How Gin Become ‘a Problem’ According to a Very Famous Author

Asked at an American luncheon club where he got his ideas, the late T.S. Eliot replied, “Gin and drugs, dear lady, gin and drugs.” Lord Byron once declared, “Gin and water is the source of all my inspiration,” and a very different kind of writer from either of those mentioned, Evelyn Waugh, was said to have led off with a couple of ounces of gin mixed with Guinness stout and ginger beer — twice over. 

Waugh drank his gin for real, but the other two were obviously just out to shock gently. No special affinity exists between writers and gin, but it is the sort of drink you drink because you like drinking, and writers certainly qualify there.

Gin came along later than other spirits

Gin turned up quite late on the alcoholic scene, around the year 1570, in Holland. In the 1580s it was noticeably popular with Dutch troops fighting the Spaniards in the Low Countries. English soldiers serving as allies of the Dutch certainly noticed this popularity and when, in the next century, England and Holland became rivals and enemies, the phrase “Dutch courage” was a handy sneer, one with such a ring to it that it has stayed in the language long after all the battles have been forgotten.

Meanwhile, with that bold hypocrisy that has served them so well down the ages, the English were busily setting up distilleries to make their own version of what was not yet called gin. It was very cheap to make, also perceptibly cheaper to buy than the French brandy that was the only other spirit available — whisky was of course confined, then and for another couple of centuries, to Scotland and Ireland. Though often called Geneva early on and long afterwards, gin had nothing to do with that boring Swiss city but was named after the juniper that provides its chief flavoring, via either Dutch (genever) or French (genièvre) or English (giniper and ginuper are old spellings)

Moral panic nearly killed gin

Inevitably, gin became a problem. At the start of the 18th century, one Bernard de Mandeville, a Dutch doctor settled in London, wrote in a pamphlet: “The infamous Liquor, the name of which deriv’d from Juniper-Berries in Dutch, is now, by frequent use, from a word of midling length shrunk into a Monosyllable. Intoxicating Gin.” 

Intoxicating was a stronger word then than now and meant literally poisonous, producing delirium. (This tone of pious horror keeps turning up in commentaries of the time and later.)

The infamous liquor had not long before received its biggest lift yet: Late in the 17th century England and Holland became friends again: a Dutch prince became King William III of England, and in 1690, having had his troubles with the French, he banned the import of brandy. So now you could patriotically toast Dutch Billy in his own tipple and get plastered for a few coppers.

Workers could get paid in gin

Plastered the English proceeded to get. They had plenty of opportunity, with gin sold on the street from stalls and barrows and in jails, brothels and workhouses. Some of those early drinkers must have been men (and women and children) of mark. Juniper berries were relatively expensive and bothersome to obtain and prepare — why not just add turpentine or sulfuric acid to crude spirits under the name of gin? You could draw your pay in such swill.

Having started life as the drink of common soldiers, gin became that of the urban poor. It took a correspondingly low place in the social scale. But there were changes on the way. Early in the 19th century the officers of the Royal Navy switched from their traditional rum to gin.

Thanks to the Royal Navy, gin became medicine

One of them is supposed to have discovered, then or later, that the taste of Angostura bitters, used in the tropics to keep down fever and scurvy, could be smothered under gin, and the drink Pink Gin was born.

Someone else (though of course it could quite conceivably have been the same fellow) found that the similarly medicinal quinine water could be similarly improved, and here was the Gin and Tonic. By the 1860s the new American drinks, cocktails — most of them based on gin — were spreading round the world, though in a trickle rather than a flood.

Prohibition and a bit of poison took their toll

The flood came in 1919 when Prohibition struck the United States and, to the authorities’ consternation, consumption of all kinds of spirits began to shoot up. Much of this was gin, or was given that name. The demand far outran the supply of the real stuff, and amazingly horrible substances — antiseptics, antifreeze, varnish, embrocation — were topped up with tiny amounts of gin and foisted on the helpless consumer. 

Apart from producing undesirable side effects, like death, concoctions of this sort had to have their flavor smothered with fruit juice, vermouth, or whatever, before they could be swallowed at all; the general preference for mixed drinks was no mere fad. It became so deeply entrenched that, when Prohibition ended in 1933 and proper gin became freely available, the favored way to take it was in a cocktail — especially the Dry Martini.

The cocktail era was interrupted by World War Il and was never the same afterwards. Nevertheless, gin as such continued for a little longer to be the preeminent white spirit of the English-speaking world as it had been for three centuries or more.

Vodka killed gin — for a bit

Then vodka appeared, with what devastating results we know. This happened more recently than many people think; James Bond lowered his first Vodka and Tonic as late as 1961. Now the vodka vogue may be waning, to judge by what I see here and there in London.

Gin is a drink, a very pure spirit made from grain — nowadays a combination of corn, rye, and barley. There are no fine gins as there are fine brandies and fine whiskies, but there are some very good and popular ones. Gin is unlike brandy and whisky (and most other spirits) in another important respect, too.

Where does gin get its distinctive flavor?

Their flavor comes ultimately from the same material as the alcohol in them — from grapes or from grain; that of gin is added during the process of distillation. Juniper is still the chief flavoring agent, and was once the only one.

The juniper, an evergreen shrub of the pine family, produces small, round, purplish cones, which look much less like cones than berries, which is what they are always called. They yield a pungent oil — once used medicinally to alleviate gout and dropsy — that provides the distinctive flavoring of all gin.

