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On Drinking Slowly

Speed is the enemy of pleasure. The best drinkers I have ever known share one quality: they are never in a hurry. A meditation on pace, attention, and the lost art of savouring.

I once sat at a bar in Edinburgh next to a man who spent two hours with a single glass of Scotch. He was not nursing it out of frugality. He was not distracted by his phone. He was simply in no hurry. Every twenty minutes or so he would lift the glass, smell it, take a small sip, and set it back down. He looked completely content.

I have thought about him often since. There is something almost countercultural about drinking slowly in an era when rounds are bought in bulk and the measure of a good night is often how much was consumed rather than how much was enjoyed.

Drinking slowly is not about abstinence or moderation in the clinical sense. It is about attention. When you slow down, you notice things. The way a whisky changes as it warms in the glass. The moment a wine opens up after twenty minutes of breathing. The way a well-made cocktail evolves from the first cold sip to the last diluted one.

These are not small pleasures. They are the point. The drink is not a vehicle for intoxication. It is the thing itself — a complex, crafted object that rewards attention. Rushing through it is like walking quickly through a gallery.

Drink better. Not more. I have been saying this for years. The man in Edinburgh understood it without needing to be told.