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Drinking alcohol: a beloved tradition, a dangerous addiction, even “a sickness of the soul” (as once described by a group of young Muslim men in Bali). In his wide-ranging travels, Lawrence Osborne—a veritable connoisseur himself—has witnessed opposing views of alcohol across cultures worldwide, compelling him to wonder: is drinking alcohol a sign of civilization and sanity, or the very reverse? Where do societies fall on the spectrum between indulgence and restraint?
An immersing, controversial, and often irreverent travel narrative, The Wet and the Dry offers provocative, sometimes unsettling insights into the deeply embedded conflicts between East and West, and the surprising influence of drinking on the contemporary world today.
An immersing, controversial, and often irreverent travel narrative, The Wet and the Dry offers provocative, sometimes unsettling insights into the deeply embedded conflicts between East and West, and the surprising influence of drinking on the contemporary world today.
243 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2013
90 people are currently reading
1400 people want to read
About the author
Lawrence Osborne
37 books576 followersLawrence Osborne is the author of seven critically acclaimed novels, including The Forgiven (now a major motion picture starring Ralph Fiennes and Jessica Chastain), and Only to Sleep: A Philip Marlowe Novel, a New York Times Notable Book and nominated for an Edgar Award, as well as six books of nonfiction, including Bangkok Days. He has led a nomadic life, living in Paris, New York, Mexico, and Istanbul, and he currently resides in Bangkok.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 107 reviews
March 20, 2015
"The Wet and the Dry" is a troubling book. Unlike some readers, I am not troubled by the fact that it is virtually soaked in alcohol. Yes, if this book portrays him honestly, the author drinks far too much. But I can tip a glass or two myself and enjoyed learning more about the drinks I enjoy, albeit in much greater moderation than Mr. Osborne! Plus, his ruminating about the differences between "wet" and "dry" cultures, although sometimes a bit far-fetched, struck this reader, born as I was in a very "dry" culture, as exceedingly interesting. No, what I find troubling, albeit not surprising, is Osborne's portrayal of the changes that have been taking place over his twenty or so years of traveling with regard to drinking in such places as Istanbul, Cairo, Beirut, Thailand villages along the Malaysian border, etc. In all these regions, the move is definitely toward "the dry," sometimes in ways that are very intimidating to those of us in search of a glass of wine, or some other alcoholic beverage. Were it not that such a movement reflects lost freedoms in general, I would be less troubled. Since this book focuses largely on the Islamic world and has little to say about such fascinating wet cultures like China and Japan, or relatively dry cultures like several that exist here in America, it could be retitled: "An Increasingly Frustrated Alcoholic's Search for a Drink in the Islamic World and What It Represents." That is really what the book is mostly about.
February 18, 2020
O fi tentația de-a face lucruri interzise? O fi gustul mai bun al chestiilor pe care le faci pe-ascuns? Ce a vrut să spună autorul?
Plăcerile vinovate există au ba? Nu de alta, dar am citit păreri conform cărora dacă ne place să facem un lucru, această plăcere nu poate fi vinovată decât dacă avem anumite complexe inoculate de către societate. Iar consumul băuturilor alcoolice o fi sau nu păcat, în cazul în care le consumăm pentru plăcerea gustului, nu spre tulburarea minții?
Lawrence Osborne pleacă într-o călătorie în jurul lumii, încercând să găsească oaze în deșert. A se înlocui oaze cu alcool, iar deșert cu locuri unde consumul de alcool e interzis. El caută răspunsuri și le primește, dar ce te faci cănd același produs e clasificat de unii drept elixir iar de alții drept otravă? Vorba e...eu cu cine votez, neicușorule?
Votez pentru Osborne, pentru perspectiva istorică și culturală asupra locurilor, oamenilor și tipurilor de băuturi cu care acesta se-ntâlnește, votez pentru umorul și ironia cu care Osborne descrie anumite situații și-i ofer câte un Alka Seltzer virtual(sau o stacană cu zeamă de varză, ca să dau dovadă de patriotism) pentru diminețile-n care, mahmur și buhăit, pornea cătinel, cu pas legănat, spre următoarea destinație.
Plăcerile vinovate există au ba? Nu de alta, dar am citit păreri conform cărora dacă ne place să facem un lucru, această plăcere nu poate fi vinovată decât dacă avem anumite complexe inoculate de către societate. Iar consumul băuturilor alcoolice o fi sau nu păcat, în cazul în care le consumăm pentru plăcerea gustului, nu spre tulburarea minții?
Lawrence Osborne pleacă într-o călătorie în jurul lumii, încercând să găsească oaze în deșert. A se înlocui oaze cu alcool, iar deșert cu locuri unde consumul de alcool e interzis. El caută răspunsuri și le primește, dar ce te faci cănd același produs e clasificat de unii drept elixir iar de alții drept otravă? Vorba e...eu cu cine votez, neicușorule?
Votez pentru Osborne, pentru perspectiva istorică și culturală asupra locurilor, oamenilor și tipurilor de băuturi cu care acesta se-ntâlnește, votez pentru umorul și ironia cu care Osborne descrie anumite situații și-i ofer câte un Alka Seltzer virtual(sau o stacană cu zeamă de varză, ca să dau dovadă de patriotism) pentru diminețile-n care, mahmur și buhăit, pornea cătinel, cu pas legănat, spre următoarea destinație.
July 21, 2013
“The Wet and the Dry: a Drinker’s Journey,” which I received through Goodreads First Reads, is a travelogue that examines the effects, positive and negative, of alcohol on both societies and individuals. I was initially turned off by Lawrence Osborne’s book, which in the first few chapters comes across as being a chronicle of a somewhat pretentious Englishman’s bar hopping experiences in the Middle East. Happily, the book improves significantly from there, with deeply personal accounts of the author’s own struggles with drink and of his mother’s alcoholism. These negative portrayals of the effect of excessive alcohol use on individuals, are contrasted with the positive effects of alcohol and bars on societies as a whole. Through visits to countries, such as Pakistan, Egypt, and southern Thailand (which has an active Islamic insurgency,) with varying degrees of Sharia law, Osborne effectively argues that the bar is an institution that promotes openness and intermingling in society. Overall, I found the book to be beautifully written (albeit a bit slow to start), insightful, and enjoyable – especially with a drink.
July 14, 2013
(nb: I received an advance review copy of this title from the publisher via Edelweiss)
During my drinking days (daze?), my home bar was a little sports bar called Gamble’s. It only sold beer and wine, but several times during a long Friday or Saturday night, five or six of us would walk down the strip mall to a full liquor oyster bar named Dirty Moe’s, and we’d throw back a couple shots of Rumplemintze or Monte Alban’s Mezcal. Thus fortified, we’d be back off to Gamble’s to drink beer. I knew the people, the whole disparate cast of fellow nightly drinkers. We were an odd sort of family, although we rarely did anything together outside Gamble’s, and certainly nothing that didn’t involve drinking.
Lawrence Osborne’s new book “The Wet and the Dry” is primarily an alcoholic travelogue of bars across the world. Equally compelling are the chapters wherein he delves into his history with alcohol, from being a teenager, drinking vodka pilfered from his parents’ liquor cabinet and playing drunk and dangerous games with his friends, to descriptions of his favorite bar when he lived in Brooklyn. He remembers, too, relatives who died early from alcohol abuse.
Most of “The Wet and the Dry” is devoted to Osborne trying to find a decent drink in far-flung parts of our planet. Mostly, his travels are to Muslim lands. In Beirut, drinking is acceptable for non-Muslims. In other countries, bars are secret and rare places, hidden deep in the bowels of hotel basements.
In the chapter “My Sweet Islamabad”—an award-winning essay originally published in Playboy—he describes not only that desolate basement pub, but a trip to rural Pakistan to visit the large brewery and distillery there. There is definitely an odd disconnect here—a thriving brewery and distillery in an officially dry country. Osborne is surprised to find that their best whiskey holds its own with any other, and that their dubious-sounding new strawberry gin packs a tasty wallop.
His other discovery is that, not surprisingly, the ban on alcohol does not extend to the wealthy. He attends a party with Islamabad’s elite, and there is a room where drinks flow freely.
Osborne visits an Egyptian vineyard, whose owners predict they’ll be out of business within five years due to the increasingly conservative religious culture.
Osborne travels to Thailand, and plenty of other exotic locales. Each chapter in “The Wet and the Dry” details a separate adventure. Sometimes he finds numerous bars full of fellow drinkers; other times it’s impossible to get a drink anywhere.
There is a certain sameness in many of his chapters. He goes to a Muslim country. It’s hard to find a drink. He finally finds a drink, etc. I was hoping for more of a global perspective, I guess, perhaps comparing a dry country like Pakistan to a country known for its fervent drinking. Australia, maybe. This is a minor complaint, but a bit more variety would have enhanced the reading experience.
What struck me most was the tenacity and patience it must take to be a travel writer. Except for “New Years in Muscat,” where his girlfriend joins him on a nerve-wracking attempt to find a decent bottle of champagne, Osborne is on his own. He gets to a new city, has to generate contacts, conduct searches, hire cars or motorbikes to investigate tips, and occasionally, his life could be at risk.
At no point in “The Wet and the Dry” is Osborne sitting in a Hawaiian tiki bar, a Seattle metal bar, or even a hole-in-the-wall St. Petersburg, Florida, sports pub—this is not a journey of safe places. It is, however, a fascinating journey, one travel fans—or fellow libation aficionados—will enjoy.
