I’m on Velvet

Back when the Civil War was heating up, farm boys and store clerks and college students from across the North were getting acquainted with the rudiments of soldiering. These included many disagreeable things like hours of close-order drill, nights of guard duty and relying for one’s dinner on what the Commissary Department issued and what the man elected company cook did with it.

There were, however, bright spots. The Commissary Department, besides having the market cornered on wormy hard tack, bacon that tended toward a rather festive shade of green and beans you had to sort the stones from before boiling, also had a store of some of the best corn whiskey ever put up in barrels. One man described it as, “a cheap and reliable article” and his words have always made my mouth water.

A cheap and reliable whiskey is what I’ve been looking for now for years. Something to take the edge off one’s worries without sharpening that edge by discombobulating the week’s budget. Something to, as my father in law used to say, “Get you where you want to go”.

Where I usually want to go is a mossy riverbank with a harp being played somewhere over there behind that clump of forsythia. Nepalese maidens, draped modestly in diaphanous silk contrivances that conveniently fall apart when the gold clasp at the shoulder happens to come loose, are singing softly or approaching my Roman-style couch with offerings of fruit on platters of enchased gold. Ewers stand upon a marble table nearby, from which flows a brownish-gold liquid.

“Have another.” says a voice.

I prop myself up on one elbow and notice there is another Roman-style couch a few feet from mine where, resting on his elbow, is Basil Seal.

“Do you think it wise?” I ask.

“I consider it imperative” says this icon of all that is refined and reasonable. I follow his advice, bidding the Nepalese maiden with the dimples tip one of the golden ewers until the brownish-gold liquid is nearly cresting the rim of my goblet.

“What is this stuff called again?” I ask, after sipping enough to ensure that none of the precious fluid will go to waste nourishing the bed of flowers below my couch.

“Black Velvet” says Basil, "from that fabled land of frostbite and romance that lies far to the north of us."

"You mean" I ask, groping, "Canada?"

"Some do call it that, yes" he replies, a little stiffly.

“And this Black Velvet which we drink really costs less than twenty bucks for one of those big jugs with the easy-grip handle?”

“No more, I assure you" replies Basil, who seems to have regained his equanimity. "Verily, a classic is a classic and remains so, though it be displayed at knee-level at your local liquor emporium.”

“Like Clubman products, you mean?”

“Precisely. Though their labels have not changed these fifty years, though they cost not a tithe as much as those transgendered concoctions in the dispensers with Freudian overtones, they are worth far, far more. They diffuse the aroma of our father’s barbershops, where men were gentlemen and where all the magazines dealt with catching aggressive fish or handling large-bore weapons.”

Letting the truth of his words—and another generous sip of Black Velvet—sink in, I contemplate the brownish-gold elixir and realize that God puts nothing into this world without a purpose, not even Canada. I want to mention this to Basil but refrain, fearing that it might wound him to his trans-Atlantic Anglo-American soul.

“How true” I say, as I lie back on the pillows and allow the Nepalese maiden with the jingling anklet to anoint my face with Clubman aftershave.

Mr. P

Comments

[Old Dominion Tory]

Apparently, Mr. Peperium, I need to acquaint you with the many joys of a mint julep made with Virginia Gentleman. I cannot promise, however, you will drink it in such sybaritic surroundings.

[Father M.]

I thought Canada was there for the further fulfillment of our manifest destiny...

[MCNS]

I can't believe ODT beat me to the word 'sybaritic.'

Elwood P. Dowd would agree with your choice of libation, Mr P, to go by this similarly evocative excerpt from "Harvey." (Just substitute Nepal for Akron.)

http://web.ukonline.co.uk/thursday.handleigh/humour/miscellaneous/harvey.htm

[twm]

For the whisky record, Canuckistan also produces another fine product called Tangle Ridge.
I make no promises as to its transportative properties, but it is nice to sip.

[Old Dominion Tory]

Father M --
Henry Clay and Thomas Jefferson had the same attitude in regards Canada, "a mere matter of marching" and all of that nonsense. You'd have thought they would have learned from the attempt to take Canada in 1775 (when Charles Carroll of Carrollton could help make the case for the American cause). I cringe to think what Clay & Co. would have done in Quebec upon finding it so darned French, Catholic, and set in its ways.

