What’s Tony Drinking? Surviving Omicron Special Edition
The thought of getting Covid isn’t, under normal circumstances, something to wish for the way we dream of, say, getting that winning scratch-off card at the local bodega. But its specter looms a lot larger when a good chunk of your career depends on your ability to smell and taste. As a result, I probably tried a little harder than most to be careful during the first, oh, 18 months or so of the pandemic. And whatever I did, it worked, as I traipsed through our altered world free of disease and loaded down with new and exciting booze to taste and write about. And then came Omicron. Resistance, to say nothing of vaccines and boosters, was futile, as friends and relatives went down like dominoes. The silver lining to this particular cloud was that, compared to all the other variants, the ‘Cron seemed pretty mild — and didn’t, apparently, come with the loss of smell and taste that made life so blah for so many millions of us.
Trading Tipples For ‘Tussin
My wife caught it first — she felt fine apart from a window-rattling cough that lingered for a couple of weeks. I fell ill a few days later, and trust me, naysayers, even with vaccines and boosters and good underlying health, it was no picnic. Then came our daughter, whose case never progressed past a mild bout with the sniffles. Through it all, the only drinking we did was in the form of tea, Robitussin, and matzoh ball soup. They tasted normal enough, as did the takeout food on which we mostly subsisted. I didn’t pay much attention when I had a chicken sandwich that tasted like, for lack of a better word, sadness, or when a slice of pizza mysteriously failed to bring me the joy I’ve been getting from it since I was a kid. But then again, I was too busy napping and/or coughing to really think about it.
In A Word, Uh-Oh (Is That Two Words?)
About a week or so into Quarantine Life, I felt well enough to have a drink, and I decided to fall off the wagon in style, with one of my favorite cold weather spirits. Tamworth Garden’s VSOP Apple Brandy is made in New Hampshire, and it makes fancy French Calvados pale in comparison. I was ready to get back on the boozy horse. And a couple of sips later, I was ready to hop right back off. What had tasted rich and elegant was now harsh and astringent. The deep, velvety apple notes were nowhere to be found. It tasted like… alcohol. And not much else. I was, to put it mildly, freaked out. I posted about it online and was “reassured” by a social media acquaintance that Omicron doesn’t cause loss of smell or taste. That’s great, I thought. Tell it to my freakin’ sniffer and my tongue in that case.
The Durian Mai Tai That Wasn’t
Undaunted, the next night I went all out and made mai tais for myself and the missus, who was also well on the road to recovery. I didn’t skimp on the rum, using a combo of Proof & Wood’s “3/2” Jamaican pot still rum and Ten To One’s dark rum, a Caribbean blend. My wife, the control group in the sample because she'd emerged with all senses intact, pronounced it delicious. I nervously took a sip and… it tasted good, with a fair amount of funk from the rum, leavened by the tart lime juice and sweetness from the orgeat and curaçao But the finish tasted not just off but bizarre, like I’d made a mai tai with durian. Which is actually kind of a cool idea, but since there was no durian in this drink, it just freaked me out.
The Curious Case Of The Missing Peat
After taking the next couple of days off from drinking in the name of recovery, I had a Zoom tasting scheduled with the good folks from Bruichladdich, including distiller Adam Hannett. The stars of the show were the latest expressions of their two peat-heavy whiskies, Port Charlotte and Octomore — the latter of which is, by chemical analysis, the peatiest of all Scotch single malts by quite a large margin. Which is why I found it a little odd that when I tasted Octomore 12.2, a five-year-old beauty aged in American oak and Sauternes casks. I tasted beautiful floral and sweet marzipan notes culminating in a big, spicy finish… and no smoke. Not even a hint of earthy peat. What the hell kind of Octomore was this? I commiserated with the mighty wine/spirits writer Brian Freedman, who was also on the call and who volunteered to help guide my off-kilter palate through the proceedings. He confirmed that the underlying flavors, at least, were indeed present, and excitedly proclaimed, “You’re almost back!”
Who Put Out A Cigarette In My Cocktail?!
I wasn’t so sure, especially a couple nights later, when I made myself a perfect Knob Creek Manhattan (60-40 rye to bourbon) with a splash of both sweet and dry Dolin vermouth and a healthy dash of The Bitter Truth’s Bogart’s Bitters. It’s been a go-to cocktail for years in my home, and I figured I should stick with the tried-and-trues to determine how the ol’ tongue and schnozz were faring. My wife enjoyed hers, as always — hey, I make a damn good Manhattan. But to me, it tasted like someone had flicked their cigarette into the damn thing. Once I ascertained the missus wasn’t playing a joke on me with a pack of Luckies, I determined I was Not Back Yet. But it was some consolation that the next day, when I had Tanqueray martinis with Philip Duff — a regular guest here at What’s Tony Drinking? — it tasted like gin, though the Tanqueray’s signature piney juniper notes were, for me, missing. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought it was Beefeater, which employs a lighter juniper touch. But no weird durian or cigarette ash notes equals progress, right?
The Happy Ending
Right! After a couple of days off to recalibrate, I gave the Knob Creek Manhattan another shot and… success! It tasted like whiskey! And vermouth! And bitters! It didn’t even taste like someone had sprinkled charcoal into it! I was back, baby! And making a mental note to make a real durian mai tai at my earliest opportunity.