After all his travels and adventures, somebody needs to buy Lawrence Osborne a drink. The man’s earned it.
Recommended
During my drinking days (daze?), my home bar was a little sports bar called Gamble’s. It only sold beer and wine, but several times during a long Friday or Saturday night, five or six of us would walk down the strip mall to a full liquor oyster bar named Dirty Moe’s, and we’d throw back a couple shots of Rumplemintze or Monte Alban’s Mezcal. Thus fortified, we’d be back off to Gamble’s to drink beer. I knew the people, the whole disparate cast of fellow nightly drinkers. We were an odd sort of family, although we rarely did anything together outside Gamble’s, and certainly nothing that didn’t involve drinking.
Lawrence Osborne’s new book “The Wet and the Dry” is primarily an alcoholic travelogue of bars across the world. Equally compelling are the chapters wherein he delves into his history with alcohol, from being a teenager, drinking vodka pilfered from his parents’ liquor cabinet and playing drunk and dangerous games with his friends, to descriptions of his favorite bar when he lived in Brooklyn. He remembers, too, relatives who died early from alcohol abuse.
Most of “The Wet and the Dry” is devoted to Osborne trying to find a decent drink in far-flung parts of our planet. Mostly, his travels are to Muslim lands. In Beirut, drinking is acceptable for non-Muslims. In other countries, bars are secret and rare places, hidden deep in the bowels of hotel basements.
In the chapter “My Sweet Islamabad”—an award-winning essay originally published in Playboy—he describes not only that desolate basement pub, but a trip to rural Pakistan to visit the large brewery and distillery there. There is definitely an odd disconnect here—a thriving brewery and distillery in an officially dry country. Osborne is surprised to find that their best whiskey holds its own with any other, and that their dubious-sounding new strawberry gin packs a tasty wallop.
His other discovery is that, not surprisingly, the ban on alcohol does not extend to the wealthy. He attends a party with Islamabad’s elite, and there is a room where drinks flow freely.
Osborne visits an Egyptian vineyard, whose owners predict they’ll be out of business within five years due to the increasingly conservative religious culture.
Osborne travels to Thailand, and plenty of other exotic locales. Each chapter in “The Wet and the Dry” details a separate adventure. Sometimes he finds numerous bars full of fellow drinkers; other times it’s impossible to get a drink anywhere.
There is a certain sameness in many of his chapters. He goes to a Muslim country. It’s hard to find a drink. He finally finds a drink, etc. I was hoping for more of a global perspective, I guess, perhaps comparing a dry country like Pakistan to a country known for its fervent drinking. Australia, maybe. This is a minor complaint, but a bit more variety would have enhanced the reading experience.
What struck me most was the tenacity and patience it must take to be a travel writer. Except for “New Years in Muscat,” where his girlfriend joins him on a nerve-wracking attempt to find a decent bottle of champagne, Osborne is on his own. He gets to a new city, has to generate contacts, conduct searches, hire cars or motorbikes to investigate tips, and occasionally, his life could be at risk.
At no point in “The Wet and the Dry” is Osborne sitting in a Hawaiian tiki bar, a Seattle metal bar, or even a hole-in-the-wall St. Petersburg, Florida, sports pub—this is not a journey of safe places. It is, however, a fascinating journey, one travel fans—or fellow libation aficionados—will enjoy.
After all his travels and adventures, somebody needs to buy Lawrence Osborne a drink. The man’s earned it.
Recommended
July 19, 2022
Foarte faină carte! Ca multe dintre cele din seria Narator (Editura Publica).
O călătorie plină de umor și ironie, dar cu ocolișuri culturale pline de farmec și miez.
Nu lipsesc nici popasurile melancolice, așa cum se întâmplă în viața oricarui băutor de cursă lungă.
O călătorie plină de umor și ironie, dar cu ocolișuri culturale pline de farmec și miez.
Nu lipsesc nici popasurile melancolice, așa cum se întâmplă în viața oricarui băutor de cursă lungă.
June 6, 2016
This book is about drinking in places where it's harder to find alcohol or the relationship to alcohol is changing/complex. Most of the chapters are spent in the Middle East, though he also revisits particularly meaningful watering holes and the drinking culture in his home country, England.
There's a lot of interesting information here (Islay whiskey was legal during prohibition due to the high iodine content), though you will run into sections which are the typical "Man, I'm so drunk, here's all the 'deep' philosophical stuff I've suddenly realized." Osborne also visits his childhood periodically, and the relationship each of his parents had with drinking. However, I would say that he didn't write enough about those things to warrant including them in this book. They somewhat go against the grain of the rest of the book's stated theme (though perhaps I've just become cranky in wanting a memoir to be a memoir and nothing else).
The book's conclusion is something most of us already know: If you're in the right position/are the right person it's possible to drink in any country, no matter how restrictive the laws. It's not a bad little book, but it does not hold to it's stated theme very well. It's a drinking-travel memoir while trying to impart a lot of factual information, and I don't think quite the right balance was found. The author also slides into misogyny very quickly and easily.
There's a lot of interesting information here (Islay whiskey was legal during prohibition due to the high iodine content), though you will run into sections which are the typical "Man, I'm so drunk, here's all the 'deep' philosophical stuff I've suddenly realized." Osborne also visits his childhood periodically, and the relationship each of his parents had with drinking. However, I would say that he didn't write enough about those things to warrant including them in this book. They somewhat go against the grain of the rest of the book's stated theme (though perhaps I've just become cranky in wanting a memoir to be a memoir and nothing else).
The book's conclusion is something most of us already know: If you're in the right position/are the right person it's possible to drink in any country, no matter how restrictive the laws. It's not a bad little book, but it does not hold to it's stated theme very well. It's a drinking-travel memoir while trying to impart a lot of factual information, and I don't think quite the right balance was found. The author also slides into misogyny very quickly and easily.
March 19, 2016
Travel narrative mostly, centered around the theme of the role of alcohol in Islamic states, with a fair amount of memoir also; the latter aspect is actually fairly well integrated into the book. Definitely recommended.
October 4, 2024
Sempre stimolante ed irriverente anche se non per tutti i palati.
Al solito il tema centrale del libro (l'alcool) diventa piuttosto la lente attraverso cui vengono osservati luoghi, mentalità ed il preoccupante futuro che si fa avanti.
L'osservatore, questo smaliziato, acuto, acculturato è L. Osborne.
Al solito il tema centrale del libro (l'alcool) diventa piuttosto la lente attraverso cui vengono osservati luoghi, mentalità ed il preoccupante futuro che si fa avanti.
L'osservatore, questo smaliziato, acuto, acculturato è L. Osborne.
January 22, 2021
No me ha gustado el enfoque
August 18, 2020
I am starting to think that Osborne is one of the finest nonfiction writers around. I've heard him repeatedly being compared to Graham Graham, and I have to admit I’m very curious about his fiction. A world traveling nomad, he is in so many ways the polar opposite of Pico Iyer, another nomadic, who writes about cultures that he is unable to truly access without any language skills, someone who is free ranging and coming from a cosmopolitanism of the kind you might find in one of Salman Rushdie's books. But again, without being literate in the language. But where Iyer is positive and upbeat, Osborne is definitely dark--maybe even depressive to read.
He is also a fantastic writer! Elegant, self-deprecating and dazzlingly intelligent.
His accidental connoisseur was one of the best books I’ve read this year. It was incredibly engaging and thought-provoking. I was worried because this collection of essays begins in a very dark tone; very lonely and sad is the image of a man drinking alone and he comes across as lost and at times utterly out of control. Also I noticed someone below mentioned his misogyny. It's true, in this day and age it seems clueless of him to set himself up as one of those white guys that you see who think they are god's gift to women by virtue of their being... well, a white man in Asia? I didn't take a star away though because he older (in his 60s it seems) so maybe is not aware that his tone about girlie bars can be incredibly grating.
The chapter on Pindar and Dionysus; vine and God, was so stunningly brilliant that I took my hat off to him ----what a great writer!
Also, I thought the overall project of looking at dry states and wet states and thinking about what this means to people and their relationships (to each other, to themselves and to God) was also fascinating. This is a subject I had never considered. I have been in many dry states, a few in the middle east but more in Asia, and since I was not such a drinker when I was young (That has changed in my old age), I didn’t even really notice. I had never stopped to think about alcohol and its relation to Islam. I associated dry states with a few places in India which were dry. Now, of course, it would be a personal emergency if I could get a drink so I could very much relate to how he felt and Islamabad when for the life of him he could not find a drink.
I think this all leads to the big question: does he drink when he writes? I would really like to know. If I attempt is fiction, I wonder which novel I would like? I am so afraid he is going to read like that guy in the 80s who wrote the Beach.
He is also a fantastic writer! Elegant, self-deprecating and dazzlingly intelligent.
His accidental connoisseur was one of the best books I’ve read this year. It was incredibly engaging and thought-provoking. I was worried because this collection of essays begins in a very dark tone; very lonely and sad is the image of a man drinking alone and he comes across as lost and at times utterly out of control. Also I noticed someone below mentioned his misogyny. It's true, in this day and age it seems clueless of him to set himself up as one of those white guys that you see who think they are god's gift to women by virtue of their being... well, a white man in Asia? I didn't take a star away though because he older (in his 60s it seems) so maybe is not aware that his tone about girlie bars can be incredibly grating.
