Bantermarket Blog

I sort of picked this up on a whim with the intention of making whisky sauce to go with chicken. Haven’t done that yet but I’m on my second bottle of the stuff. Egyptian whisky doesn’t have a great rep, but you really can’t argue for the price: about £2.50 for 750ml. Instructively I note it’s only slightly more than half the cost of the same volume of most wines here. Looks like I’ve picked the right languages to study, doesn’t it. Who’s laughing now. Anyway, the bottle is a standard Bolanachi offering with the great old-style Arabic displaying awards etc., the only English is the name and the short company description. Props that they’ve managed to spell ‘whisky’ correctly unlike many native English speakers who put an e in it. 24.50 LE, 40% ABV.

Pale brown colour. Fairly viscous. It smells good. Sweet, heathery, quite mild. Minty, even.

I drink it with a drap of water. It’s surprisingly not bad at all. Much like the smell, it’s sweet, very heathery. Not an overpowering flavour. The aftertaste, especially surprisingly, is quite pleasant, there’s more heathery sweetness and you’re not aware of the strength. A winner.

Astonishingly and incredibly good for the price. It works out about 20p for a stiff glass. Even if it was barely palatable, that would be pretty good. As it is, I’m bowled over. This has to be some of the best lash-cash ratio yet (MAAATE). Good with soda water as other blends, but I drink it straight – it’s really that good. Whisky is probably the only drink I’m at all picky about, so it’s especially notable that this passes muster. 8/10.

In which our hero is introduced, and tosses a beer can into the eternal river

I am a postmodern anti-hero in an age grown weary and decadent. I am proud of that sentence and have written it in permanent marker on my un-washed inner left thigh. My dependable friend Pearson helped me with the task. He had once attended a calligraphy workshop in Brick Lane.

I am a man of ritual. After a long night’s meditation over multiple cans of Carlsberg Special Brew on a damp Southwark pavement, I gather my torn corduroy trousers about my hairy shins and slouch moodily towards the Thames southern embankment. There, before the eternal river that once set galleys on their winding passage to the far Indies, I watch my crushed can of Special Brew trace a graceful arc – winking as it catches the new sun scaling the height of the Gherkin – and fall in with the river’s course, flowing into darkest Essex. Next, I grip the balustrade and yawn mournfully; another day closer to liver sclerosis and a worldwide nuclear stand-off. But I shall go on: draining cans of fortified lager and conversing with myself by night, badgering passers-by for a spare few quid to buy chips by day. I am Lance, Gentleman Shapeshifter. And I am London – both ancient and soiled.

I am a man of anecdotes. I watch things. Sometimes I remember them. Once I had a pen and a slim ruled notebook in which to preserve them. Then I lost the notebook. Then I lost the pen. Now I play freely with detail and dwell on unpleasantries both real and invented. I am heir to an oral tradition, with an unpublishable credit rating. I have scrawled that last sentence on my right inner high, with the same permanent marker, for the sake of symmetry. Pearson helped.

On a mid-week afternoon in mid October – how warm that month was, perked us all up – I was sat in a Samuel Smith’s public house in a cobbled armpit of Soho, sipping a cloudy pint of Old Brewery Bitter. Young professionals were leaving work early that day; the interior was soon thick with monochrome ties, off-the-peg suits, and egregious chat about ‘what Dave did last Friday that was bare jokes’. I stared wearily into my beer; it had lost all its flavour – as had life. I pictured myself atop a cloud, skudding through the sunlit heavens, drunkenly lobbing lightning bolts down upon the insufferable pond-life that insisted on patronising London’s older drinking establishments. Don’t they have All Bar Ones to go to?

Ticking with rage, I left the pub, with a mind to quell my sorrows in a fried chicken meal deal south of the river. Instead I stumbled around Soho, unable to find an exit, leering into the windows of Adult book shops and throwing coins at women. Pretty swiftly, or so it seemed – my mind had begun to swirl in a double vortex of rage and inebriation – I was ensconced in a police cell, clutching my head. They had stolen the packet of Quavers I had saved for breakfast, and my Picnic bar.

