So
I'm talking to this bloke who reveals that he once owned a cottage
deep in the English countryside, and that a previous owner of this
same cottage was reputed to open a new bottle of port at the end of
every day, consume half its contents for supper, before leaving the
now half-empty bottle on the doorstep overnight. When he came down
again in the morning, it would be to find that the bottle had been
topped up to the brim with fresh cow's milk, delivered by the
cowherd? Dairyman? At any rate, a man with access to fresh milk - and
this port'n'milk mix was the erstwhile cottage-dweller's daily
breakfast.
Absolutely
true, this bloke (whom, it must be noted, I have never met before in
my life) swears as much. And I want to believe in the port'n'milk
breakfast concoction
so badly that I go home and try it out. Apprehensively, of course,
not wanting another Queen Victoria's Tipple near-death sensation, yet
emboldened by a desire to screw around with some port, a drink I can
now barely tolerate at any level, especially in the context of PK's
crazed reverence for the stuff, his fantasy that we routinely dine at
the High Table of Magdalen College, Oxford, killing bottle after
bottle of the '63 Graham's. So I fish out some elderly and mainly
ignored Ruby Port that we use for cooking, plus a bottle of milk.
Half a small glassful of each mixed together, and my breakfast is
good to go.
Drinkable?
Well, yes, oddly enough, in a blackcurrant and raspberry
yoghurt/smoothie kind of way. It's thick, unctuous, sweet, with an
unexpectedly generous barf
of alcohol at the finish. Kids would love it. Obviously, I can't get
through more than a couple of sips before questioning my own sanity,
and how anyone ever knocked off a bottleful at seven in the morning
is beyond comprehension. But still. I gaze at it, watching the curds
and whey separate out in drifting flocculence
like a mackerel sky. Is that the acidity in the port prompting the
change? How acidic is
our
port, now I think of it? Has it, effectively, become a sweetish
vinegar?
Who
cares? Port is there to be interfered with.
All right, then. How many ways are
there, to adulterate and denature port? Apart from this slightly
kinky milkshake? After all, port
abuse has
been going on for years, all over Great Britain. Port & lemon
used to be the Old Lady's Favourite; someone told me that you could
mix port & Coke (really? Two undrinkable drinks in one? Really?);
no. 2 son assures me that a Cheeky
Vimto
can be cobbled together from port and Blue Wkd; there are endless
appalling cocktail recipes that call for port, I can't begin to
describe them, although a Hangman's
Blood,
containing beer, port, rum, gin, champagne, just about anything, was
a favourite of the late Anthony Burgess - novelist, polymath and
world-class alcoholic - and sounds uncannily like a suicide note you
can drink, I mean, you've got to respect it for that alone -
-
And then it occurs to me, increasingly queasily, that port could
provide the USP for a new kind of bar, a genuinely British-themed
port cocktail/tapas nightmare: in which the punters sit around on old
G-Plan furniture; relax beneath discreetly shaded fluorescent lights;
drink from NHS toothmugs; and are surrounded by Union Jacks,
redundant Photofits on loan from the Metropolitan Police, messages
from the now-defunct UK Border Agency ('Go Home Or Face Arrest') and
tea-bag advertisements.
The
port-based beverages being dished out from behind the bar (made of
surplus catering kit from Sellafield, ideally) take care of
themselves, but the uniquely British tapas? A few possibilities float
through my consciousness:
Crisps
Pieces
of fried egg
Rolos
Toast
Miniature
fish fingers
Shreddies
Prunes
Pork
pie segments
Baked
beans
Chicken
McNuggets
Chutney
Porridge
Digestive
biscuits
Gherkins
Cheese
footballs
Strepsils
Chipolatas
Hand-selected
peanuts
At
which point I start to feel positively ill: the port'n'milk slurry
clearly reminding me that there can only be one winner in drinking
trials of this kind: the drink itself. Forget everything I just said about the port-themed
tapas bar. No-one should have to consume this stuff, adulterated or
otherwise. It is simply wrong.
I
am now going to lie down. Goodnight, everybody.
CJ
idea for bar name - "Listing to Port"
ReplyDeleteWell, the crack editorial team at Sediment rather like that -
DeleteBetter, I think, than my idea: PORTion Control. An idea I have since reluctantly given up...
I once travelled from Lisbon to Faro on an early morning train.
ReplyDeleteIt's a five hour trip.
Or one bottle of port per person (a wine merchant recommended "a good breakfast port").
Obviously there were natas. We weren't complete hooligans.
Thank God for the natas, although I quail at the prospect of 5 hours' worth of morning port.
DeleteI once took the train from Paris to Rome with my then-girlfriend, a full bottle of 3 star brandy and no air conditioning. I'll say no more than that