The chapter on Pindar and Dionysus; vine and God, was so stunningly brilliant that I took my hat off to him ----what a great writer!
Also, I thought the overall project of looking at dry states and wet states and thinking about what this means to people and their relationships (to each other, to themselves and to God) was also fascinating. This is a subject I had never considered. I have been in many dry states, a few in the middle east but more in Asia, and since I was not such a drinker when I was young (That has changed in my old age), I didn’t even really notice. I had never stopped to think about alcohol and its relation to Islam. I associated dry states with a few places in India which were dry. Now, of course, it would be a personal emergency if I could get a drink so I could very much relate to how he felt and Islamabad when for the life of him he could not find a drink.
I think this all leads to the big question: does he drink when he writes? I would really like to know. If I attempt is fiction, I wonder which novel I would like? I am so afraid he is going to read like that guy in the 80s who wrote the Beach.
January 4, 2014
Alcohol is his muse and there's a lot that is captivating about his prose. Some will be offended. It's like Paul Theroux went on a bender. Very introspective at times Osborne goes into the belly of the beast and relishes drinking where it's forbidden in the Islamic world. We visit Brooklyn, Thailand, Abu Dhabi, Oman, Lebanon, Egypt, Turkey, and Pakistan as well as the England of his youth and Scotland. He discusses beer, wine, and spirits and their appeal as well as the history and mythology of alcohol. There are some great lines that will leave you chuckling and others that will make you pause and think. Here's a good one from page 8. "....hoping in some dark way that I might eventually stumble across the most delightful phenomenon, a Muslim alcoholic. ( I had a soft spot not just for Muslim alcoholics but for the very idea of them. A Muslim alcoholic gives me hope that the human race can be saved.)"
April 23, 2014
I won this book through a goodreads giveaway. It turned out to not be a book I could get into. I have been poking through it from time to time for 9 months now, knowing I should review it. It seems to be a kind of memoir without an overriding story arc. Osborne tells stories about alcohol, generally excessive drinking, from around the world--US Indian reservations, the death of his talented father-in-law from incredibly excessive drinking, drinking in Muslim countries. Almost every story was depressing but kind of detached. I finally decided to stop. Perhaps in my skipping around, I missed the good parts. I'll let you hunt for them. I've had enough.
August 10, 2016
Somewhere between offensive and obnoxious, this book tracks Osborne drinking too much in places where alcohol is frowned upon, mostly with the backdrop of his not-particularly-informed inner monologue about Muslims and how they'd be better off if they were gin-soaked idiots like him. The occasional moments of self-awareness don't do much to cut the cringes induced on just about every page. Unfortunate, because there are really good anecdotes and stories to tell from the establishment owners in these countries. We get too little of them, and too much of a drunk Brit rambling in an unfortunately colonial voice.
May 18, 2017
The Wet & Dry is a series of short chapters that can stand alone in which the author ruminates on his personal relationship with alcohol as well as philosophical, cultural, psychological and sociological thoughts on drink that takes the reader from local UK pubs to dry middle eastern countries. It’s as if the author is sitting at a bar, mellowed on booze telling tale after personal tale involving alcohol, the search for alcohol or the lack of alcohol – each time having finished one story, finding something in it to remind him of the next.
Plenty of his observations are interesting (like his take on the the relationship to drinking by non-drinking Muslims, or following him on visits to the organic vineyard in Egypt) Being delivered from his personal perspective makes it a less academic read …but whether or not you find it more interesting depends on how interesting you find the author.
For the first several pages, I couldn’t decide if I found it funny, sympathetic or sobering. But I was eventually carried along enough to finish.
I debated between 2 and 3 on this one, but finally settled on 3 because the author is a good writer who can turn an interesting phrase or two and make a satisfyingly complete short essay. And, I appreciate his unapologetically honest attitude that neither makes excuses nor seeks redemption from the reader.
Plenty of his observations are interesting (like his take on the the relationship to drinking by non-drinking Muslims, or following him on visits to the organic vineyard in Egypt) Being delivered from his personal perspective makes it a less academic read …but whether or not you find it more interesting depends on how interesting you find the author.
For the first several pages, I couldn’t decide if I found it funny, sympathetic or sobering. But I was eventually carried along enough to finish.
I debated between 2 and 3 on this one, but finally settled on 3 because the author is a good writer who can turn an interesting phrase or two and make a satisfyingly complete short essay. And, I appreciate his unapologetically honest attitude that neither makes excuses nor seeks redemption from the reader.
July 11, 2019
Lawrence Osborne erforscht in einer Reise, wie man in islamischen Ländern Alkohol anbaut und trinkt, u.a. im Libanon, in Pakistan, Abu Dhabi, Dubai und im Oman. Osborne pflegt einen schnöseligen, pseudokultivierten Ton, als ob er alles aus größter, mild amüsierter Distanz betrachte. Auf Goodreads erhielt das Buch maue 3,4 von 5 möglichen Lesersternen (Stand Juni 2019). Die New York Times lobte es.
Gelegentlich betont Osborne seine eigene Trunkenheit bis hin zum Zittern und zu tagelangen Nachwehen. Während er Italiener und Franzosen gleich auf den ersten Seiten dafür lobt, dass sie nur aus Genuss trinken und sich nicht zudröhnen, sucht Osborne gern das Delirium. Immer wieder gern stellt er sich selbst als Säufer dar und auch sonst in ein negatives Licht, mit herausgekehrter Mir-doch-egal-was-ihr-denkt-Pose. Nur ein Beispiel von S. 47 (engl. TB-Ausgabe von Harvill Secker/Random House):
I awoke late in the afternoon… I was in the same clothes that i had been wearing for weeks in Beirut, und with a headache so severe that I had to lie there for some time…
Im süffisant distanzierten Ton eines englischen Lords berichtet der Brite Osborne (*1958) aber nicht nur über 40-Euro-Gin-Tonics in Luxushotels und reiht Alkoholbezeichnungen aneinander wie Chicklitautorinnen Modemarken herbeten (S. 58: "Smirnoff, Jim Beam, Magners, Irish cider, Cutty Sark and Pernod… generic Premium Gin and Standard Cognac… Steinlager Edge and Breezers and Gaymer's beer"). Auch die Namen all der teuren Herbergen, in denen er seine Räusche ausschläft, kann Osborne nicht bei sich behalten. Er erzählt aber ungeniert auch von Bierdosen, die er – misstrauisch beäugt – in libanesische Lammrestaurants hineinträgt. Automarken oder Speisen erwähnt er nicht, Frauen nur in einer Geschichte.
Ohne Alk und ein bisschen öffentliche Selbstdemütigung geht's nicht. Süffisante, semi-selbstkompromittiernde Sottisen zieren das ganze Buch, am schönsten parliert's auf S. 37:
Bars in a city that is half Muslim are like brothels in a city that is Catholic… Though come to think of it, Catholic cities are excellent places to find brothels.
Osborne verrät auch Bewunderung für einen schriftstellernden, versoffenen Kauz aus dem 16 Jahrhundert, "died as an indebted dandy". Dazu passen Osbornes stolz vorgetragene Geschichten, wie er als bettelarmer Jungschreiber in USA Blauschimmelkäse, Äpfel, Wein und Truthahn klaute.
Mitunter gebraucht Osborne Ausdrücke, die falsch wirken. Aber vielleicht ist das irgendeine versoffene Selbstironie oder es gibt die Begriffe wirklich und man kennt sie nicht: So redet Osborne von Dohar (S. 58), wo vermutlich Doha gemeint ist und nennt Jerez altertümlich Xeres (S. 130); er sagt intoxification (S. 71), obwohl das "fi" nicht hineingehört (hier wunderte sich auch Observer/Guardian); er setzt Dubai und City State gleich und lässt seine italienische Loverin Französisch sprechen (S. 90, "Drink or amour? Which one first?"); er schreibt nur "lo", wo man "lo and behold" erwartet (S. 171); die Beiruter Baufirma Solidere schreibt er mal richtig, mal Solidaire (jew. S. 233). In Thailand redet Bangkok-Bewohner Osborne von "luuk krung country-music ballads" (S. 168); doch korrekt ist "luuk thung" ("Kind des Feldes") – Osbornes Begriff "luuk krung" heißt wörtlich "Kind halb", gemeint sind Menschen mit thailändischem wie westlichem Elternteil (möchte/hat Osborne eins?).
Als Edelfeder schreibt Osborne für allerlei renommierte englische Magazine wie den New Yorker – die haben gelehrte, nüchterne Redakteure und Dokumentare, auf die Osborne offenbar angewiesen ist. Seine Buchlektoren bei Random House trinken dagegen scheint's gern ab mittags.
Manche Osborneschen Suff-Geschichten wirken wie Nebenprodukte seiner Auftragsreisen zu anderen Themen (der Pakistanbericht erschien offenbar so zuerst im Playboy). Teils produziert er innerhalb einer Geschichte abrupte Themenwechsel oder Themendoppler– das wirkte auf mich, als ob der Autor hier verschiedene Geschichten zusammenflanschte, ohne auf Stimmigkeit zu prüfen. Auf Seite 155 sagt er gleich zweimal "recent(ly)", obwohl diese unkonkrete Zeitangabe nicht in ein Buch gehört.
