The tale of how I got drunk with the vice president of Panama begins, most perversely, with porn.
Several months ago, an editor at a skin magazine asked me to pen an article on rum. This ain’t strange. Porn mags are packed with stories on sports, video games and booze—even the horniest horndog will tire of gazing at endless pages of theatrically contorted women. This is where I, pardon the pun, come in. The article concerned itself with the rise of rhum agricole, a specialty of the French West Indies fashioned with fresh-pressed sugarcane juice, and aged rums. Taking cues from bourbon and Scotch, rum distillers such as Ron Zacapa and Mount Gay have begun releasing spirits that’ve slumbered in oak barrels for 10, 15 or even 30 years. Instead of being consigned to a piña colada, the heady, complex spirits are served on the rocks or straight up. Continue reading