Such an incident is common in the life of an honest Londoner. This eternal city, the erstwhile haunt of William Blake and Samuel Johnson, has been stolen from us – by a well-scrubbed army of contemptible office-bodies with a fondness for milky coffee and music festivals in parks. The mayor fails to return the inky scrawls I post to him weekly, as does Peter Ackroyd and the Bishop of London.

Did I mention that I could shift shapes, like a modern-day Proteus with a taste for 9% lager? Impossible, surely? I shall have to elaborate – later, in a future post. Ta-ta.

How does one define that which cannot be defined? The answer is don’t try, just have a tin of Super T and some L&Bs.

Hamidu’s still shafted when it comes to the lineup: ‘The lobotomised smack-head! That’s the one who said wahid-adik ayar fi sadrak repeatedly!’ ‘Ohh, HIM.’

I recall vividly one encounter we had in the pub in Deir az-Zur with a traveller from the Najd. He informed us – rather more eloquently in Arabic than I am about to describe in English, of course – that the true measure of an individual is his or her ability to represent the ancestors, to generate ideas about the world and its formative history, and more specifically to suggest links between the various different cultural, religious and linguistic modalities which have shaped by means of understanding them thoroughly: acquiring a deep knowledge of their customs, traditions and expressions. And using tricolon and other rhetorical devices wherever possible. There was something quite uniquely memorable about being told this by a real proper Arabian Arab on tour, toking eagerly on his ripoff Gauloise and grasping a goblet of cheap “araq, clad in his thawb, sleeves yellow with sweat, his kufiyya with one half of its folds draped from his left cheek over his neckline and past his shoulder, wafting along with the stale smoke this way and that as he gesticulated vaguely while mentioning support for his points found in the attitudes and oral traditions of the desert peoples. Great times.

But anyway, civilisations, one might suppose, are a little like that. The true measure, some may say, by a macrocosm from this notion, of the seemingly majestic pharaonic civilisation is that it left behind none of its philosophic or political ideas, its literature or its religion for posterity until we rediscovered these by means of epigraphic evidence. Really? Or does this enigmatic ‘true measure’ of a civilisation lie, arguably, in its popular culture? Average Egyptians, who are found in numbers even here in the capital, demonstrate relatively few sharp breaks in their common culture between now and the deepest mists of early history. That’s a bold statement, and it’s one of the many things we’re here to discuss in this new section of the blog. We write some ideas imbued with customary stylistic flourishes (or vice-versa) and you, dear reader, ponder whether that’s how you’d interpret it. Where is the legacy of antiquity and the Middle Ages now in the modern societies of Britain and Egypt? Was Ibn al-‘Arabi right when he preached the Oneness of Being? Was Averroes a champion of philosophic enlightenment or a Salafi on a unique form of jihad? Why does it cost 10 LE for a pack of Rothmans these days? Young Muhammad strolling along Harun ar-Rashid street might ponder these crucial questions as well, but he always takes solace in a glass of zibib and a cheap spliff, keeping God – who is the same, unchanging, for ever – in his mind. But then, he might not ponder them and just get smacked out his tits instead. Thus spake the LORD thy God from the heights: ‘YER A JAAAKE.’

‘DON’T PUT YOUR HAND DOWN THE URINAL DRAIN YA BASHA I LEAVE MY SYRINGES IN THERE TO KEEP THEM CLEAN’

Bought from Cheers off the internet (I know, it’s brilliant). It’s made from Bannati grapes from Upper Egypt, which made me especially keen to try it. These are the kind of small, extremely sweet grapes you see being sold on the streets. Pretty unremarkable bottle again, quite a nice design on the front and English and Arabic on the back. 50 LE. Standard 12.5% ABV.