Dezidiert lässig verrät Osborne meist ein paar historische und kulturelle Besonderheiten seiner Ziele, zitiert uralte Dichterworte, Sagen, Biochemie, Hausmacher-Psychologie, den Koran und Statistisches. Das klingt aber zusammengegoogelt und als ob er Seiten füllen müsste. Das Buch kommt ohnehin nur deshalb auf 242 Seiten und eine gewisse Stärke, weil es so luftig auf so dickes Papier gedruckt ist. War Osborne zu benebelt für ein paar weitere Stationen oder tiefergehende Beobachtung? Oder pleite? Mindestens sechs Kapitel haben zudem nichts mit der versprochenen islamischen Welt zu tun: sie spielen in Italien, England, der griechischen Sagenwelt, den USA, Schottland.
Oder handelt Osbornes Buch gar nicht ausdrücklich exklusiv von islamischen Ländern? Zwar zeigt der Titel Bierglas und Moschee, auf der Rückseite heißt es "drinking my way across the Islamic world" und das Schlusswort auf Seite 241 reminisziert "two years drinking in countries which by long tradition had decided against…alcohol". Der volle Buchtitel indes verspricht geografisch oder kulturell gar nichts: The Wet and the Dry, A Drinker's Journey. Darunter darf man dann wohl sogar auch die mindestens drei Kapitel über Osbornes Zuhauses in England und USA verstehen.
Wohlgemerkt, Osborne kennt einige bemerkenswerte Stationen, so die libanesischen und ägyptischen Weingüter oder die bizarre Alkoholpolitik in Pakistan. Doch enden die im herablassenden Dandyton hergesäuselten Episoden immer schon, wenn das Interesse gerade erst aufkam. Und eins der auch alkoholtechnisch interessantesten islamischen Länder besucht Osborne gar nicht: den Iran, wo geschmuggelter und selbstangesetzter Alkohol auf Osbornes Kennermiene gewartet hätte, wenn auch nur in Privaträumen. Und was ist mit Saudi-Arabien?
Immerhin schildert der Autor fast prohibitionistische Paranoia aus Pakistan. Doch auch hier kümmert er sich nur um teure Hotels, Bars und Oberschichtgesprächspartner in Großstädten; die erzählen ihm von einem ausufernden Alkohol-Schwarzmarkt, den Osborne jedoch in keiner Weise recherchiert. Osborne hört auch von einem grenznahen Ausnüchterungshaus für saudische LKW-Fahrer, die von Bahrein nach Saudi-Arabien zurückkehren – interessantes Thema, das er jedoch nicht recherchiert, nicht einmal explizit verifiziert. Denn Snob Osborne interessiert sich nicht für günstige, volkstümliche Wege zum geistígen Getränk (mit gewissen Ausnahmen in Südthailand und Kairo).
Einige Stationen des Buchs:
Weingüter im Libanon und Kneipenzonen in Beirut
Eine Luxushotelbar in Mailand, ja, aber immerhin mit arabischen Gästen, die nur Wasser trinken
Das Saufen in seiner Familie in England und anderen westlichen Ländern (ja, zwei Kapitel)
Dionysos und Griechenland (ja)
Zwei unterschiedliche Bars in Abu Dhabi
Neujahr im Oman mit "Italian Lover", aber ohne Champagner
Islamabad, Pakistan, Säufer unter Terrorbedrohung und eine Brauerei
USA, Eckkneipen und Diebstähle im Leben eines hungrigen Jungautors
Indonesien, Solo-Surakarta und die Bali-Bomber
Thailands islamischer Süden und eine malaysische Grenzstadt nebenan (mehr über Terror, Prostitution und Grenzverkehr als über Alkohol)
Die schottische Whiskey-Insel Islay und die Whiskey-Affinität nordamerikanischer Indianer
Türkei: Istanbul und sein versoffener Herrscher Murad IV; Rausch und Sufismus
Ägypten: Bauchtanz- und Saufkaschemmen in Kairo sowie ein Weingut, in einem zunehmend islamisierten Land
Assoziationen:
Wegen der islamischen Länder: die islamischen Reisebücher von V.S. Naipaul (in allem anderen unterscheiden sich die Bücher der beiden Briten massiv)
Wegen der Thema-verfehlenden Abschweifungen in die eigene Biografie in einem sehr kurzen Buch: Julia Alvarez' Quinceanera-Buch
Ein anderer Snobstilist mit New York-Verbindung und Wein-Faible: Jay McInerney
Von Osborne gibt es weitere Reisebücher sowie Romane, die u.a. in Marokko, Kambodscha und Griechenland spielen. Außerdem zwei Bücher über Wein:
Corks and Screws: An Irreverent Journey to the World's Most Famous Vineyards (ab Januar 2020) und
Accidental Connoisseur: An Irreverent Journey Through the Wine World (2004).
Gelegentlich betont Osborne seine eigene Trunkenheit bis hin zum Zittern und zu tagelangen Nachwehen. Während er Italiener und Franzosen gleich auf den ersten Seiten dafür lobt, dass sie nur aus Genuss trinken und sich nicht zudröhnen, sucht Osborne gern das Delirium. Immer wieder gern stellt er sich selbst als Säufer dar und auch sonst in ein negatives Licht, mit herausgekehrter Mir-doch-egal-was-ihr-denkt-Pose. Nur ein Beispiel von S. 47 (engl. TB-Ausgabe von Harvill Secker/Random House):
I awoke late in the afternoon… I was in the same clothes that i had been wearing for weeks in Beirut, und with a headache so severe that I had to lie there for some time…
Im süffisant distanzierten Ton eines englischen Lords berichtet der Brite Osborne (*1958) aber nicht nur über 40-Euro-Gin-Tonics in Luxushotels und reiht Alkoholbezeichnungen aneinander wie Chicklitautorinnen Modemarken herbeten (S. 58: "Smirnoff, Jim Beam, Magners, Irish cider, Cutty Sark and Pernod… generic Premium Gin and Standard Cognac… Steinlager Edge and Breezers and Gaymer's beer"). Auch die Namen all der teuren Herbergen, in denen er seine Räusche ausschläft, kann Osborne nicht bei sich behalten. Er erzählt aber ungeniert auch von Bierdosen, die er – misstrauisch beäugt – in libanesische Lammrestaurants hineinträgt. Automarken oder Speisen erwähnt er nicht, Frauen nur in einer Geschichte.
Ohne Alk und ein bisschen öffentliche Selbstdemütigung geht's nicht. Süffisante, semi-selbstkompromittiernde Sottisen zieren das ganze Buch, am schönsten parliert's auf S. 37:
Bars in a city that is half Muslim are like brothels in a city that is Catholic… Though come to think of it, Catholic cities are excellent places to find brothels.
Osborne verrät auch Bewunderung für einen schriftstellernden, versoffenen Kauz aus dem 16 Jahrhundert, "died as an indebted dandy". Dazu passen Osbornes stolz vorgetragene Geschichten, wie er als bettelarmer Jungschreiber in USA Blauschimmelkäse, Äpfel, Wein und Truthahn klaute.
Mitunter gebraucht Osborne Ausdrücke, die falsch wirken. Aber vielleicht ist das irgendeine versoffene Selbstironie oder es gibt die Begriffe wirklich und man kennt sie nicht: So redet Osborne von Dohar (S. 58), wo vermutlich Doha gemeint ist und nennt Jerez altertümlich Xeres (S. 130); er sagt intoxification (S. 71), obwohl das "fi" nicht hineingehört (hier wunderte sich auch Observer/Guardian); er setzt Dubai und City State gleich und lässt seine italienische Loverin Französisch sprechen (S. 90, "Drink or amour? Which one first?"); er schreibt nur "lo", wo man "lo and behold" erwartet (S. 171); die Beiruter Baufirma Solidere schreibt er mal richtig, mal Solidaire (jew. S. 233). In Thailand redet Bangkok-Bewohner Osborne von "luuk krung country-music ballads" (S. 168); doch korrekt ist "luuk thung" ("Kind des Feldes") – Osbornes Begriff "luuk krung" heißt wörtlich "Kind halb", gemeint sind Menschen mit thailändischem wie westlichem Elternteil (möchte/hat Osborne eins?).
Als Edelfeder schreibt Osborne für allerlei renommierte englische Magazine wie den New Yorker – die haben gelehrte, nüchterne Redakteure und Dokumentare, auf die Osborne offenbar angewiesen ist. Seine Buchlektoren bei Random House trinken dagegen scheint's gern ab mittags.
Manche Osborneschen Suff-Geschichten wirken wie Nebenprodukte seiner Auftragsreisen zu anderen Themen (der Pakistanbericht erschien offenbar so zuerst im Playboy). Teils produziert er innerhalb einer Geschichte abrupte Themenwechsel oder Themendoppler– das wirkte auf mich, als ob der Autor hier verschiedene Geschichten zusammenflanschte, ohne auf Stimmigkeit zu prüfen. Auf Seite 155 sagt er gleich zweimal "recent(ly)", obwohl diese unkonkrete Zeitangabe nicht in ein Buch gehört.
Dezidiert lässig verrät Osborne meist ein paar historische und kulturelle Besonderheiten seiner Ziele, zitiert uralte Dichterworte, Sagen, Biochemie, Hausmacher-Psychologie, den Koran und Statistisches. Das klingt aber zusammengegoogelt und als ob er Seiten füllen müsste. Das Buch kommt ohnehin nur deshalb auf 242 Seiten und eine gewisse Stärke, weil es so luftig auf so dickes Papier gedruckt ist. War Osborne zu benebelt für ein paar weitere Stationen oder tiefergehende Beobachtung? Oder pleite? Mindestens sechs Kapitel haben zudem nichts mit der versprochenen islamischen Welt zu tun: sie spielen in Italien, England, der griechischen Sagenwelt, den USA, Schottland.
