Lost in Translation

I’m sorry. I just want to get that out of the way first. I’m sorry to all of those intrepid travellers among you, who will gamely try anything when visiting a new country. To those of you who would think nothing of eating cows’ intestines, or chicken feet or scorpions on sticks, I applaud you. I applaud you from a safe distance where I can’t really see what you’re doing – so I might control my over-sensitive gag reflex. Don’t get me wrong, I love food and I love trying new things. My palate demands stimulation and variety and I do welcome surprise – I once ate what looked like a smoking cigar, which was actually filo pastry dusted in cocoa and filled with the finest foie gras mousse. I’ve eaten from Spanish food markets and street stalls in France; I’ve sat on the ground and eaten food with my hands and I’ve even been offered up a platter of cooked chicken blood (which I tried – but only because I had no clue what it was). So it’s not the fear of trying that I suffer from; it’s the connection that the brain makes through the eyes that prevented me from eating some of the food I was offered on a recent trip to Hong Kong.

People had told me I would love Hong Kong. It was my first time and it seemed as though everyone I spoke to had already been. “You’ll just love Hong Kong! You’ll adore it! You won’t want to come back!” they exclaimed. So, I was pretty psyched by the time we landed, but this dissipated somewhat when we were told that our rooms weren’t ready and that we would probably have a four-hour wait. We stumbled through the streets of Mongkok, delirious from lack of sleep and somewhat bewildered by the sights and sounds. Down a couple of alleyways we came across a food market and eagerly entered, having shunned the McDonald’s and Subway we’d passed on the way, hoping to find some sustenance and to ‘keep things real’. And apparently, in China, keeping things real means keeping them alive; the Chinese value their fish fresh – so fresh, they should preferably be alive at purchase or, if not, demonstrating that the last gasps of life are currently being expelled from their gills. We saw fish heads split clear in two with arteries still pumping. Toads were being plucked live from a sack and one particular fishmonger was having a lot of difficulty holding onto an eel that at passing glance, had made a break for freedom on the floor.

Having moved on from the fish department, we were met with bags of chicken feet (a snack), dehydrated squid and eggs of a most peculiar colour. The only thing I could recognise were the large slabs of freshly cooked pork, which did admittedly smell incredible. At this point, I’m afraid my fatigue got the better of me. Everywhere I turned, I was confronted with the strange and unfamiliar and I desperately needed something to bring me back down to earth. I needed a drink. Luckily for me (and anyone else in the wine and spirits business), Hong Kong and China currently have the buying power equivalent to that of America in the 1950s, so you’re not short on choice. We headed to the nearest hotel and suddenly all was well again. Atop the gleaming back bar I could see my personal equivalent of the Golden Arches – bottles of Macallan and Glenfiddich nestled alongside those of Johnnie Walker and Chivas Regal. Glenmorangie’s golden hue was winking at me and the reassuring green glass of Glenlivet was like Scotland’s corner of a foreign field. I ignored the expensive drams, the fancy wood-finishes, the 40-year-old crystal-clad bottles. There are some whiskies that you drink for pure indulgence – I needed something to keep me grounded.

At this point, it was only 9am and I’m not an alcoholic. Not really. The only decent way to drink spirits in the morning is with soda. Scotch and soda never hurt anyone, did it? Of course not – the Empire was practically built on the stuff. And what’s the best whisky for drinking with soda? Red Label of course. Light, hints of toffee, the merest whiff of peat, and some damn fine fruit, perfect for mixing. So, we sat in the bar and let the familiar tone of whisky wash over us – like a conversation with an old friend, you know the stories, you’ve heard them before, butyou like hearing them again. As I started to relax, I took in my surroundings; the sun had broken through the clouds and I saw Kowloon Bay stretched before me with its majestic mountainous backdrop. I began to enjoy the process of absorbing the height of the unfamiliar while drinking something I knew so well. Did I leave my heart in Hong Kong? I don’t think so. But then, not every love affair is a flash in the pan – some, like these whiskies, are better as slow burners.

Three whiskies for when you don’t know your chicken feet from your chow mein:

Laphroaig 10 year old:
Colour: Fields of gold
Nose: Bonfire smoke, slap of seaweed in the face, hints of honey
Palate: Surprisingly, more honey, hints of salted caramel with some smoky bacon crisps

Johnnie Walker Black Label:
Colour: Heart of gold
Nose: Hints of smoking hearth, underlying peat, dried fruit, vanilla
Palate: Sultanas, sherry, sultanas dipped in sherry, smoky finish

Glenfiddich 12:
Colour: Halo of gold
Nose: Sitting on a hay bale, munching on a ripe pear
Palate: Pear jam, butterscotch, caramel, oak undertones