THE GOOD LIFE Pamela VANDYKE PRICE
'Only Satan.' says Kipling, 'can rebuke sin: The good don't know enough.' So when efficient young interviewers begin to stumble as to whether I have ever—been unfortunate enough to—been tempted to—I know quite well what they don't mean. They want to ask me if I've ever been drunk. And of course I have. Awful indiscretions, double vision, aggressiveness, that terrible swirl when one does get to bed that we used to call 'pillow spin', nausea and total lack of remembering what one did. said, where one went and with whom—and the horrors of the aftermath. of which the remorse and apprehension are almost worse than the headache, the eye ache, the stomach ache and the white-hot wires in every joint ... I've had the lot.
But not for a very long time.
If life has taught me anything. it has taught me to come to terms with my limita- tions. I never drink any mysterious mixtures. I remember how we used to slosh in the pure alcohol and take our personal tipples from a jug. ug. Usually, the simpler the potion the better. If you treat your stomach like a Regency punch bowl, it's fair enough that the result will be that you feel like a Regency rake--and they were pre-Alka-Seltzer and aspirin, poor things. If you drink without eating anything, or only salty things that increase your thirst, the alcohol will ob- viously have its way with you faster and for longer than if you give it some interior cushioning, which is why I applaud drink party hostesses who serve onion soup. ked- geree. the endless and enjoyable variations on potato pie or gratins. succulent risottos and even such humble blotters as toasted garlic bread with a choice of toppings, pum- pernickel piled with cheese, meat, vegetables and eggs or fish, or the blessed baked potato in its jacket, plus plenty of butter, salt and some kind of stuffing to add the protein that one needs when one is tired to avoid suc- cumbing to the alcohol, and must have when one has already succumbed and needs to recover. (My mother-in-law always in- sisted on one eating a cooked breakfast and having a brisk walk on I January before she would allow any lying back with codeine, eye-packs and gallons of water, and maybe the fact that I had to face many a kipper then makes me intrepid now.) As the elimination process is at least half of the secret of avoiding or minimising the consequences of imprudent eating and drink- ing, those of us who've learnt the hard way take several aspirin, some fizzy salts and at least a pint of water (more if possible) before we fall into whatever kind of sleep we're able to get. My doctor husband used to recom- mend a repeat of all this when one first crawled into consciousness about 5-6 a.m., before one had to get up. and one worldly member of the wine trade placidly advised, 'Always champagne as the last drink of whatever evening, darling—then, in the morning, one whoosh and all is well!' Some people swear by the alkalinity of milk before they drop off, but I warn the inexperienced as to the unwisdom of pouring the acidity of a lot of fruit juice onto what may already be an acid-burdened stomach: stick to fizzy lemonade or soda if you don't want to be extra curdled.
The traditional 'revivers' are headed by Fernet Branca. which to many is so nasty that they have to be at the stage of for- giving their enemies before they can take it—and then they know that death packs a preliminary sting just before they begin to feel that perhaps life isn't so bad after all.
drink it if, having awakened feeling fine, I suddenly, around midday, have that cur- ious sinking sensation, the result of tiredness, excessive talking and laughing in frenziedly social atmospheres, and the prospect of the sort of luncheon where I have to be efficient as well as actually eating and drinking (usually this is the result of my having finished the last of the dessert wine while doing the washing-up at 2 a.m.). Ferro-China and the German Underberg all do the same admirable job, and so does the sinisterly- named French Arquebuse (it marches into the shrinking stomach just .like an argue- busier). Some people consider these bitters are aphrodisiacs, but I think one problem at a time is enough for them to cope with. if you really do just feel exhausted through every texture of your being, then Nelson's Blood—port and brandy, half and half—is a comfortable cushion for anything that's got to go inside you, and a foody sort of drink as well, and so is a brandy-based egg nog.
One of the best and simplest mixes. for morning or late-night entertaining is still the
famous Buck's Fizz—champagne and orange juice. For the younger members of the party, keep the proportion of juice high and wine low, others may prefer half and half, or, as I do, one-third juice to two-thirds wine. You can individualise your version by a drop of Angostura, a little sugar, or drops of Cointreau or orange-flavoured liqueur, and of course a good dryish sparkling white wine can be substituted for the non-vintage champagne. But you must have freshly-i squeezed orange juice—I've tried most ver- sions of frozen, canned and bottled and there simply isn't the 'lift' given by the real fruit, however good (or indifferent) the bubbly. But do a comparative tasting—and see for yourself. Remember that the fruit juice will make the wine foam up vigorously when poured, and when you open whatever sparkler you use, don't point the bottle at anyone or anything. put a napkin round it, hold it at an angle (lessens the pressure inside) and, when you've removed the wire muzzle, turn the bottle, not the cork, and hold on to this so it doesn't fly. If the cork really sticks, and you haven't any champagne nippers, hold the neck of the bottle for a few seconds under the hot tap--the pressure inside will be increased and the cork (hold on to it) will begin to rise. If you've already broken off the top of it, pierce it with a skewer or needle to release the gas, then— and only then—use an ordinary corkscrew.
Plan for the aftermath—and you don't usually get it. Happy Christmas!
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