Oder handelt Osbornes Buch gar nicht ausdrücklich exklusiv von islamischen Ländern? Zwar zeigt der Titel Bierglas und Moschee, auf der Rückseite heißt es "drinking my way across the Islamic world" und das Schlusswort auf Seite 241 reminisziert "two years drinking in countries which by long tradition had decided against…alcohol". Der volle Buchtitel indes verspricht geografisch oder kulturell gar nichts: The Wet and the Dry, A Drinker's Journey. Darunter darf man dann wohl sogar auch die mindestens drei Kapitel über Osbornes Zuhauses in England und USA verstehen.
Wohlgemerkt, Osborne kennt einige bemerkenswerte Stationen, so die libanesischen und ägyptischen Weingüter oder die bizarre Alkoholpolitik in Pakistan. Doch enden die im herablassenden Dandyton hergesäuselten Episoden immer schon, wenn das Interesse gerade erst aufkam. Und eins der auch alkoholtechnisch interessantesten islamischen Länder besucht Osborne gar nicht: den Iran, wo geschmuggelter und selbstangesetzter Alkohol auf Osbornes Kennermiene gewartet hätte, wenn auch nur in Privaträumen. Und was ist mit Saudi-Arabien?
Immerhin schildert der Autor fast prohibitionistische Paranoia aus Pakistan. Doch auch hier kümmert er sich nur um teure Hotels, Bars und Oberschichtgesprächspartner in Großstädten; die erzählen ihm von einem ausufernden Alkohol-Schwarzmarkt, den Osborne jedoch in keiner Weise recherchiert. Osborne hört auch von einem grenznahen Ausnüchterungshaus für saudische LKW-Fahrer, die von Bahrein nach Saudi-Arabien zurückkehren – interessantes Thema, das er jedoch nicht recherchiert, nicht einmal explizit verifiziert. Denn Snob Osborne interessiert sich nicht für günstige, volkstümliche Wege zum geistígen Getränk (mit gewissen Ausnahmen in Südthailand und Kairo).
Einige Stationen des Buchs:
Weingüter im Libanon und Kneipenzonen in Beirut
Eine Luxushotelbar in Mailand, ja, aber immerhin mit arabischen Gästen, die nur Wasser trinken
Das Saufen in seiner Familie in England und anderen westlichen Ländern (ja, zwei Kapitel)
Dionysos und Griechenland (ja)
Zwei unterschiedliche Bars in Abu Dhabi
Neujahr im Oman mit "Italian Lover", aber ohne Champagner
Islamabad, Pakistan, Säufer unter Terrorbedrohung und eine Brauerei
USA, Eckkneipen und Diebstähle im Leben eines hungrigen Jungautors
Indonesien, Solo-Surakarta und die Bali-Bomber
Thailands islamischer Süden und eine malaysische Grenzstadt nebenan (mehr über Terror, Prostitution und Grenzverkehr als über Alkohol)
Die schottische Whiskey-Insel Islay und die Whiskey-Affinität nordamerikanischer Indianer
Türkei: Istanbul und sein versoffener Herrscher Murad IV; Rausch und Sufismus
Ägypten: Bauchtanz- und Saufkaschemmen in Kairo sowie ein Weingut, in einem zunehmend islamisierten Land
Assoziationen:
Wegen der islamischen Länder: die islamischen Reisebücher von V.S. Naipaul (in allem anderen unterscheiden sich die Bücher der beiden Briten massiv)
Wegen der Thema-verfehlenden Abschweifungen in die eigene Biografie in einem sehr kurzen Buch: Julia Alvarez' Quinceanera-Buch
Ein anderer Snobstilist mit New York-Verbindung und Wein-Faible: Jay McInerney
Von Osborne gibt es weitere Reisebücher sowie Romane, die u.a. in Marokko, Kambodscha und Griechenland spielen. Außerdem zwei Bücher über Wein:
Corks and Screws: An Irreverent Journey to the World's Most Famous Vineyards (ab Januar 2020) und
Accidental Connoisseur: An Irreverent Journey Through the Wine World (2004).
July 29, 2024
"Considero i drink elementi nei quali si entra. Al pari degli specchi d'acqua o dei luoghi"
Achtung! Summer Wine. Post lungo e acquitrinoso.
Non sento l'esigenza di viaggiare. Amo poco regredire alla fase nomadica. Stanziale di superficie, segno e dna di terra. Ansieggio su bagagli da disfare o lunghe code ai terminal affrontate con mezza giornata d’anticipo. Le carte d'imbarco; l'area Schengen (non è quello il vero Purgatorio?); le perturbazioni; il trolley troppo pesante; "mi scusi, sarebbe il mio posto"; la bottiglietta non è permessa; che ritardo ha accumulato?; "Per motivi di intenso traffico atterreremo a"; dove cazzo sta adesso il parcheggio? Un incubo con lontane radici semantiche: la declinazione inglese 'travel' ha in sé i germi dell'idea di sofferenza. Deriva dal francese 'travailler'. Lavorare. Che a sua volta discende da un particolare forcone a tre punte, usato per le torture. Mi pare tutto molto chiaro. L'ho fatto ovviamente, per qualche lustro. Bello (no, non è vero), ma non fa per me. Come gli indiani d'America non hanno l'enzima per sintetizzare l'alcol io non ho quello per i lunghi spostamenti. Succede. Ma non sono un indiano. Mi piacciono le stazioni dei treni, ecco. Luogo di febbrile e neutra attesa. Poco altro. Salgari non si è mai mosso di casa, per dire (nessun paragone: non ho una Perla di Labuan e non mi sono ancora sgozzato. Più facile la seconda).
Insomma: viajar descanta, ma se te parti mona te torni mona. Con un sovrappiù di fatica da smaltire. Detto questo, e per introdurre il gran libro di Lawrence Osborne (sempiterna stima a Nicoló Lovat per il consiglio): non amo viaggiare ma mi piace bere. Bene, aggiungerei. Mai nascosto. Il giusto, intendo. O qualcosina in più. Guerre, alleanze e amori si stappano e strappano con un calice alzato. La mia fortuna è stata cominciare in tarda età, tralasciando tutto l’adolescenziale aplomb da sciocco maudit che, in genere, accompagna l'iniziazione. La Batida al cocco, i gin gusto Nelsen Piatti, i rum&cola dimmerda degli anni Ottanta e Novanta, i vini killer nel tetrapak. Ecco, per qualche fortuita combinazione e una gran botta di culo tutto questo l'ho evitato. Paraphernalia da strapazzo, sovente idealizzata da mezzi figuri che ingurgita(va)no e basta. Se non si è Connery (shakerato, non mescolato. E il motivo c’è) o Bogart è meglio lasciar perdere tutta l'iconografia da poveracci di 'alcol è bello, sono artista, senti quanto soffro'. Vaccate. Non ce l'ha fatta Ernest Hemingway, figuriamoci noi poveri stronzi. È bello se lo gusti, lo cavalchi, se non ti tavernellizzi o non vaneggi mescite biodinamiche dal tuo ristorantino feng shui. Approcciare un bicchiere è come sporgersi da un precipizio: ci metti il naso, non tutta la tua vita. Mentre bevi sei più propenso ad ascoltare le altre, di esistenze. Ti giungono a sprazzi dai tavoli, per osmosi di conversazioni. Prede dei nostri ‘spiriti’: struggenti, fuori luogo e perduti. Empatia liquida, cut-up e frammenti di logos pucciati nel bicchiere.
Lawrence Osborne è un grandissimo scrittore (mi dicono 'Bangkok' sia incredibile. Sto rimediando), penna dotata che affronta tutto questo con disarmante lucidità, prima di condurti in un altrove asettico. Una geografia poco malleabile (per lui lo spostamento è essenziale, quello che illustra il nostro peso specifico è la distanza che siamo disposti a percorrere), nella quale non si vergogna di ammettere - lui, alcolista - il 'disagio di essere sobrio' - in un Medio Oriente ostile e al limite, quasi sfidandolo. A Surakarta, per esempio: 600.000 persone e non un solo locale che venda alcolici ('mi sembra la ricetta della follia', scrive). Luogo dove Imam Samudra, ovvero uno dei tre giustiziati per l'attentato di Bali, disse alla CNN di 'aver fatto bene a massacrare bevitori nei bar'.
'Soltanto in mezzo agli astemi ti rendi conto di quanto sei in debito con le chimiche dell'alcol' aggiunge, mentre cerca una catarsi illustrando le differenze di percezione storico-religiosa dei distillati, tra Occidente e Oriente. Nel cattolicesimo il vino è essenziale. Liturgia liquida: “prendete e bevetene tutti”. Assolti dal principio, si ascende al cielo tramite Bacco ingurgitando Dio. Un casino, vero? Dionisiaci nostro malgrado ma con un crudele senso del peccato a sottendere. La Bibbia riporta il termine 'vino' 224 volte, il Corano tre. Anche per questo in Arabia Saudita il ricovero per consumo di eau de toilette è all'ordine del giorno: non trovando alcolici si ubriacano bevendo profumo. Essenza di peccatore molecolare.
