Until a few years ago, I knew nothing about rum. There was the dark stuff, coveted by the pirates of Treasure Island, used by the Navy for grog on board warships and abused by Churchill in his sarcastic account of naval traditions: rum, sodomy and the lash. At least rum would be preferable to the other two.
There was also white rum, usually the preserve of those too young to appreciate a decent drink, who often mixed it with Coca-Cola. Even as a child, I did not like the taste of Coke. I last drank it about 40 years ago. I was travelling by bus across Anatolia and we stopped at a village for refreshment. I would have killed for a beer, but the choice was the local water or warm Coke. One of my companions, an aristocratic French leftie, exclaimed in protest: ‘Moi, j’ai une horreur de Coca-Cola.’ ‘Moi aussi,’ I replied, ‘but at least it probably won’t give us amoebic dysentry.’ It didn’t, for which I was thankful. I would drink Coke again in similar circumstances, but only then.
Several decades later, a party given by the prime minister of St Kitt’s, and there was a range of old dark rums, all delicious: yo-ho-ho, and any of those bottles. Although the name is redolent of another naval tradition, I thought that a pre-war Mount Gay, from Barbados, took the gold award. Back in my hotel, I noticed that the bar had the Mount Gay ordinary issue, so ordered a glass. The barman looked bewildered. ‘Mount Gay,’ I repeated, pointing at the bottle. Enlightenment dawned. ‘Ah, you mean Muon Gaaaii.’ His voice sounded as if it had been marinated in the stuff for many years.
As ever, if you are seeking wisdom and guidance on such matters, turn your steps towards that temple of Bacchus at the foot of St James’s Street, Messrs Berry Bros.
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