A vivid lemony-strawy colour. For once the tasting notes appear to have been written about the same wine, it does indeed smell like melon. A hint of honey sweetness. The only problem is that the smell is very distinctive: if you have a glass with your dinner and go for a shisha, people will still be able to tell immediately that you’ve had a drink even if you have a mint or some chewing gum. I mean, I don’t really care, but this kind of rules it out for a night out unless you’re alright with potentially getting rage off a taxi driver for being undeniably smashed.

Anyway, quite an obvious appley flavour. This would be great with a water pipe I imagine. Sweet, as I suppose you might expect. Lemony. It’s quite full-flavoured. Great with curry or spicy food. Or probably with fish I imagine, although I’ve yet to try this.

This goes down a dream, I love it. And I’m not usually mad on white wine. Guilt-free, too – it’s organic, and made by Copts. Fairly good value I think because you’d definitely pay quite a bit more than this for a wine this good at home. So Beausoliel white is quite highly recommended. 8/10.

This’ll be my last post for about a month until I’m back from my holidays at the end of January. In the meantime, !صحة

Another Bolanachi brandy. This one might be a bit better, I hoped. The label itself is exclusively Arabic except for the name in English/French. Probably a good sign, in that it doesn’t have any pretensions. As an aside, and don’t tell the filth you heard it here, this would be a fantastic candidate for taking slightly more than your legally permitted allowance into Britain because the volume and ABV are only written in Arabic. Even if your bags are searched and even if then the customs officials can read Arabic letters and numbers, you can feign ignorance as if you were the stereotypical nauseating expat prick. The perfect victimless crime: fuck you Nicola Sturgeon you fun-sponging bitch! 18LE. 33% ABV.

Ahem. It does look a lot better than Vat 20. There’s that appealing mahogany colour even when you pour a fairly small glass. The aroma is quite rich, though equally different from the other brandies: it’s grainy and slightly bitter, only vaguely cinnamony. Leafy, heathery, even. Not all that unlike some kinds of Highland malt whisky actually I might say.

The taste is definitely palatable. It’s quite grainy like the smell, in fact. And again, a bit pleasantly bitter. Not fruity. Really quite different from the other two brandies I’ve supped so far. Perhaps even herby and heathery like the smell? It also has a bit of that waxy quality that I mentioned in conjunction with the zibib that we’d associate with Clynelish whisky. Definitely slightly reminiscent of a Highland malt whisky, I think. Problem is there’s still a wee bit of the ‘ughhh’ sensation like Vat 20 or Bell’s, yuck.

The best of the brandies so far. 1884 has about the same courage of flavour as Vat 20, yet also less of the unpleasant shuddery grain alcohol taste. So I reckon it beats both Vat 20 and Vieille Recolte at their own games. Some of the greatest value yet. It’s decent on its own, and quite good as well mixed with cola, orange juice, mirinda, whatever. I’ve taken to mixing it with Mountain Dew: get a pint glass, pour about 100ml of brandy and a can of Mountain Dew into it, mix, and enjoy. It’s a suprisingly very tasty result, and even after one of those I’m pretty buzzing. When I bring brandy back home from KHEgypt, this’ll be the one. 6/10.

My third dry red from Gianaclis. This one is a bit more expensive, indeed it goes over my usual £4.50 a bottle limit (lad). 2009. The front label looks like any old shitty overpriced French red. You’d probably pay £15 a bottle for this if it were French and sold in Britain. But there’s equal Arabic on the back and it’s mis en bouteille blahblahblah Gianaclis. Carignan-Grenache. Pretty good combination of grapes I reckon, this way the normally headache-inducing tannins of Carignan are mollified somewhat. Anyway, don’t care, 55 LE, 12.5% ABV

Even less viscous that Omar Khayyam. Probably to do with the grapes, and it’s not stronger alcohol-wise. It has a delicious aroma. Damson, chocolate, and a definite vanilla undertone. A wonderful countryside fruit smell I associate with sitting in some taverna without a care in the world. Yes, it definitely brings back a lot of memories.