Osborne centellina morale e (pre)giudizio con consapevolezza. Non beatifica e non innalza romanticismi, sa che i liquidi a gradazione alcolica possono essere un canto fatuo, una piaga; altresì vero che una società nella quale sono totalmente banditi ha qualcosa che la rende fuori fuoco. Bere non è la libertà, ma non si può fermare, perché è l'ora d'aria di questa lunga prigione; la bracciata socializzante in una piscina malmostosa. O il rumore elettrico della zanzara che - ignara e assetata, perché così deve fare - va a bruciarsi.
Fanno più paura devianze come la Cherry Coke o un tè alla menta che necessita di mille ohm e due ore di preparazione rispetto a un Lagrein come Iddio comanda. Meglio una serata con un oste che suggerisce due bottiglie mentre mi parla della Jugoplastika al posto di un sette stelle a Dubai con la minerale da 40 euro e il water condizionato. Un buon Americano, non tisanella rilassante al tarassaco. Il problema non è bere (vivo in Veneto, entità liquida. Ne ho visti parecchi ammazzarsi di metanolo), il problema è riuscire a farlo nella maniera adeguata (semmai ci fosse), perché l’alcol è sempre un tempo negativo. Ma è anche la nostra geografia a parlare, appunto.
"Vino e birra sono per gli amici, ma i distillati sono per il bevitore solitario".
La rivelazione (eppure il nostro avrebbe dovuto essere sbronzo) di questo parco 2024. Un libro che va giù come un Sauvignon. Prosit.
"Com'è diventata universale la configurazione del bar. È una chiesa con avamposti governati da pochi principi pratici. Lo sgabello, lo specchio, i calici appesi per lo stelo, i sottobicchieri, la carta da parati scelta presso fornitori di imprese funebri. Ovunque siano sorti questi tempietti - che procurano una felicità maledetta persino negli insediamenti dell'entroterra di Papua - e ovunque essi esistano, il culto dell'ebbrezza si annuncia con le hit del momento, gli schermi che trasmettono partite di calcio lontane, le incredibili trovate in bottiglia, discendenti dell'al-kuhl degli alchimisti e dei chimici arabi di ottocento anni fa: una sublimazione del minerale stibnite destinata a formare solfuro di antimonio, polvere fine da usare come antisettico e eyeliner. Fu la finezza del kohl in polvere a evocare la finezza dell'alcol distillato, come affermano certi lessicografi? O fu la sublimazione dello «spirito» della stibnite in quella polvere a suggerire l'associazione? Sia come sia, in posti come questo ci rintaniamo per gran parte del tempo dimenticando quello che siamo. Accendo una sigaretta e mi chiedo se sia ancora permesso - anche qui a Beirut -, poi mi sciolgo come una goccia di pioggia nel vodka Martini".
"In altri paesi si beve per ubriacarsi - scrive Roland Barthes - e tutti lo dicono apertamente; in Francia l'ubriachezza è una conseguenza, mai un'intenzione. Un bicchiere è percepito come il dispiegarsi di un piacere, non come la causa necessaria di un effetto desiderato. Il vino non è solo un filtro, è anche atto durevole del bere. Lo stesso si può dire degli italiani"
Achtung! Summer Wine. Post lungo e acquitrinoso.
Non sento l'esigenza di viaggiare. Amo poco regredire alla fase nomadica. Stanziale di superficie, segno e dna di terra. Ansieggio su bagagli da disfare o lunghe code ai terminal affrontate con mezza giornata d’anticipo. Le carte d'imbarco; l'area Schengen (non è quello il vero Purgatorio?); le perturbazioni; il trolley troppo pesante; "mi scusi, sarebbe il mio posto"; la bottiglietta non è permessa; che ritardo ha accumulato?; "Per motivi di intenso traffico atterreremo a"; dove cazzo sta adesso il parcheggio? Un incubo con lontane radici semantiche: la declinazione inglese 'travel' ha in sé i germi dell'idea di sofferenza. Deriva dal francese 'travailler'. Lavorare. Che a sua volta discende da un particolare forcone a tre punte, usato per le torture. Mi pare tutto molto chiaro. L'ho fatto ovviamente, per qualche lustro. Bello (no, non è vero), ma non fa per me. Come gli indiani d'America non hanno l'enzima per sintetizzare l'alcol io non ho quello per i lunghi spostamenti. Succede. Ma non sono un indiano. Mi piacciono le stazioni dei treni, ecco. Luogo di febbrile e neutra attesa. Poco altro. Salgari non si è mai mosso di casa, per dire (nessun paragone: non ho una Perla di Labuan e non mi sono ancora sgozzato. Più facile la seconda).
Insomma: viajar descanta, ma se te parti mona te torni mona. Con un sovrappiù di fatica da smaltire. Detto questo, e per introdurre il gran libro di Lawrence Osborne (sempiterna stima a Nicoló Lovat per il consiglio): non amo viaggiare ma mi piace bere. Bene, aggiungerei. Mai nascosto. Il giusto, intendo. O qualcosina in più. Guerre, alleanze e amori si stappano e strappano con un calice alzato. La mia fortuna è stata cominciare in tarda età, tralasciando tutto l’adolescenziale aplomb da sciocco maudit che, in genere, accompagna l'iniziazione. La Batida al cocco, i gin gusto Nelsen Piatti, i rum&cola dimmerda degli anni Ottanta e Novanta, i vini killer nel tetrapak. Ecco, per qualche fortuita combinazione e una gran botta di culo tutto questo l'ho evitato. Paraphernalia da strapazzo, sovente idealizzata da mezzi figuri che ingurgita(va)no e basta. Se non si è Connery (shakerato, non mescolato. E il motivo c’è) o Bogart è meglio lasciar perdere tutta l'iconografia da poveracci di 'alcol è bello, sono artista, senti quanto soffro'. Vaccate. Non ce l'ha fatta Ernest Hemingway, figuriamoci noi poveri stronzi. È bello se lo gusti, lo cavalchi, se non ti tavernellizzi o non vaneggi mescite biodinamiche dal tuo ristorantino feng shui. Approcciare un bicchiere è come sporgersi da un precipizio: ci metti il naso, non tutta la tua vita. Mentre bevi sei più propenso ad ascoltare le altre, di esistenze. Ti giungono a sprazzi dai tavoli, per osmosi di conversazioni. Prede dei nostri ‘spiriti’: struggenti, fuori luogo e perduti. Empatia liquida, cut-up e frammenti di logos pucciati nel bicchiere.
Lawrence Osborne è un grandissimo scrittore (mi dicono 'Bangkok' sia incredibile. Sto rimediando), penna dotata che affronta tutto questo con disarmante lucidità, prima di condurti in un altrove asettico. Una geografia poco malleabile (per lui lo spostamento è essenziale, quello che illustra il nostro peso specifico è la distanza che siamo disposti a percorrere), nella quale non si vergogna di ammettere - lui, alcolista - il 'disagio di essere sobrio' - in un Medio Oriente ostile e al limite, quasi sfidandolo. A Surakarta, per esempio: 600.000 persone e non un solo locale che venda alcolici ('mi sembra la ricetta della follia', scrive). Luogo dove Imam Samudra, ovvero uno dei tre giustiziati per l'attentato di Bali, disse alla CNN di 'aver fatto bene a massacrare bevitori nei bar'.
'Soltanto in mezzo agli astemi ti rendi conto di quanto sei in debito con le chimiche dell'alcol' aggiunge, mentre cerca una catarsi illustrando le differenze di percezione storico-religiosa dei distillati, tra Occidente e Oriente. Nel cattolicesimo il vino è essenziale. Liturgia liquida: “prendete e bevetene tutti”. Assolti dal principio, si ascende al cielo tramite Bacco ingurgitando Dio. Un casino, vero? Dionisiaci nostro malgrado ma con un crudele senso del peccato a sottendere. La Bibbia riporta il termine 'vino' 224 volte, il Corano tre. Anche per questo in Arabia Saudita il ricovero per consumo di eau de toilette è all'ordine del giorno: non trovando alcolici si ubriacano bevendo profumo. Essenza di peccatore molecolare.
Osborne centellina morale e (pre)giudizio con consapevolezza. Non beatifica e non innalza romanticismi, sa che i liquidi a gradazione alcolica possono essere un canto fatuo, una piaga; altresì vero che una società nella quale sono totalmente banditi ha qualcosa che la rende fuori fuoco. Bere non è la libertà, ma non si può fermare, perché è l'ora d'aria di questa lunga prigione; la bracciata socializzante in una piscina malmostosa. O il rumore elettrico della zanzara che - ignara e assetata, perché così deve fare - va a bruciarsi.
Fanno più paura devianze come la Cherry Coke o un tè alla menta che necessita di mille ohm e due ore di preparazione rispetto a un Lagrein come Iddio comanda. Meglio una serata con un oste che suggerisce due bottiglie mentre mi parla della Jugoplastika al posto di un sette stelle a Dubai con la minerale da 40 euro e il water condizionato. Un buon Americano, non tisanella rilassante al tarassaco. Il problema non è bere (vivo in Veneto, entità liquida. Ne ho visti parecchi ammazzarsi di metanolo), il problema è riuscire a farlo nella maniera adeguata (semmai ci fosse), perché l’alcol è sempre un tempo negativo. Ma è anche la nostra geografia a parlare, appunto.
"Vino e birra sono per gli amici, ma i distillati sono per il bevitore solitario".
La rivelazione (eppure il nostro avrebbe dovuto essere sbronzo) di questo parco 2024. Un libro che va giù come un Sauvignon. Prosit.
