Tesco (of all places) and saw that they had a small selection of American craft beers and I decided to try the only one I had never seen before. It was Goose Island’s ‘India Pale Ale’ and again, it was utterly fantastic. Not as strong tasting as the Rogue IPA, owing primarily to the fact that it isn’t as well hopped, but a beer of great quality none the less. These two beers genuinely are two of the tastiest beers I have drunk in a very long time and have caused me to totally renounce the snobbish, elitist and, frankly, quite ridiculous attitude I had towards American beers in the past.

I have a theory as to why I possessed this attitude in the first place. It is not untrue to claim that the overwhelming bulk of American ‘beer’ (if indeed it deserves that title) sold in British pubs and supermarkets is complete and utter garbage. Both cheaply produced and wildly overpriced it is sold to a public who, while having very good access to modern British craft beer, have very limited access to real American beers. Consequently we began to act as if these big brands spoke for American brewing as a whole, rather like assuming that certain fast food chains are the full international expression of American cuisine. In the words of David Brent: “don’t assume, it makes an ass out of you and me.”     

Joe