Juan Lopez No 1 - Bundaberg Ginger Beer

Let me start by assuring everyone that this was in no way a nod to dry January. Indeed, I find the very concept an affront to civilisation, or what is left of it after our elected officials have trashed the concept beyond repair. 

I am reading a fantastic book, ‘Black Leopard, Red Wolf’ by Marlon James, an African fantasy (this is a real love it or hate it book and I suspect many will fall into the latter category). It took me a little while to get into it but when you do, brilliant. There was one line (well, there are many) which I really loved – “As bored as a god waiting for man to surprise him”. Well, if the gods were not surprised by recent events, they have a very high threshold for astonishment. 

The match for the very lovely Juan Lopez No 1 was Bundaberg Ginger Beer. Nothing to do with the famous and ubiquitous Bundy Rum, but rather a family operation making a cracking version of this style of drink (and non-alcoholic).  

It also appeals as Mum was from Bundaberg and the family was once very heavily involved in the sugar industry (let me state at the outset that none, not a brass razoo, of the very large sums of money this brought has trickled down our side of the family – in fact, the vast major was given to the Salvo’s I believe. I only met one of Mum’s two uncles on one occasion when I was much younger. He visited, driving his huge gold Rolls. He was very keen, and this is the only thing I remember, for us to know that whenever he bought anything, he gave the same amount of money to the Salvos. It was Mum’s uncles, while they were simple cane-cutters, who designed and built the first mechanical harvester (all this ended up as International Harvesters after they swallowed Toft Harvesters). 

I remember stories about them because in those days one cut cane in bare feet (a bit brave given that sugar cane fields are home to some seriously large poisonous snakes). They would wander around the factory, still in bare feet in those days, and someone would need to tell them that they had stood in molten metal and their feet were on fire – the soles of a canecutter’s feet are apparently simply as hard as rocks. 

But I digress. On a hot arvo, is there anything better than a freshly chilled Ginger Beer (provided one is having a quiet day)? And that gentle sweetness works seriously well with the right cigar. 

And this Juan Lopez was very much the right cigar. I’ll confess I was not optimistic. The wrapper was very pale with even a hint of green. That pale brown of dog diarrhoea. But otherwise, the construction looked fine. It seemed to have some age (Rob kindly provides the cigars for Kenfessions but rarely the info – not a complaint), or was simply exceptionally well balanced. Soft. Hints of nuts and caramel. Warm earth tones. 

This was one of those lovely slow-burn smokes. Took ages. And still has a heap of life and time ahead of it. Terrific cigar. 93.

An ideal match for a summer afternoon. And no chance of any hangover the next day (not that I, in any way, endorse that blight on humanity, dry January). 

On the topic of hangovers, have a poke around the internet one day and see what the latest hangover cures entail. It will drive you to drink. 

Try this one! Ann Cash, a paramedic in an unnamed American State, who may not be the most colourful crayon in the creche, advised that after “I've been out all night on a drunken adventure, we practice our IV skills on one another and fill up with some IV fluid”. How special! Personally, the worst hangover of my life or the thought of a half-drunk Ann stabbing around with a needle in the hope of hitting a vein? I'm taking the hangover. 

Fred, from www.hangover.net, had the sense not to include his surname but gave up any pretence at intelligence by announcing that the way to avoid hangovers was to brew your own beer and because it has a higher alcohol level, and therefore, no hangover. No, I have no idea why either, unless he means stay drunk. 

Someone else (from North Carolina, and no offence to our brethren from NC but I am wondering if that is a big surprise) insists the best remedy is mixing a teaspoon of myrrh with a teaspoon of ground swallow’s beak (I am assuming he means, grind the beak, not the swallow, although, by that stage, it is probably irrelevant to the bird in question). No problem, because these are, after all, typical household items one can access easily. 

Dutchman Rico Randazzo uses an old Sicilian recipe – chew a “dried bull’s dick”. The question here is not whether it works but who first came up with the idea. 

Ancient Greeks considered cabbages to be the Berocca of their day. An old girlfriend insisted that pinching the nerves between thumb and forefinger would work. It didn’t. It hurt like hell and did nothing for the relationship (me calling her the wrong name didn’t do much for it, either). 

Suggested cures include everything from honey, saunas, mocha sauce mixed with Dr Pepper, a cocktail consisting of a pinch of salt with a pint of water and a pint of yogurt (can I just keep the hangover?), a combo of artichokes and sarsaparilla – seriously, who came up with that and why – dialysis (a touch extreme?), clam chowder, bread soaked in Lucozade, scuba diving, prayer (can’t hurt), charcoal, voodoo and so many more. The voodoo involves sticking 13 pins into the cork of the offending bottle. Not sure what happens with screwcap. 

The gold medal for gross cures goes to someone called Smudge, whose wife had just given birth. Smudge discovered that a big night on the tiles is best dealt with by guzzling his wife’s breast milk. Imagine Mrs Smudge’s tolerance. Just given birth, hubby goes out and gets a skinful and then comes home expecting her to solve his problem. If there is a God, perhaps Mrs Smudge’s real name is Ann Cash. 

KBG