The trouble with ordering whisky as a woman
We open on a post-apocalyptic landscape. You are roaming through a barren wasteland. It’s been days — or is it weeks? — since you’ve seen another living creature, although the distant howl of mutant coyotes keeps you awake at night. Before you: nothingness. After several hours — or is it days? — you see a cave, in the distance. Refuge. You crawl into it, shivering, grateful. Inside you find a burnt, gnarled old tree trunk. The wood has markings that look almost like… a face. “Hello, friend,” you croak. You know you’re hallucinating, but this fantasy is the only comfort you have. “Whisky, please.”
Suddenly, a man materialises from behind a heap of rubble. “Whoah, cool, a woman drinking whisky!” he exclaims. “You don’t see that very often!”
“Although you can’t have ice with it, that’s sacrile-” POW. You knock him out with a single blast from your sonic ray gun. All is quiet. Fade to black.
It’s ridiculous, in 2019, that we still find cause to begin so many sentences with “it’s ridiculous in 2019” — but here goes: it’s ridiculous, in 2019, that I still can’t buy a drink in a bar without enduring a commentary on it afterwards. Because when ordering whisky while also a woman, that’s what happens. All the time.
You have your classic retro sexists, who believe our throats are too delicate for the burning liquor and our wrists too weak to hold the chunky-bottomed glass. There are the ones who will splutter and guffaw if you try to add water, or soda, or heaven forfend, ginger beer. You meet the odd Brian or Jeremy who’ll look accusing and ask if you actually like the taste, though? Really? As though wincing your way through a £6 Laphroaig is a fair price to pay for their attention, but secretly you’d rather be lapping Echo Falls Summer Berries out of a goldfish bowl. Though of course there’s nothing wrong with that either.
But worse than all of them — or at least more prevalent — is the other type, the man who wants to fawn over what a uniquely rare and special creature you are. Like an exotic bird, flown in to entrance them. Like you learned three chords on a bass guitar to impress them at a house party. “It’s so great to see a girl ordering whisky” they’ll say, proud to let you know your efforts have been noticed and duly appreciated. “Really cool.”
Sometimes they’ll leap over from several feet away to say it. Sometimes you can feel them there, hovering by your elbow, twitching with excitement at spotting a conversational in. Or sometimes it’ll be the bartender who says it, meaning you feel obliged to nod, smile weakly and agree that yes yes, you’re very precious, in order to stop them holding your drink hostage. Sometimes it’s even your friends, chorusing about how hardcore you are (omg so Don Draper!) until the whole thing makes you want to dissolve into the pub carpet.
Because the thing is, I don’t drink whisky because I’m cool. I don’t drink it because I’m hardcore — if anything it’s the opposite. I can’t stomach too much booze. One large glass of wine is enough to leave me breathing deeply with my face against the cool bathroom tiles. After the best part of my twenties was spent queasily navigating my limits, I finally hit on the answer: small, strong drinks. One, maximum two, glasses of something punchy and warming, sipped slowly over the course of the evening. I drink whisky because it agrees with me. But also, yes, because I find it delicious.
“I love the history and heritage of all whiskies. They all have a different story and it’s easy to get carried away with the tales,” says Amy Seton, who owns bar and tasting room The Birmingham Whisky Club, and has been running whisky events and festivals for seven years. An expert in her field, it doesn’t mean she escapes the coos and comments. “Generally, I still get raised eyebrows if I order a whisky at a bar, and mainly if I am with a male friend it will get presented to him,” she says. “I have also been asked, ‘what do you do when a woman walks into your bar?’” The answer? “Give her the menu.”
When I ranted about this on Twitter (of course I ranted about this on Twitter) more stories flowed in. “I have never ordered an old fashioned and not had someone comment that it is a ‘very serious drink for a woman’,” one person lamented (cool fact: the cocktail is so-called because it turns everyone nearby into a braying Victorian). “That attitude can fuck right off,” said drinks writer Melissa Cole. “It’s so patronising and othering, that somehow you’re so different and ‘oh aren’t you brave/kooky/masculine’.”
“It’s weird,” noted my friend Matt. “Women don’t say anything to me when I tell them whisky is yucky and hurts my mouth.”
Perhaps part of the problem is that whisky (or whiskey, if the Irish kind) is still surrounded by a certain mystique and academic posturing, which makes fertile ground for mansplaining. I hear myself apologising — “oh god I’m not an expert or anything…” — as though I ought to have a distillery diploma to be able to order a drink. You don’t get that with most booze. Nobody quizzes you on oak barrels and rum fermentation when you order a mojito. But as with so many everyday sexism battlegrounds, when you drink whisky as a woman you feel duty-bound not to let the side down.
Still, it’s not all wincing and polite smiles. “On a positive side it does generate some great conversations,” says Amy. “One of the best elements is that there seems to be a bit of a secret code between us women whisky drinkers. We’re bound together by this drink that some feel we shouldn’t be drinking. Often will get a knowing look, or a nod of the head.”
And although we shouldn’t have to be whisky experts to enjoy one, any more than Brian and Jeremy should have to explain the hop profile of their lager, I won’t lie — when you can talk confidently about what’s in your glass, it feels good. I’m chuffed when I spot an Oban, a Tobermory or a Glengoyne on the shelf in a bar, and can reminisce about distillery tours. When you can feel the twitchy man by your elbow, bursting with helpful tips, it’s nice to be able to express a preference for a peated single malt, nice and smoky, but without the medicinal tang of an Islay. Unless you’ve got anything Japanese in? With a single ice cube, cheers.
Fine, perhaps whisky does make you a drop pretentious. But if so it’s the patriarchy’s fault, not mine.