It’s quite watery in the sense that you can drink it quickly, but conversely the flavour is quite deep and complex if you take your time over a glass. And at £5.50 a bottle on a 22-year-old’s budget, I should hope you’d take your time over it. Not very tanniny, which is a bit of a relief actually. Berries, a bit of a blackcurrant flavour, a bit of spice, chocolate, vanilla. Mmm, yes. Soft. All sorts of fairly common red wine flavours really, though quite perfectly balanced. I might even recommend this to a double-breasted blazer-wearer were he to find himself in this nightmarish foreign land devoid of Montagé or St Emilion or whatever.

It’s a good wine. Assuming you’re not French, that is. It is about £1.20 more expensive that Omar Khayyam, that yardstick of north African reds (‘euh I SAY, old bean, letting ETHNICS make wine?’), bottle-for-bottle, yes – but certainly worth it once in a while. I think I’ll even bring some home for my mother. 8/10.

One of the (very slightly) cheaper normal-strength wines. Gianaclis, naturally. No picture, you can basically skip this wine altogether I reckon. The bottles are quite nice in a sort of fashionable way, they feature different paintings by current Egyptian artists and serifed upper case English letters. The grape isn’t named, not a good sign, so it’s in this spirit of the loss of the distinctive flavour of an individual grape or classic combination of two that my less than entirely positive opinion on Obelisk ought perhaps to be considered. Think of Omar Khayyam v Obelisk as being like Glenfiddich v Johnny Walker sort of. Something like that, don’t care. 41LE. 12.5% ABV

Looks just like Omar Khayyam really. Smells of red fruit… can I get a bottle of wine please EMM blahblahblah? Aye well this is Sainbury’s Basics cab sauv, classic, it’s a good wine, easy drinking… blahblahblahblah. Anyway, there’s a pleasant slightly herby aroma I’d say but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I don’t think it has a very distinctive taste. Somewhat dry. Red fruit. A little bit tanniny. It could be any old supermarket cab sauv from some nameless Chilean valley, plus an emphasis on the plum flavour. There’s nothing really wrong with that, of course, but when you consider it’s only a teeny bit cheaper than the pretty good Omar Khayyam you sort of wonder why you’re drinking this one.

Definitely not a bad wine. It’s just poor value. You’d expect it to be significantly cheaper than Omar Khayyam, but as the more famous wine is notably better and in the same style yet the equivalent of about 20p more expensive, there’s practically no reason to drink Obelisk. A bit of a shame, I suppose. 5/10.

Long overdue: the fabled ‘black wine’ of the Nile valley. Tonic wine, synonymous for centuries with Coptic celebrations and Saidi tradition, but also with riotous excess from the time of the Pharaohs right down to the present day, is truly Egyptian, yet familiar to us northerners in the form of the much-loved Buckfast. Mentuhotep IV said ‘iirp’; your average Botros ‘Abdel-Massih says ‘nabiz’ – I say ‘let’s get stoated’. I also say ‘I hate the SNP for their restrictions on civil liberties’.

It’s a nice bottle. Arabic in a traditional cursive style on the front, and equal French to make it seem, rather jocularly I think, more ‘civilised’ than it actually is. There’s a drawing of a cherub supine on a wine cask holding up a glass of the good stuff (King Robert from Game of Thrones anyone?). Gianaclis. The French name for this one is another classic, if this is really what Saidis do for altar wine I might start attending Mass in the Coptic Catholic rite. 36 EGP – not bad considering a bottle of Bucky costs about double that these days… and 16% ABV, here we go!

It pours thick, viscous, a deep reddy-black colour. The smell is very full, cinnamony, sickly sweet, cola-y, fruity, strongly alcoholic. Pretty much like Buckfast.

