drinks

As I get ready to watch Revolutionary Road (which the BBC generously put on the iPlayer the other day), I contemplate the drinks options. Last night, I watched Open Range. That was an easy one. I had whiskey, a Bushmills Black. The glass unfortunately finished the bottle. I'll have to restock next weekend at the airport.

When I started college, the idea of strong spirits revolted me. I had friends who casually mentioned their well-supplied liquor cabinets, the drinks they would prepare and the necessary ingredients. It made me shiver. Drink is nothing to brag about.

I still didn't get it when I was in Utah, though there was not much to get there. For a friend in lab, I once ran contraband across the Zion curtain in the form of a bottle of Lagavulin because the hooch was much cheaper in Germany. It was beyond me that anyone would spend 40 euros on one bottle. Later, a Scottish friend of a friend let me sample a few of his treasures – disgusting without fail.

My eyes were ripped open at another lab member's housewarming party when a colleague brought a bottle of Herradura Añejo. I had tried tequila before, in margaritas mainly, but the colleague requested shot glasses. "Don't mix this stuff", he said, "and don't toss it." Like silly aunts, we started sipping with pointed mouths. It was incredible. A bottle of Herradura has since been with me most of the time.

Then, when I left France, a student gave me a bottle of Balluet Très Vieille Réserve which years later, when it was empty, compelled me to go on a trip to Cognac and visit Mr Balluet's distillery. I booked checked luggage for the trip back and brought three bottles home with me.

Cognac was on my mind before I started watching the film but when I checked my reserves, I realized that there were only two bottles remaining. What happened to the third? Gone already? But no worries, it's been a year and a half.

With alcohol it is just as with meat – I'd rather have something better and a bit less of it. I guess that holds true with many things in life. There's nothing wrong with a glass of good booze every now and then, but for many that's too difficult to manage. England is apparently the world leader of binge and puke.

I didn't open the second bottle. All in its own time. There was one other option, a memory of a trip to Portugal last year. And so with a small glass of 20-year-old Croft tawny, I sat down in front of the screen and hit play.

Revolutionary Road was delightful as historic documentation – work desks without computers; salesmen speaking letters into dictaphones, not for voice recognition by the word processor but for transcription by the typist; everyone smoking, in their homes, at work, in restaurants – and amazing for its fatal clash between dreams and reality. As entertainment, it came a bit heavy but moving slowly it gave me plenty of time to finish this post.