This piece is part of our new Food Snob series, where Dave Bry takes a closer look at food trends and offers his unwavering verdict.
Snobbery is a slippery word. Few of us would identify ourselves as snobs; it’s a derogatory term with plenty of less derogatory near-synonyms: connoisseur, aficionado, maven, expert.
I for one prefer not to think of myself as a snob in any way. I like to say that I hold to high standards. I am never guilty of snobbery, as I see it (down the length of my nose, over the slight bump at the ridge), only of careful discernment in matters of personal taste.
And yet, here I am, writing under this slightly embarrassing title bestowed upon me by Guardian editors who noticed my tendency to have, and share, opinions about food. I accept it, I guess. I do frequently find fault with food, but it’s only because I love food so much.
Speaking of, have you ever tried switchel?
It’s a drink made with apple cider vinegar, ginger and a variable sweetener. It was popular among woodsman pioneers in the 1800s and, perhaps relatedly, is becoming popular again with the types of people who ride vintage bicycles, raise chickens and keep bees on their roof. Those are the same people who wear their facial hair like woodsman pioneers in the 1800s, with plaid shirts and suspenders. People with tattoos diagramming cuts of beef.
People who live in New York City in the borough that’s connected to Manhattan by the Brooklyn Bridge.
People who live in Brooklyn.
I live in Brooklyn. There are two separate artisanal pickle shops within a square block of my house.
I first learned about switchel from a Modern Farmer article titled Are You Cool Enough to Drink Switchel? So of course I did not want to like it.
The kind I first saw in my supermarket, Up Mountain Switchel, comes in a mason jar. (Of course it does, right? Mason jar – like Bon Iver poured it there himself straight from the still he built in the woods). It looked like a urine sample, yellow, cloudy and with – yuck – sediment settling at the bottom. It was displayed on the shelf alongside kombucha, the fermented tea that hippies drink after yoga class.
But I was hot and thirsty, and it looked cold and refreshing. Condensation was beading on the side of the glass. I read the ingredients on the label.
1) Water: excellent, a proven thirst quencher.
2) Ginger: a favorite of mine.
3) Apple cider vinegar: I love vinegar, pretty much every kind I’ve ever tried. I’ve been known to drink pickle juice out of an empty jar of pickles, like the late Notorious BIG, another Brooklynite with impeccable taste.
4) Maple syrup. That’s it.
It also said it was “born in Vermont in Gramma’s barn” (Christ ...) and it trumpeted its antioxidants, and was supposedly “rich in enzymes that balance your pH, boost your immune system and promote more efficient hydration”.
What can I say? It was a moment of weakness.
Here’s a confession even more embarrassing than living in Brooklyn: I loved it. It is absolutely delicious. It is a dream come true. Tart, effervescent, not overly sweet, switchel is pretty much everything I’m looking for in a flavor profile. It might be the most refreshing drink I have ever drank. It’s like it was invented just for me.
I have bought 10 bottles in the three weeks since. I’m beside myself. I also feel like a dipshit: it’s very expensive at $6.99 for a 24-ounce jar.
To my horror, it also goes well with vodka – and with whiskey, bourbon or rye, for when it’s colder out, meaning I am unlikely to stop consuming it anytime soon.
I am now one of those people I look down upon. I suppose I always was.
Like I said, snobbery cuts lots of different ways. And it’s probably always the flip-side of a deep-seated self-loathing. When Sartre said hell is other people, what he really meant was that hell is ourselves.
Rating: 5 stars
Rating system: from best to worst
5 stars: Prince concert
4 stars: boat ride on a day off from work
3 stars: Seinfeld rerun
2 stars: allergic reaction to poison ivy
1 star: trip to bedbug-infested dentist’s office