"Com'è diventata universale la configurazione del bar. È una chiesa con avamposti governati da pochi principi pratici. Lo sgabello, lo specchio, i calici appesi per lo stelo, i sottobicchieri, la carta da parati scelta presso fornitori di imprese funebri. Ovunque siano sorti questi tempietti - che procurano una felicità maledetta persino negli insediamenti dell'entroterra di Papua - e ovunque essi esistano, il culto dell'ebbrezza si annuncia con le hit del momento, gli schermi che trasmettono partite di calcio lontane, le incredibili trovate in bottiglia, discendenti dell'al-kuhl degli alchimisti e dei chimici arabi di ottocento anni fa: una sublimazione del minerale stibnite destinata a formare solfuro di antimonio, polvere fine da usare come antisettico e eyeliner. Fu la finezza del kohl in polvere a evocare la finezza dell'alcol distillato, come affermano certi lessicografi? O fu la sublimazione dello «spirito» della stibnite in quella polvere a suggerire l'associazione? Sia come sia, in posti come questo ci rintaniamo per gran parte del tempo dimenticando quello che siamo. Accendo una sigaretta e mi chiedo se sia ancora permesso - anche qui a Beirut -, poi mi sciolgo come una goccia di pioggia nel vodka Martini".
"In altri paesi si beve per ubriacarsi - scrive Roland Barthes - e tutti lo dicono apertamente; in Francia l'ubriachezza è una conseguenza, mai un'intenzione. Un bicchiere è percepito come il dispiegarsi di un piacere, non come la causa necessaria di un effetto desiderato. Il vino non è solo un filtro, è anche atto durevole del bere. Lo stesso si può dire degli italiani"
September 21, 2015
The Wet and the Dry is a collection of travel essays which thoughtfully examine the socially fraught role of alcohol in predominately Muslim cities in North Africa, Southern Asia, and the Middle East. Underlying the modern, increasingly hostile, official attitude towards drink, is a deep history of ancient traditions and colonial influence.
Osbourne’s writing takes us from the bars in once prestigious and elegant hotels, such as the Pera Palace in Istanbul and the Windsor Hotel in Cairo, to the malls and Mariotts of Oman and Dubai. He interviews Christian wine makers in Lebanon and contemplates the Dionysian cults of Greece and the wider Mediterranean.
The conclusion seems to be that a country’s tolerance of alcohol says much about its tolerance of other cultures and that the decline of a country’s bar scene is an indicator of a failure of cosmopolitanism and cultural harmony. An interesting theory and as good an excuse as any for writing such a good book about travel and booze.
Osbourne’s writing takes us from the bars in once prestigious and elegant hotels, such as the Pera Palace in Istanbul and the Windsor Hotel in Cairo, to the malls and Mariotts of Oman and Dubai. He interviews Christian wine makers in Lebanon and contemplates the Dionysian cults of Greece and the wider Mediterranean.
The conclusion seems to be that a country’s tolerance of alcohol says much about its tolerance of other cultures and that the decline of a country’s bar scene is an indicator of a failure of cosmopolitanism and cultural harmony. An interesting theory and as good an excuse as any for writing such a good book about travel and booze.
September 17, 2013
Wandering through the Islamic world, where there exists a complicated relationship with alcohol, and there are places where a bar can be illegal, the author takes the journey hoping “to dry himself out of his alcoholic excesses.” The narrative is a mixed bag of travelogue, history of local liquors, and some memoir-like introspection. There are times when you realize he definitely must have been wasted when he wrote certain sections, and as the reader you become the amused friend watching while the drunken friend philosophizes on the meaning of life. It’s no big reveal that he does not entirely succeed in his quest to sober up, but he does manage a better understanding of his own relationship to alcohol.
October 13, 2013
Osborne reveals on page one that he is a drinker. A big drinker. Possibly an alcoholic. And his people are also all big drinkers. Possibly alcoholics.
So where does this big drinker (possibly alcoholic) decide to go? Spots on Earth where people are forbidden to drink.
A bit baffling as to why this choice of travel venues, but it makes for a tense, brilliantly written story. The stories Osborne shares along the way that are inspired by the venues are also tense and brilliantly written.
An unexpected delight.
So where does this big drinker (possibly alcoholic) decide to go? Spots on Earth where people are forbidden to drink.
A bit baffling as to why this choice of travel venues, but it makes for a tense, brilliantly written story. The stories Osborne shares along the way that are inspired by the venues are also tense and brilliantly written.
An unexpected delight.
February 7, 2021
A more accurate title could be ‘getting drunk in the hotels and brothels of countries were alcohol is mostly forbidden’ Very good writing style devoted to give voice to a deep sense a colonial superiority, misogyny and snobbery. The vast majority of women depicted in the book are hookers, the only interesting muslims are millionaire drinkers... such a brilliant use of the words could have a better purpose
April 26, 2013
I was getting agitated with him calling the hookers in some parts of the world, "slutty." I think he needs to educate himself on why women (and men) sell sex, especially in places like Thailand. Do your research - many are trafficked.
Some stories were alright - the rest of the time he came off as arrogant and smug.
Some stories were alright - the rest of the time he came off as arrogant and smug.
September 15, 2014
I haven't read a book full of really good sentences in a while, so I begin by celebrating Osborne's honest, clear, sometimes acerbic, always excellent voice. The Wet and the Dry: A Drinker's Journey is a sometimes infuriating, sometimes devastating, sometimes provoking, generally brilliant book which the New York TImes called "surprising and dark and excellent."
I completely agree.
I completely agree.
October 12, 2014
You know when you read Hunter S. Thompson, you get a little feel for all how out of his gourd on drugs he is? How crazy, insane, just messed up he is and how out of sync with the world around him. And despite all that or maybe because if it, he can and does make some incredible observations about human nature and our civilization?
Yeah, this is the opposite of that.
Yeah, this is the opposite of that.
July 19, 2025
Osborne is an author I only discovered this year, and I really had a good time with the two fictional accounts he wrote. In both books, not a whole lot actually happened, but the tension and dread were cranked up piano-wire tight in both books, which isn't so easy to do. So now I've turned to his nonfiction and felt an equal sense of dread weighing down on me: Crikey, is this guy going to make it to the end of the book before his liver gives out?
Such an odd but rewarding book:
He's very observant, when he's sober, often quite funny and a student of human nature. He seems to make friends easily, even with Islamic fundamentalists who invite him out for coffee to discuss the error of his ways.
So a lot of the book describes his adventures in Muslim lands, where he indeed sometimes goes without alcohol for a couple of days, but not for lack of trying. In his own way, he's as on as earnest a quest as a religious pilgrim or extreme athlete, enduring trials most of us would consider unthinkable to achieve rewards few of us would covet.
How he manages to write is a complete mystery, but in this book, as with his novels, there is a keen intelligence underlying the endeavor. He lived in Brooklyn for ten years and frequented a dive called Montero's. In describing New York, he is the Yin to E. B. White's Yang:
Such an odd but rewarding book:
He wanted to know what I was doing in Islamabad.Osborne talks about alcoholism the way other people talk about freckles or knobby knees. At the same time, he occasionally feels the need to dry out, and he's found the best way to do this is to wash up on a beach in Oman or someplace similar, surviving on morning swims and fruit juice until he's ready to drink again. But the odd thing is, even here -- and yes, even in Islamabad -- he finds people willing to sell him booze, and often a drinking buddy as well. The desire to drink seems to be almost universal within the human species, though there's a wide spectrum of enthusiasm.
"I came," I said, also whispering, "to see if I could get drunk here."
He looked panicked. "Are you serious? Get drunk in Islamabad?"
I admitted that getting my visa in New York had certainly been an ordeal. Weeks of questions, delays and paranoia inside the Pakistani embassy in D.C.
My guest laughed. "Yes, I see. They thought you were a visiting alcoholic."
"I am a visiting alcoholic," I said.
He's very observant, when he's sober, often quite funny and a student of human nature. He seems to make friends easily, even with Islamic fundamentalists who invite him out for coffee to discuss the error of his ways.
So a lot of the book describes his adventures in Muslim lands, where he indeed sometimes goes without alcohol for a couple of days, but not for lack of trying. In his own way, he's as on as earnest a quest as a religious pilgrim or extreme athlete, enduring trials most of us would consider unthinkable to achieve rewards few of us would covet.
How he manages to write is a complete mystery, but in this book, as with his novels, there is a keen intelligence underlying the endeavor. He lived in Brooklyn for ten years and frequented a dive called Montero's. In describing New York, he is the Yin to E. B. White's Yang:
Montero's was cheap and dangerous, and they served Vodka Cherry Bombs for three dollars. It seemed to be open all the time, which a bar should be. It looked like the boudoir of a disorganized Spanish madam. The women there were wonderful authentic sluts, a type that has been eradicated from the city by the police commissars who have so boldly improved all our lives by making our neighborhoods safe for Chihuahuas and homemakers.But he also writes frankly of days, weeks, months of his life that simply seem to have disappeared. He realizes the "nectar of Satan" (I'm going to remember that phrase) takes away at least as much as it gives, but he's made his choice and he's happy with it. It's selfish of me, I realize, but if this is what it takes to get great books written, then hell, I'll buy the next round.
