(Photo credit: Hendrick’s Gin)
“Since quitting smoking in 2007, I have become a little bit of a liquor snob. I’ve developed a taste for bourbon, straight or on the rocks usually. I used to hate gin until a friend introduced me to the summertime joy that is Hendrick’s gin with two sticks of frozen cucumber in it. It’s glorious. It’s my favourite way to drink gin, along with Snoop Dogg’s favourite, (orange) juice. I also enjoy gin and lemonade and gin and sparkling water flavoured with lemon. But Hendrick’s is my gin of choice. I’ll do some Tanqueray too, but I draw the line there.
Bombay Sapphire is the work of the fucking devil. All other gin might as well be rubbing alcohol and pine needles brewed up in my tub. I know from good gin and I know what I like. I’ve been very clear on this. I have told everyone I know what I like and how I like it, and I accept no substitutes. I know my spousal unit was in the room when I said these things. I have been very specific with him when we’ve been in a liquor store together. I like a good gin and we will pay the premium.
It was over a year ago now, the moment I realized that after 10 years together my spousal unit has not heard a word I have said in those previous 10 years. It was an innocent enough request. On your way back home from the United States of America, could you please pick me up a bottle of gin. And he did.
He walks in with a nondescript brown paper bag and a grin on his face. My eyes lit up. THERE IS GIN IN THE HOUSE! He reached into the bag with one hand and wore a huge smile for the big reveal. He made some kind of noises that I think were suppose to emulate either a crowd cheering or a drum roll and lifted the clear glass bottle from its plain brown wrapper.
Beefeater London Dry Gin.
Forty ounces of it.”
This is a god damn tragedy.