Long story short, it tastes like Buckfast. Extremely sweet. Full-bodied. Cinnamony, spicy. Distinctly reminiscent of cola, but violently alcoholic. As long as you understand that this is a very different (and ancient) style of wine and that it’s only even superficially slightly similar to modern-day pinot noirs or chiantis or whatever, I think this is a good wine. The taste, I think, causes a psychological element in getting you extremely drunk with astounding speed when supping this noble beverage. I limit myself to a couple of small glasses if I’m at home because any more than even that small amount and I start feeling rather frightfully mad wae it. It’s quite nice with blue cheese or gouda, not so much with dinner itself. Best, though, with a few of your pals and a few smokes. A bottle each and you’ll be living the… eh… high life (ahem) in no time.

It’s nice to know that the Buckfast of our hearts has such a venerable progenitor. This original and equally uncomplicated style of sweet strong wine certainly gets you fucked fast (ho-ho-ho) just the same. For all the mewling protestations of the SNP/fools in double-breasted blazers/Guardian and Independent columnists and so on, tonic wine, or whatever you want to call it, is a deeply traditional drink which has been made in a similar way for thousands of years. It has delighted and intoxicated peasants and the urban poor in centuries past, as well as Pharaohs, Caliphs, Popes, Sultans and Kings just as much, and now it does the same for us. God bless black wine! May Alex Salmond rot in the ninth circle of Hell. 9/10.

We cruised into Drinkie’s near Korba on Friday night, saw this and practically shat ourselves with surprise. ‘This is a new beer?!,’ I asked incredulously. ‘A new beer,’ the man behind the counter replied in a monotone. A new beer, that is, as of only a couple of months ago: I’m part of Egypt’s wheat beer revolution. Or something. Anyway, turns out Sakara Gold does come in bottles, and these Weizen half-litre bottles look practically the same as them. 8.50 each, 4% ABV.

It pours like other wheat beer, but it’s not the same head explosion as Erdinger. A healthy yellowy-brown colour. Slightly transparent, if you have it out of a dimpled pint glass (lad) you can see through it somewhat. The head disappears quite quickly though. Sakara Weizen has a pleasantly mild aroma, a nose of sweet wheat, yeast, banana.

The taste is quite mild as well. It’s wheaty, obviously, and there’s a distinct banana flavour. Not terribly complex. A hint of spice. Not much body, and certainly a bit of spice in the aftertaste. Moderate carbonation, quite refreshing.

Quite a good wheat beer, I think. I’d hesitate to compare with with Luxor Hefeweizen because, as you can tell from the flavours I’ve mentioned, it’s really quite different from it. I could umm and ahh about it for a couple of minutes, but let’s say 8/10.

Another brandy by Bolanachi. The bottle is practically identical to Vat 20 so I’ve not bothered to upload a picture. 550ml costs 22EP, about £2.50ish, so I sort of doubted at first whether there is any ‘harvest’ involved in making this except that of Saudi hydrocarbons to make ethylene. Hmm. ABV 32%.

But the colour at first sight does look better than Vat 20, it’s a richer, darker brown, more like a proper brandy. Similarly it’s a bit more viscous. The aroma is really quite mild though. It doesn’t really smell strongly of anything, which is odd. There are faint aromas of apple I’d say, but it’s really a vous. Peut-etre.

Owing to the strength I don’t add any water, and the taste isn’t great. Slightly sweet. It doesn’t really taste like anything much except alcohol, to be honest. There’s a not-chemical-ness one might detect that Vat 20 definitely doesn’t have, but this comes at the expense of pretty much all other flavour. It’s probably not worth it.

‘Vieille Recolte’ – possibly the most ridiculously-named drink yet – doesn’t seem to be too popular. I can see why. I’ve had the bottle for weeks and have generally avoided drinking it because I think it’s shit. I certainly don’t think it’s worth even the negligible extra cost by Scots standards over Vat 20. Palatable in apple Mirinda though or Pepsi or something, which are the best ways to drink it I reckon. Overall, vaguely passable I suppose, but quite definitely best avoided when you could have Vat 20 instead for cheaper. 3/10.