Learning to sip

As a result of recent medical developments, I have been assigned a range of medications that have ‘do not drink alcohol’ written on the instructions. I am pretty sure they don’t mean don’t drink any alcohol, because that would be a cruel and unusual punishment, and I’m sure that any benevolent God would not inflict that on an unfortunate such as myself, on whom the same deity recently saw fit to bestow several stents. Hence the meds.

On interrogating my GP on the subject, he thought that ‘a couple of units with food’ certainly wouldn’t do much harm. Being somebody who likes to push the boundaries of human experience, I recently tested the limits on a rock climbing trip to the Lake District, and discovered two things. Firstly, whoever suggested that large amounts of alcohol and medication do not mix was correct. Secondly, expert cardiology units are thin on the ground in the Lake District. This was something my wife discovered on planning a high-speed back road dash to the nearest such establishment which, fortunately, was not required, but the whole experience did reinforce the fact that my days of jaunty devil-may-care consumption are, regrettably, over. Starting on Monday.

Yesterday being the day before said start-date, I decided that it was a good time to try out what I have always considered to be a pointless activity, moderate and sensible drinking. I have devised two main strategies. The first is to stop with the heavy wine consumption, gin and tonic, and post-dinner single malts, and switch to real ale. I figure that a combination of lower alcohol content and higher physical volume will keep me satisfied, if I can learn to sip, rather than guzzle. A recent helpful development in several of our local pubs has been the introduction of a small wooden device designed to hold three 1/3rd of-a-pint glasses, designed to allow the punter to sample each of the ales on offer. Suitably equipped, sipping is indeed appropriate, in order that the qualities of each beverage can be suitably assessed. And it works, to a degree anyway. Real Ale and craft beers abound these days and they deserve to be treated with the same reverence as fine wine in my view. Anything which encourages such an appreciation, and prevents my left ventricle from exploding in a cloud of tri-cuspid valve and excess alcohol, would seem to be a ‘good thing’, even if the little three-glass device seems a tad pretentious.

To be honest, my skills as a connoisseur and critic barely extend beyond ‘hmmmm…..beeeeeer!’, but with all good intention we embarked in the direction of the Crown Inn at Sproxton. For non-locals, that’s pronounced ‘Spro-son’. For some reason, much like Belvoir which is pronounced ‘Beaver’, the locals a thousand years ago decided that Norman French wasn’t their thing and they’d pronounce stuff how they bloody well liked. It was after all, their stuff and the Norman French had pillaged it, so inconsistent pronunciation seemed like a reasonable minor resistance in the whole ‘Norman Conquest’ scheme of things.

There were two reasons for choosing the Crown. The first is that it does something that not all pubs do since gastro-itus invaded our hostelries and swept all before it….it actually stays open all day and serves beer! Innovative! A pub which serves beer to drinkers! It may catch on, who knows? Not that I object to the gastro aspect of gastro pubs, just that, being old these days, I like a pub which is a, how can I put this…..a pub. The second reason for the Crown was that the wife and I were engaged in ‘Serious Foody Debate’. These days, a pub Sunday dinner can clock up an eye-watering bill. Sure, the quality is often, usually even, superb but how does the whole experience compare with a more traditional down-and-dirty (not literally) eight quid full beef dinner?

The sign outside the Crown offered just such an alternative. Invited to try ‘Annas Sunday Lunch’, I initially thought we were being offered a previously-undiscovered cuisine from a remote region of Europe. ‘Is the Annas in the South of France?’, I asked the wife. Googling suggested that it was not. After consulting Wikipedia, I doubted that Annas, the first High Priest of the newly formed Roman province of Ludaea in 6 CE (just after the Romans had deposed Archelaus, Ethnarch of Judaea, thereby putting Judaea directly under Roman rule), had popped in as guest chef for the day, we concluded that, with the addition of an apostrophe, it was the delights of Anna’s lunch that we were to sample.

So weekends are now gentle and moderate lunches, and retirement to the bar for a small finisher and tap away on the lap top, writing this, and other stuff.

Have I learned to sip? It’s a work in progress...