Valentine’s Day is over, and I know I missed a good opportunity to celebrate my true love. But whilst February 14 might have been the best time, today, in my books, is the second best time.
So here we go.
Some men love wristwatches and perfumes; some ladies love Lamborghinis. Most people love good food and Beyoncé. But ever since I became legal, I’ve been in love with beverages. No, not sodas or cocktails. Fine, refined, smooth drinks that’ll compete any day with the best cars, houses and APs.
And when I first started sampling beers at 21, without, wow, what a joy. I was trained on lager, and tried out stouts, and ciders. And I learned all there was to know about hops and barley and how to enjoy the beauty of different craft beers and the holy grail of them all – favouring only local beers anywhere I was. I mixed my beer with juice, experimented with the combo of lager and stout, and even used aperitifs, syrups and elderflowers.
Then the beer phase led me into more temptation and I started flirting with white liqueur – Gin, Vodka, Tequila, Mezcal, and everything in that category. I drank them neat and realised hangovers were nothing but fiction; I combined them with tonic and elderflower and even soda occasionally. I tried local gins from Nigeria; bought variations of vodka and gin from duty-free; and read everything about the economics and sociology of mezcal before setting my eyes on a bottle. And I found myself in beverage heaven.
It would seem that the more in love you are, the more you’re likely to discover even more, what makes you love, love. Okay, maybe that doesn’t make sense. But I soon started mapping my week around days I’ll have a beer, the mezcal and tequila days, and the days of gin and vodka. I was sleeping more, getting more inspiration, doing better work, drinking more water, eating better; and even doing better in bed (haha).
I’m strict with myself, and have a very heavy schedule so I never really overindulge; and being physically active and team fit meant I was burning good calories and keeping my mind and body busy. By 29, I was certain mine would be a life of water, and clear liqueur, matched with fine dining and my love for socks and loafers and flying.
Then something happened on my 30th birthday.
I tasted a glass of cognac, while out with friends in Lagos, the busy Nigerian city. I had never paid attention to brown liqueur, and considered them inferior to the real McCoys I was used to. But I had cognac and coke, with some ice and lime; then I had one glass straight, and had another with a dash of iced water. I paired them with the local Nigerian barbecue with pepper sauce called ‘suya’, and I still can’t find words to describe the deliciousness.
Over the next few months, I tried every variant I could find, very special, very special old pale, extra old pale, champagne, everything.,
When I discover a new drink, I try not to be biased towards or against any brand. I just want to sample, experiment and indulge. Alone, with friends, at home, in bars, in a club, and so on. I want to try the drinks over lunch and dinner, at work, in the air, or on a walk. Don’t worry I never drink and drive, and I hope you do not, too.
My cognac phase went on for so long that after a while, I was only focused on beer and cognac.
The thing with acquiring tastes is that your palate gets so used to one, that soon you’re forgetting about the other. Unless you’re good with recalling muscle memories and you’re deliberate in remaining consistent.
So by my mid-thirties, all my friends knew me as the cognac and beer dude. Vodka became too strong for my stomach, and gin was too harsh without tonic water. Cognac, on the other hand, especially the brands I settled for, was bliss. And beer, at mostly “mortuary standards” and 4-5% ABV, was as good as water.
Life was beautiful.
My stomach was happy; and my body benefited from the healthy competition among good food, fine beverages, intense exercise, and hard work. I was a fine, fit, fabulous black man in my mid-thirties, who would have thought?
But – and I hate you all for this – why did no one tell me sooner that my entire life was a lie? You – why didn’t you tell me about whisky sooner? Why did you allow me to settle with cognac when you knew all along, that this thing called single malt exists? Why didn’t anyone think of telling me? Why?
I came late to the party, literally, inside the private members club in London three years ago, hosted in honour of an old acquaintance who insisted the bar serve nothing but single malt whisky. For the first few hours, I stuck with the hor d’oeuvres and drank classic sparkling water. But the girl I was eyeing led me into temptation, and I had first a sniff of a tort of the Macallan triple cask 20yo; and then a sip, that led to a gulp; and a refill. I held her by the elbow, and we found our way closer to the bar. The barman did something he wasn’t meant to: he opened a bottle of the Macallan rare cask and encouraged us to indulge.
By the end of that night in London, I had attended what became my first ever whisky tasting and learnt so much about this Scottish invention that my date and I went out every night after that, trying out different expressions across London.
It wasn’t until I was back home in Lagos, that I found time to feed on some literature and discovered why I enjoyed whisky so much; and why it was a far better lover than cognac. Cognac, produced in the Cognac region of France is regionally protected but the regional variations of Whiskey ensure I am not confined to one experience.
Every sip still feels like the first time at that bar in London; rebellious yet refined, bold yet balanced. I know now that this isn’t just the love for a drink, it is an affair of the soul.
