Reviews Round-up

The critics' verdicts on Charles Moore, David Sedaris and Damian Barr.

Margaret Thatcher: The Authorized Biography, Volume One: Not For Turning by Charles Moore 

Charles Moore’s biography has been 16 years in the making and is based on unrestricted access to all Margaret Thatcher's papers, as well as on  interviews with her and all her major colleagues.

For Anne Applebaum, writing in the Telegraph, Moore’s work is the "definitive account" of Thatcher’s life. She celebrates Moore’s ability to "‘make Thatcher’s story fresh again" and to create a "multi-faceted picture of a compelling and unusual life".

Similarly, Jane Merrick of the Independent claims that Moore’s exhaustive work provides us with "enough new material (including previously unpublished correspondence with her sister, Muriel) to offer a fresh, even vulnerable person behind the mythology". That said, Merrick is wary of the "Establishment-backed and largely uncritical" version of events presented by Moore.

The Guardian’s Andy Beckett is more reserved in his praise. Whilst admiring the book's flashes of "dry wit" and acknowledging the "thoroughness and skill" involved in writing such a large tome, Beckett argues that the writing tends towards hagiography - Moore’s telling of her Grantham upbringing is "reverent" and "sepia tinged". Moreover, Beckett echoes Merrick’s assertion that the biography is lacking in honest criticism - "a sense of the British establishment granting favours to one of its own hangs over this book, and is never quite dispelled".

Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls by David Sedaris

David Sedaris presents his new collection of essays from his journeys around the world. Occasionally, David Shariatmadari of the Guardian writes, Sedaris’s writing can appear "contemptuous" and hard "to like". Nevertheless Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls "also sings about how brilliantly clever, inventive and funny he is, a poet for everyone who wouldn't live the ordinary life if you paid them".

Whilst Max Liu of the Independent praises Sedaris’s humour, he is critical of his forays into fiction, describing them as "clumsy". When writing about his life, Liu argues, Sedaris is "poignant and amusing, but it's hard to recommend a slim volume of autobiography padded with forgettable stories".

This view is shared by Tom Cox, writing in the Daily Express. Cox argues that Let’s Explore Diabetes… gives unfortunate credence to the notion that Sedaris was at his best when writing about the menial jobs he did in his twenties and thirties, and now must resort to wringing comic episodes from his life as a rich author, catching aeroplanes between his multiple residences and spoken word shows. To fans of Sedaris, Cox claims, this may feel "flimsy", but to those new to Sedaris the book will provide "some of your biggest laughs of the decade so far".  

Maggie and Me by Damian Barr

Maggie and Me is Damian Barr’s blackly comic memoir about growing up gay during the Thatcher years. Although critical of the "brassy finale" in which Barr "squanders the subtlety that went before it" by giving in to a "forced Thatcherism", the Observer's Adam Mars-Jones praises Barr’s "shrewdly constructed" memoir. It is, he writes, imbued with a "winning dry humour" and manages a "very sharp control of irony".

In a similarly laudatory review, Andrew Holgate in the Sunday Times praises Maggie and Me as "full to the brim with poignancy, humour, brutality and energetic and sometimes shimmering prose, the book confounds one’s assumptions about those years and drenches the whole era in an emotionally charged comic grandeur. It is hugely affecting."

This view is also shared by Olivia Cole of GQ: "[F]or all the pain, Maggie and Me is a tremendous, surprising read". She is also quick to praise the "honesty" and "difficulty" of Barr’s record of his experiences, praising the author as an "exemplary figure".

Margaret Thatcher on election day in June 1987 (Photo: Getty Images)
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There are only two rules for an evening drink: it must be bitter, and it must be cold

A Negroni is the aperitif of choice in bars everywhere from London to Palermo - and no wonder.

The aperitif has the odd distinction of being the only alcohol that can always rely on a sober audience: it is the opener, the stimulant, a spur to the appetite for good food and good conversation. This preparatory beverage is considered the height of sophistication, and certainly nobody labouring in field or factory ever required a pep to their evening appetite. Still, to take a drink before one starts drinking is hardly clever behaviour. So why do it?

One reason is surely the wish to separate the working day from the evening’s leisure, an increasingly pressing matter as we lose the ability to switch off. This may change the nature of the aperitif, which was generally supposed to be light, in alcohol and character. Once, one was expected to quaff a pre-dinner drink and go in to dine with faculties and taste buds intact; now, it might be more important for those who want an uninterrupted meal to get preprandially plastered. That way, your colleagues may contact you but they won’t get much sense out of you, and pretty soon they’ll give up and bother someone else.

The nicest thing about the aperitif, and the most dangerous, is that it doesn’t follow rules. It’s meant to be low in alcohol, but nobody ever accused a gin and tonic or a Negroni (Campari, gin and vermouth in equal portions) of that failing; and sherry, which is a fabulous aperitif (not least because you can keep drinking it until the meal or the bottle ends), has more degrees of alcohol than most wines. An aperitif should not be heavily perfumed or flavoured, for fear of spoiling your palate, yet some people love pastis, the French aniseed drink that goes cloudy in water, and that you can practically smell across the Channel. They say the scent actually enhances appetite.

Really only two rules apply. An aperitif should be bitter – or, at any rate, it shouldn’t be sweet, whatever the fans of red vermouth may tell you. And it must be cold. Warm drinks such as Cognac and port are for after dinner. Not for nothing did Édith Piaf warble, in “Mon apéro”, about drowning her amorous disappointments in aperitifs: fail to cool your passions before sharing a table, and you belong with the barbarians.

On the other hand, conversing with your nearest over a small snack and an appropriate beverage, beyond the office and before the courtesies and complications of the dinner table, is the essence of cultured behaviour. If, as is sometimes thought, civilisation has a pinnacle, surely it has a chilled apéro carefully balanced on top.

The received wisdom is that the French and Italians, with their apéritifs and aperitivos, are the experts in these kinds of drinks. Certainly the latter are partial to their Aperol spritzes, and the former to such horrid, wine-based tipples as Lillet and Dubonnet. But the English are good at gin and the Americans invented the Martini. As for Spain, tapas were originally snacks atop a covering that kept the flies out of one’s pre-dinner drink: tapa means lid.

Everywhere, it seems, as evening approaches, people crave a drink that in turn will make them salivate: bitterness, the experts tell us, prepares the mouth to welcome food. The word “bitter” may come from “bite”, in which case the aperitif’s place before dinner is assured.

I like to think that a good one enables the drinker to drown all sour feelings, and go in to dinner cleansed and purified. Fanciful, perhaps. But what better lure to fancy than a beverage that exists only to bring on the evening’s pleasures?

Nina Caplan is the Louis Roederer Pio Cesare Food and Wine Writer of the Year

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times