Mindful drinking

…and the heady glow of growing intoxication

Mindful drinking?

A sanctified glass of non-alcoholic beer, cheers to zebra-striping and Dry January, all hands to the low and no pump, the everyone’s-doing-it-now movement, the new zeitgeist didn’t you know it. If I do a search on mindful drinking that is what I get, I bet even AI categorises it as such, but why should no and low have all the fun — there is more to mindful drinking than an IPA that is all citrus and no gaiters.

For me being mindful of the beer that I have, is being aware of its flavour, its aromatics, the position of the glass on the table, the precision with which I have been served and the impact on my palate, the heady glow of growing intoxication and the slow, steady show of imagination that a pint of a strong (though not too strong) pint or half-litre of beer can deliver onto the showreel that is constantly playing in my mind. Be aware, don’t be scared, mindful drinking gives you a chance to plunge yourself into a pool of freeing your thoughts from the cloistered clamp of the day’s business.

Mindful drinking?

I am standing at a wooden counter in a city bar, alert and expectant. It is a clean and new space of what looks like reclaimed wood, pine perhaps, while my arms are resting on it as the young female server, concentration on her face, pours four pints of water. ‘Line cleaning this morning,’ she says. Elsewhere in front of the wooden bar and in the adjoining room, where there is an assemblage of tables and chairs, people are sitting down to eat, as Frank Sinatra swings his way through Jingle Bells in the background (this is before Christmas when it seemed that the mind-numbingly cavalcade of seasonal music could not be escaped in licensed premises).

After the line cleaning the beer I order sits in a pint glass, which is slightly narrower at the base before delicately widening out towards the top. There is a whipped egg-white head of foam, while looking at the beer below I can see bubbles rising to the top, cleaving their way through the bruised golden clarity of an unfiltered Helles. I can recognise anticipation on my palate so finally it is time to take a deep swig. My right hand clasps the glass, midway, cold to the touch. It is equally cold and crisp on the palate, with a wave of crispness breaking on the foreshore of sensation. There is the suggestion of breakfast cereal, the graininess of Weetabix perhaps, a memory of my mother commanding me to eat the two palm-sized tablets of grain that dissolved into a milky mush in a bowl in front of me, before I had to go to school. Another swig reveals a lightly citrus note of lemon.

My attempt at mindful drinking is slightly impaired by Freddie Mercury ululating ‘thank god it’s Christmas’, which he then bafflingly wishes it could be Christmas everyday or some such nonsense. Despite this intrusion, I can also hear the low murmur of voices rising from downstairs. I’m sitting in the upstairs part of the bar, which is empty apart from me. Now it’s David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing across each other. A quick check online and yes it is the two of them singing two different songs. I have a vague memory of it and ponder on the weirdness of the Thin White Duke doing a duo with the Old Groaner. I take a brief pause from the beer but then another mouthful is embarked on, followed by more crisp coldness that refreshes the mouth and wakes up the somnambulant parts of the palate, wake up, sound the reveille! The alarm clock shock to the palate continues as I pass down the glass.

Mindful drinking?

I’m focusing on the beer and how comfortable I am in my chair and how it has just passed 3pm. As the glass reaches the state of emptiness, a slight suggestion of melancholia flits through my mind, Christmas and its thoughts, memories of those no longer with us, grandparents, parents, friends, dogs, health, but the crispness is still there as I come to the end of the glass and decide to head out into the gleaming lights that bring on the emerging city night.

Mindful drinking.