Other ingredients, or “botanicals,” include coriander seed, cinnamon bark and angelica root; orange-peel and licorice root in Britain; and lemon-peel and caraway seed in the United States. Every gin distiller uses a different combination of botanicals and guards his formula very securely.

What exactly is London gin?

The best and best-known style of gin is London Dry, the manufacture of which begins naturally enough with the production of a quantity of grain spirit. Formerly, the distiller made his own; currently, he is much more likely to have it made to his specification by contractors. The grain spirit will be of a relatively high purity on arrival, but the distiller’s first task is to “rectify” it further (in patent or continuous stills at the Beefeater distillery, in pot stills at Gordon’s). What emerges is a flavorless, colorless, “neutral” spirit. The last part of the process with all London gins takes place in pot stills; at this stage of final distillation the botanicals are added and impart their various flavors to the spirit.

Afterwards the distillate is transferred to blending containers, and water is added to reduce the strength to the required level. As soon as the distiller is satisfied with quality and consistency — today’s product must be a replica of yesterday’s — bottling can begin, for gin never improves after distillation. Indeed, it should not be kept long; oxidation eventually sets in and the botanical oils turn harsh and bitter.

And that is about as much science as you are going to get on this trip.

And what are American gin, Dutch gin, and sloe gin?

American gins are of the London Dry general type. The rather more aromatic Plymouth gin is usually recommended for Pink Gin. Dutch gin or Hollands, said to be “heavier” in flavor than the other gins, is made from malted grain in a pot still (as is malt whisky) and is always drunk neat.

A kind of gin is made on the island of Minorca (a British possession for most of the 18th century). I found it good but “heavy” in the Dutch style, which suggests that the lighter gins we drink today were developed comparatively recently. Sloe gin is not a type of gin but a cordial made from gin, sugar and — what else? — sloes, the plumlike fruit of the blackthorn.

Very good after lunch.

Kingsley Amis’s favorite way to drink gin

Gin, as I said. is a drink. Anything worthy of that name must stand up on its own, and gin deserves to be sampled with its carefully built flavor unobliterated by quinine, bitters, vermouth, ice, etc. Soften it with a little branch water — rather less than the amount of gin. If you have never tried this, you may be surprised at the intensity of flavor you get and also, if you try a comparison or two, at the wide differences between brands. Recommended for winter drinking.

Although it was all the rage a hundred years ago, gin and water is rarely called for today — so rarely that it offers a useful takedown. If your host or a fellow guest has been showing signs of undue expertise in drinking matters, or needs tweaking for any other reason, call at a suitable moment and in ringing tones for gin and water, plain and without ice — it may be well to rub this in by letting the drink arrive with ice in it and then dramatically taking it all out. The chap is pretty sure to make some wondering comment on this novelty. Your answer, perhaps in a British accent: 

“Yes, well, you see I’m afraid I just happen to like the taste of gin.

Most people, of course, use gin as the basis of a mixture. I pass over such well-tried and uncontroversial potations as the Gin Collins and the Gin and Tonic, observing only that the latter benefits from a good squeeze of lemon juice and a few drops of Angostura.

Perhaps the least-known in this category is the Negroni, a fine apertif, which I prefer made of 2 parts London Dry gin, 1 part Campari, 1 part Italian red (sweet) vermouth and a little soda water.

Finally, some suggestions in more detail.

Salty Dog

I was introduced to the Salty Dog some years ago in Tennessee, but now that I think of it, I have never come across it since. What you do is moisten the rim of a glass and twirl it about in a saucer of table salt so that it picks up a thickish coating about a quarter of an inch deep. Carefully add one part of gin and two parts of fresh grapefruit juice, stir thoroughly, add ice, stir, and drink through the band of salt. Splendid for out-of-doors.

Singapore Sling

As served in the Long Bar of Raffles Hotel, Singapore (I am much indebted here to Pamela Vandyke Price), this consists of 2 parts of Tanqueray gin; 1 of Peter Heering cherry brandy; 1 each of orange, pineapple and lime juice; and 1 or 2 drops each of Angostura bitters, Benedictine and Cointreau, all presumably stirred up with ice.

One expects no less from a professional barman; a domestic host will probably find such recipes more fun to read than to carry out for a crowd of guests. I keep the gin and the cherry brandy, standardize the fruit juice at 3 parts of orange, and drop the rest except the bitters (optional).

Pink Gin (also known as the Gin Cocktail)

This is merely gin flavored with Angostura bitters, iced and diluted with water or soda water, though people are always arguing about the amount of bitters per drink — four drops, three dashes stirred around with ice in the glass and then poured off, or one quick dash (my formula). There is general agreement that the final product should never be darker than pale pink, but the only man I know who regularly. drinks it adds so much bitters that the result looks like red wine. He is an ex-captain of the Royal Navy, which gives him some authority but (believe me) not enough.

Dry Martini

Can there be anything new to say here? Oh well — l take my London Dry gin bottle out of the freezer or the cold part of the refrigerator and pour rather a lot of it over a large white cocktail onion and some ice cubes in a small wine glass. I add almost no vermouth.

(The rule here is the same as for sherry in soup; if you can distinctly taste it, you have put in too much.) I stir, leave to stand for a minute, stir again, and then drink. When the ice starts to look eroded I take it out. This compromise between the straight-up and on-the-rocks versions gets the best of both. 

Anyway, I use it, and experienced readers will take note. They have learned the all-important lesson that what a drinks writer actually does is much more likely to be useful than what he merely recommends.