October 8, 2025
Lawrence Osborne’s The Wet and the Dry is one of the funniest and saddest books I’ve read about drinking. It’s about a man who tries to dry up by doing the most counterintuitive thing imaginable — travelling to places where alcohol is either forbidden or impossibly hard to get. His attempt at self-denial becomes a kind of farce: the scene where he’s racing around Oman trying to find a bottle of champagne an hour before midnight to celebrate the New Year with his partner is both absurd and hilarious.
But beneath the humour, the book is deeply biographical and quietly tragic. Osborne links drinking to poverty, loneliness, and the slow collapse of the self. The sections set in Pakistan and SouthernThailand are shocking — you can feel the suffocating repression, the way people live double lives. He doesn’t shy away from calling out the hypocrisy of overzealous moralists who publicly condemn drinking but privately indulge in both alcohol and vice.
I also learned things I never knew — that alcohol isn’t, in fact, universally banned in Muslim cultures, and that prohibition in many places is a relatively recent, politically motivated phenomenon.
I especially loved the parts where Osborne reflects on the classical roots of drinking — his references to the poet Pindar and the history of how wine was gifted by the god Dionysus in Ikaria bring an unexpected beauty and erudition to the book . They remind you that the desire to drink — to celebrate, to forget, to turn the rot and fermentation of grapes into beauty — is as old as civilisation itself.
What gives the book its emotional core, though, is Osborne’s grief. The passages in Constantinople and Egypt, where he reflects on his recently departed mother — herself a heavy drinker — are moving, poetic, and filled with a sense of inherited melancholy. It’s a book about addiction, yes, but also about mourning and the impossibility of escape from one’s own nature.
It’s strange to think that at the time Osborne wrote this, he wasn’t yet the acclaimed novelist and screen-adapted author he is today. You can feel that restless intelligence here — the talent of a man searching for meaning, and perhaps for a way to make sense of both his thirst and his art.
But beneath the humour, the book is deeply biographical and quietly tragic. Osborne links drinking to poverty, loneliness, and the slow collapse of the self. The sections set in Pakistan and SouthernThailand are shocking — you can feel the suffocating repression, the way people live double lives. He doesn’t shy away from calling out the hypocrisy of overzealous moralists who publicly condemn drinking but privately indulge in both alcohol and vice.
I also learned things I never knew — that alcohol isn’t, in fact, universally banned in Muslim cultures, and that prohibition in many places is a relatively recent, politically motivated phenomenon.
I especially loved the parts where Osborne reflects on the classical roots of drinking — his references to the poet Pindar and the history of how wine was gifted by the god Dionysus in Ikaria bring an unexpected beauty and erudition to the book . They remind you that the desire to drink — to celebrate, to forget, to turn the rot and fermentation of grapes into beauty — is as old as civilisation itself.
What gives the book its emotional core, though, is Osborne’s grief. The passages in Constantinople and Egypt, where he reflects on his recently departed mother — herself a heavy drinker — are moving, poetic, and filled with a sense of inherited melancholy. It’s a book about addiction, yes, but also about mourning and the impossibility of escape from one’s own nature.
It’s strange to think that at the time Osborne wrote this, he wasn’t yet the acclaimed novelist and screen-adapted author he is today. You can feel that restless intelligence here — the talent of a man searching for meaning, and perhaps for a way to make sense of both his thirst and his art.
October 10, 2025
Il libro si propone come reportage attraverso Paesi a maggioranza musulmana, dove l’alcol è vietato o fortemente regolato. Tuttavia, più che offrire uno sguardo profondo o rispettoso, il testo scivola spesso in stereotipi e giudizi velati da un senso di superiorità culturale.
L'autore descrive la chiamata alla preghiera con il verbo "berciare", termine dal chiaro tono dispregiativo che riduce una pratica religiosa a rumore molesto. In più punti, il Pakistan (Islamabad) viene rappresentato come luogo perennemente attraversato da bombe e guardie armate, creando un’immagine sproporzionatamente allarmista e lontana dall’esperienza reale di chi conosce e ha vissuto il Paese. Questa narrazione selettiva alimenta una percezione distorta e stigmatizzante del mondo musulmano.
Inoltre, l’uso dell’espressione “una trans” per riferirsi a una donna trans rivela un linguaggio ormai inaccettabile, che manca di rispetto verso l’identità di genere e contribuisce a rafforzare pregiudizi.
Ho letto il libro in italiano, quindi non posso dire con certezza se alcuni problemi risiedano solo nella traduzione. Tuttavia, se la traduzione è fedele, allora certe scelte linguistiche e rappresentazioni problematiche sono chiaramente presenti anche nell’originale.
In definitiva, più che un viaggio culturale, questo libro si presenta come un'esplorazione superficiale e coloniale travestita da curiosità antropologica.
L'autore descrive la chiamata alla preghiera con il verbo "berciare", termine dal chiaro tono dispregiativo che riduce una pratica religiosa a rumore molesto. In più punti, il Pakistan (Islamabad) viene rappresentato come luogo perennemente attraversato da bombe e guardie armate, creando un’immagine sproporzionatamente allarmista e lontana dall’esperienza reale di chi conosce e ha vissuto il Paese. Questa narrazione selettiva alimenta una percezione distorta e stigmatizzante del mondo musulmano.
Inoltre, l’uso dell’espressione “una trans” per riferirsi a una donna trans rivela un linguaggio ormai inaccettabile, che manca di rispetto verso l’identità di genere e contribuisce a rafforzare pregiudizi.
Ho letto il libro in italiano, quindi non posso dire con certezza se alcuni problemi risiedano solo nella traduzione. Tuttavia, se la traduzione è fedele, allora certe scelte linguistiche e rappresentazioni problematiche sono chiaramente presenti anche nell’originale.
In definitiva, più che un viaggio culturale, questo libro si presenta come un'esplorazione superficiale e coloniale travestita da curiosità antropologica.
January 19, 2019
I had high hopes for this book, but it felt like a long slog. It was very well written, but perhaps I wasn't enough of a knowledgeable or enthusiastic drinker for this tome to hold my attention. I read it one painstaking chapter at a time.
The author details his journeys into mostly Middle Eastern countries (including Pakistan, Egypt, Lebanon) to try their alcohols and learn about the drinking culture there. Often the drinking culture existed and was thriving, but was repressed or underground. He found various locals to talk to him about their beliefs and tested their convictions by ordering drinks in places where locals may not have been able to. The author clearly has a passion for drink and the subject—he's not merely a drunk on parade—he delves into the history and literature surrounding various regional wines and spirits and peppers that throughout his narrative. He visits a vodka-maker in Pakistan and a winery in Egypt. He also delves into his own culture (British) and his mother's (Irish) as they related to drink, his favorite pubs back home, what made them so great, and how, through colonialism, they spread their love of drink to the far flung corners of the Earth-to places where it's enjoyed but not socially accepted.
The author details his journeys into mostly Middle Eastern countries (including Pakistan, Egypt, Lebanon) to try their alcohols and learn about the drinking culture there. Often the drinking culture existed and was thriving, but was repressed or underground. He found various locals to talk to him about their beliefs and tested their convictions by ordering drinks in places where locals may not have been able to. The author clearly has a passion for drink and the subject—he's not merely a drunk on parade—he delves into the history and literature surrounding various regional wines and spirits and peppers that throughout his narrative. He visits a vodka-maker in Pakistan and a winery in Egypt. He also delves into his own culture (British) and his mother's (Irish) as they related to drink, his favorite pubs back home, what made them so great, and how, through colonialism, they spread their love of drink to the far flung corners of the Earth-to places where it's enjoyed but not socially accepted.
September 3, 2019
A beautifully written book harking back to a style of writing that is difficult to find nowadays. I have noted that many readers like to comapre Lawrence Osborne to Graham Greene, but I myself find him more in the mould of Somerset Maugham.
It is also a very interesting theme - as the author travels from bar to bar in the Middle East, he describes the bars themselves, the history of alcohol in the Muslim countries, as well as alcohol's eternal appeal both to himself and to humanity.
Ranging from Dubai, Lebanon, Turkey to Egypt, New York, Milan, Abu Dhabi, Oman and Solo in Java, Osborne presents a short pastiche of each location and his association with its hotels and bars, and carries the reader along with his musings on an array of different subjects on his itinerant jourrney.
It is also a very interesting theme - as the author travels from bar to bar in the Middle East, he describes the bars themselves, the history of alcohol in the Muslim countries, as well as alcohol's eternal appeal both to himself and to humanity.
Ranging from Dubai, Lebanon, Turkey to Egypt, New York, Milan, Abu Dhabi, Oman and Solo in Java, Osborne presents a short pastiche of each location and his association with its hotels and bars, and carries the reader along with his musings on an array of different subjects on his itinerant jourrney.
August 25, 2022
Titlul și coperta cărți m-au dus puțin în eroare și mi-au creat alte așteptări dar și așa tot a fost o experiență grozava sa o citesc. Inițial am crezut că abordează probleme legate de băutură dar din primele paginii îți dai seama că este vorba despre scurte povestiri mai exact cum a evoluat consumul de alcool in anumite țări istoria lui. Autorul călătorește prin diferite locuri din lume predominat fiind asia și mai cu seamă cultura musulmană unde consumul de alcool este interzis de religie cea ce m-a pus puțin pe gânduri deoarece în creștinism pare mai degrabă promovat ne fiind o problemă consumul lui. Abordarea autorului este interesanta înbinand istoria locală cu istoria consumului de alcool și cu întâmplări personale.
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