[Dan Patterson]

Men, in the company of other men, will manufacture environments that offer a combination of comfort, security, and familarity with few elements that do not fit the "form follows function" rule. The residents of Sybaris, and the dreamland of Mr. P and Basil Seal notwithstanding.

Mr P's sentence: "They diffuse the aroma of our father’s barbershops, where men were gentlemen and where all the magazines dealt with catching aggressive fish or handling large-bore weapons.” says it well. Reading that I am transported to a fictional but welcoming room where one's bad habits are accepted and one's good stories are expected.

Another cheap and reliable article is my friend, Makers Mark. With a dollop of water and no ice. I haven't seen the Nepalese maidens that accompany my friends, but maybe I just haven't filled my 'goblet' often enough.

Cheers, boys: To a long and happy life.

Dan Patterson
Arrogant Infidel

[Christine]

Mrs. P,
What think you of these Nepalese maidens flitting about in loose-fitting (albeit diaphonous) gowns?

[Christine]

Oops--it appears I've spelled "diaphanous" incorrectly. How embarrassing.

[Mrs. Peperium]

Christine,

1. Married women do not need to know how to spell diaphanous, they just need to know how to wear it.

2. As for what I think about "the Nepalese maidens flitting about in loose-fitting gowns", I think they've been into my closet again. Mr. P had promised me he would keep them out of it.

[Mr. Peperium]

Sybaritic, huh? Why, I oughtta...um...

Wait a minute. Swiss steak...switch blade...swivel...swoopstake...sword grass...sword play...sword tail...ah, here it is: Sybarite..."a native or resident of the ancient city...notorious luxury...voluptuary..."

Oh. Cool.

[Christine]

Mrs. P,
Nevermind the fact that the typical Nepalese maiden is going to be 4'9", thick-waisted, with hair on her chest, and too poor to afford to drape silk across her broad and manly shoulders. But I digress....

[Mr. Peperium]

My Dear Christine,

You seem to be unaware of the strict and thorough screening process Basil and I exercise before any Nepalese maiden is allowed to carry her first ewer of Velvet to her first Roman couch. No, as a show of solidarity with Nepalese maidens everywhere, I must object that not all are thick-waisted, that Basil and I supply the girls with their diaphanous what-nots out of our own pockets, and that whatever hair might appear where hair should not--in a strictly aesthetic sense--be can be quickly and almost painlessly waxed.

Also, that Nepalese maidens cannot be quaranteed with every 1.75 liter jug of Black Velvet in shatterproof plastic with the easy-grip handle. Just wait till Mrs. P shares your mutual outing with Evelyn Waugh and Lord Peter Wimsey.

[Sir Basil Seal]

Hear, hear Mr. P...None of our Nepalese maidens rise above 4' 11" or weigh above 7 stone...And I for one have never noticed a hirsute maiden anywhere near Mr. P or myself...As you can see, our standards for maidens are as high as our standards for libations...As it should be, of course...As to the what-nots, those we designed ourselves...

[Mr. Peperium]

Thank you, Basil. Some people just don't seem to realize that while we are aesthetes, we both enjoy that rarer gift: the ability to see beyond the outer crust. Or bit of sacking. Or whatever a Nepalese maiden may be wearing when she first applies for work.

[Dan Patterson]

Crust. Diaphanous crust?

I readily admit to severe confusion from those opposing images clanging around in my head. Combine that with the practical description of Nepalese maidens and, well, I..I'm going to lie down for a while...

[Mr. Peperium]

I'm frankly surprised this is causing so much confusion.

In a nutshell, the what-nots, the gowns, the silk contrivances are diaphanous.

The outer crust or bit of sacking is what may need to be removed before said diaphanous contrivances can be issued.

You were in the military; so was Basil. All this should be familiar to you. (I'm speaking of the general process here; what you guys were issued was probably a lot less diaphanous.)

[Mrs. Peperium]

Frankly, now I'm getting confused. I thought Nepalese maidens stood about 5'4". Now I learn they are like Mr. P's and Basil's standards for libations which is knee level at the liquor emporium.

Knee level maidens are found in Polynesia among the pygmies...