SPIRIT OF THE TIMES

Is the gin craze getting out of hand, asks Donna Hay?

FANCY A G&T? Time was when that was a simple enough question. Gin came out of a dusty bottle, retrieved from the back of the sideboard where your auntie left it at Christmas 1998. Tonic was – well, it was just tonic, really. Unless you were fussy and wanted slimline. If you were lucky you’d get a slice of lemon, too.

But ask for a G&T now and it’s a different story. What kind of gin? Aromatic? Peppery? Heavy on the botanicals? Or something fruity, perhaps, like sloe or rhubarb? Even the tonic water has ideas above its station these days, with its hints of elderflower, lavender or the mysteriously flavoured Mediterranean tonic (heaven knows what that has a hint of – sea water, presumably?).

And as for the ice and a slice – unless you want to be laughed out of your local gin palace, it has to be a twist of pink grapefruit and a handful of peppercorns at least.

If you’re thinking of getting a bottle in for New Year, be warned. Gin has become seriously cool – and just a bit confusing. There’s a shop near where I live in York that’s actually in the Guinness World Records book for stocking the largest gin selection in the world (the Evil Eye Lounge, if you want to look it up). There are more than 1,000 different varieties on its shelves. If you sampled a different one every day, it would take you nearly three years to get through the whole selection. Now there’s a challenge, if ever I heard one…

I’ve always been a gin drinker. I liked it way before it went all artisan and became a hipster favourite. Gin is crisp, refreshing, and more importantly, doesn’t give me the urge to throw my arms around strangers and tell them I love them, which so frequently happens with wine.

But it’s all changed now. I used to think I was so edgy, ordering a Bombay Sapphire. Bartenders would nod knowingly, as if to say, ‘There’s someone who knows her gin.’ Nowadays I get a sneer of contempt, as if I’d cracked open a can of supermarket own-brand lager at a real ale festival.

‘Look at her,’ I can hear the ginerati whispering, as they roll their eyes and swizzle their double-distilled Icelandic gin with a shard of dried papaya. ‘She wouldn’t know a top note of Florentine Iris if it hit her in the face.’

Gin drinking has become a competitive sport these days. Everyone wants to discover the latest obscure tipple – preferably one you can’t find on a supermarket shelf. Unless, of course, it’s Aldi’s Oliver Cromwell London Dry Gin, in which case you can safely indulge in a bit of reverse gin snobbery, wax lyrical about its unfussy, juniper-forward flavour and feel smug that it cost less than a tenner.

I’m a big fan of gin, but not necessarily the one-upmanship that goes with it. I mean, so what if you’ve discovered an

So what if you’ve found an artisan gin maker in the Outer Hebrides?

artisan manufacturer in the Outer Hebrides where the gin is distilled through a 300-year-old sporran? After half a bottle of the stuff, you’re still going to wake up in the morning with burning eyeballs and your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth.

Having said that, I do like a weird and wonderful flavour. And I do feel a bit smug when I find something new and unique.

Like when I discovered Brockmans. It had everything a top-notch gin should have; a unique note of dark berries, combined with the bittersweet flavour of Valencia oranges and a soupçon of Bulgarian coriander. Best of all, no one had ever heard of it. For a while, I made a point of ordering it in bars just to see the confused look on the bartender’s face.

I even went to a fancy gin tasting with a friend. We knew we were hopelessly outclassed when we walked in and found a woman throwing a tantrum because the server had failed to stick a sprig of rosemary in her Gin Mare. Nevertheless, we got stuck in. But after we’d spent two hours sipping our way through gin flavoured with marmalade, matcha tea and Kalahari truffles, the novelty began to wear off. And when the £200 bottle of gin with a top note of distilled ants came out, we decided to call it a day. Then the server put one final glass in front of us. ‘You’ll like this one,’ he said. ‘It’s clean, sharp and amusingly retro.’

We sipped. We did like it. Perhaps, after the marmalade and the matcha, we had finally found our new favourite? ‘What’s this one called?’ we asked. He couldn’t hide his smirk. ‘Beefeater,’ he said. ‘All the kids are drinking it.’

Time to get that dusty old bottle out of the back of the sideboard, methinks.