Everyday drinking : the distilled Kingsley Amis.

THERE has never been a more charming, erudite, eager, generous and devoted lover of drink - to judge by his writing - than Kingsley Amis, who was also, by his own admission, "frighteningly authoritative." But too much of a good thing generally leaves one cranky, and reading straight through "Everyday Drinking: The Distilled Kingsley Amis" classifies as a binge. The book is actually a compilation of three books, written first as columns between 1971 and 1984 by the author of "Lucky Jim." Under no circumstance should it be read in one go. Not even with a pitcher of dry martinis at hand. You'll do Amis's work proper justice, as even he suggests, by reading it at the rate of, say, one chapter a night. You may even try reading it out loud at bed-time. Or not. The best chapter in the first section, "On Drink" (not to be confused with the most useful chapter, "Actual Drinks"), is "Tools of the Trade." "Bar Kit" begins with "1. A refrigerator. All to yourself, I mean." Amis covers the essentials: ice trays, bar spoons, sharp knives, strainers. "Keep them in a place only you have the key to," he writes, "or they will not be there when you want them, I can assure you." I must confess that on reading this I was besotted. There is nothing more appealing than a person of original, well-grounded opinion and a feel for the relevant quality-of-life issues, particularly if that person has the wherewithal to make a perfect martini: Stirred, not shaken. Gin, not vodka Here is a man who respects rules and boundaries. His own, at least. "On Drink" is suffused with a faint trace of yearning - just a dash of bitters - for the youthful Boys' Clubhouse, the kind made of boards banged together up in a tree, with a sign nailed to the door: Girls Keep Out. (Girls like white wine.) And what a club. I caught a glimpse, before the door slammed shut, of Philip Larkin and Paul Fussell, who shared a recipe for milk punch. As we girls suspected, all sorts of interesting experiments were under way in the clubhouse. Experiments with hangovers, for example, kingly ones: "I took bicarbonate with a vodka chaser. My companion said, 'Let's see what's happening in your stomach,' and poured the remnant of the vodka into the remnant of the bicarbonate solution. The mixture turned black and gave off smoke." What fun. In today's perilous culture, the poor sods are reduced to bragging about cleaning house with vinegar and baking soda. With that sharp knife of his, Amis was a veritable Eagle Scout. He tells us how, in a pinch, to dechlorinate tap water; extract the most juice from a lemon; give the illusion of a stiff drink by pouring gin over the back of a teaspoon, and so forth. Amis was nothing if not resourceful, and I was gladdened to find that I was not the only person to have taken liberties with a recipe when in a hurry for a drink. I note that the master's fast-track whiskey Collins is only slightly different from my recipe for the Suburban Sour (for when Mom didn't get to the supermarket for lemons; hint: frozen lemonade). "On Drink" was written in the 70s, which everyone knows were more fun than the '80s. Accidents and incidents creep into the second book, "Every Day Drinking": Amis broke a leg, clambered onto the wagon and fell off. With the exception of a wonderful and inspiring column about his Christmas list (I ran right out to the liquor store, and it's only spring), the pieces feel rehashed. They remind me of the days when I was a secretary at Esquire, in the fun decade (naturally), taking dictation from a Famous Columnist. The girls' job was to type - as in, typewriter! white-out! carbon copies! - the Clubhouse Notes into columns that approximated the proportions of the printed page. When I told the F.C. - every month - that his column measured a couple of inches short, he would sigh heavily, then recall that he had written on a "similar" subject a year or so back, and if I would be so kind as to snip a few inches from that. ... You can feel, in "Every Day Drinking," the strain of having to discover yet another entertaining cocktail to write about, or the creaky windup for yet another whack at the wine list. The editor of the current book would have been well advised to include, in his helpful glossary of drinking terms, the verb "to distill." There's nothing concentrated or refined about this volume; in fact, it is described in the editor's note as the "unexpurgated shelf." Most readers will want to stop after the first book, "On Drink." Continue through the second book - the unexpurgated or, more precisely, regurgitated "Every Day Drinking" - if you have a taste for the maudlin. Showoffs and bores will amuse themselves with the third book, a group of quizzes (I kid you not) called "How's Your Glass?" that put me off my feed, for a few hours anyway. The main virtue of having collected these books is an excuse for the introduction, a graceful, affectionate essay, "The Muse of Booze," by kindred spirit Christopher Hitchens. Amis was a refined drinker whose tastes ran to a cherished few: martinis; bloody marys; Scotch, neat. As a classicist myself, I feel his pain in reporting on the Alexander, the Bobbie Burns and the Jittersauce. Even so, having knocked this book back in one sitting, I can tell I am going to have the worst kind of hangover tomorrow. I will wallow in the "vast, vague, awful, shimmering metaphysical superstructure that makes the hangover a (fortunately) unique route to self-knowledge and self-realization." Oh, the drinkers of yesteryear! They were giants among boys. 'On Drink' is suffused with a faint trace of longing for the youthful Boys' Clubhouse. Dominique Browning, an editor and writer in New York, is at work on her third book, "The Shadows Come Into Play."

The drinks revival is nearly complete it's now possible to be as insufferable about beer and spirits as about wine but the revival seems to come with a warning label: enjoy the drinks, but don't drink too much. In the face of that, it's refreshing to see an artifact from a more hedonistic era: Amis knew the finer points of booze as well as anyone, but he never apologized for enjoying its effect, either. This reissue, appropriately introduced by Christopher Hitchens, collects Amis' three drinks books: On Drink (1973), an indispensable primer; Every Day Drinking (1983), a browseworthy collection of newspaper columns; and How's Your Glass? (1984), a dispensable collection of quizzes. Some of the advice is timeless Amis, who could presumably afford better, advocated strategic deployment of cheap booze to save money and some is not: liquor-store shelves look so different now that some passages are best read for historical perspective. But good humor never spoils, and Amis' quips and gripes about noisy pubs, vodka drinkers, wine snobs, teetotalers, and hangovers grow more delicious with age.--Graff, Keir Copyright 2008 Booklist

This book by Amis, the late British writer best known for the classic Lucky Jim, is a collection of three out-of-print works written between 1971 and 1984 about drink, its history, social mores, and etiquette. There are background details as well as a glossary for those unfamiliar with British terms such as bitter and off license. Some chapters are entertaining and occasionally hilarious, but taken as a whole the essays are an uneven mix of opinion, wry humor, and practical know-how; they clearly reflect the period in which they were written, particularly those having to do with wine. California and other wine-producing regions that took the international stage in more recent years receive no mention, naturally. Additionally, appreciating British humor is an acquired taste, so the volume may be perceived as having limited appeal. There are, however, insightful and funny observations, such as those having to do with the relationship among a country, its cuisine, and its alcoholic beverages. Recommended for large public libraries.--Christine Holmes, San Jose State Univ. Lib., CA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.