We were discussing bourbon and whether American whiskey could ever rival Scotch. I recalled the first time I ever tried the transatlantic spirit. It was more than 50 years ago, in an undergraduate room in Oxford. The occupant was an ingenious fellow. At the beginning of one term, he wrote to Jim Beam, the whiskey makers. He informed them that he had discovered their wonderful product in the States, but it appeared to be impossible to come by in Oxford, which was a pity, because it deserved to be better known (in truth he had never tasted it and had never been to the US).

A case shortly arrived, followed by another at the beginning of next term, and so on. He sent enthusiastic letters of thanks, assuring the Beam-ites that his friends were developing a lifelong taste for the stuff. This apparently went on for a couple of years. I forget the chap’s name and have no idea whether he ended up as a hedge-fund billionaire, or in prison, or both. Nor can I remember what it tasted like, and I have never tried it again.

I have clearer memories of a trip to Kentucky, during which I sampled Woodford Reserve, the showcase whiskey produced by the House of Brown-Forman. The head distiller proffered a large glass of crushed ice, over which he poured some whiskey. I asked if I could also have two small glasses of the stuff. I tried one neat; the second with a little room-temperature water. My verdict: this deserves room temperature and should never be drowned. Add the same amount of water as you would for, say, a Johnnie Walker Black.

Not that Woodford Reserve is quite as good as that, but it could easily stand comparison with a decent blend: Grouse, say. At least in the UK, I suspect that most American whiskey ends up in cocktails. I have consulted Anett, the finest cocktail magician in St James’s, and she concurs. Inter alia, her Old Fashioned, Manhattan and Brooklyn are superb examples of the art of the cocktail, as is L’Anett, named after her, needless to say. Apart from her genius, its ingredients are secret. She also does a peerless Negroni and a perfect dry martini.

For me, that is the finest of all – with gin, of course, not vodka. It should be strong, with the martini a mere meniscus, allowed little more than a chaste kiss. There is nothing better if the blood alcohol level has sunk to a dangerous low, though one should be guided by Dorothy Parker and stick to a brace. ‘After three,’ she declared, ‘I’m under the table; after four I’m under my host.’

The late Roland Shaw, a great oilman in the full-blooded American way, had a more masculine injunction based on girls’ breasts, two being just right. As his martinis came in half-pint glasses and the lunches which followed extirpated any surviving scintilla of thirst, Miss Parker might not have been that safe.

She could and did look after herself. Is the same true of the British economy? The Truss/Kwarteng cocktail is immensely potent and the initial taste is pleasantly sweet. There, the consensus ends. One is sometimes tempted to conclude that economics is one of the less exact branches of astrology.

The other evening, I drank a wine which was the perfect antidote to current excitements. Chavignol, in the Loire, is famous for crottin cheese and also for Sancerre. I tend to think of it as a crisp aperitif-style. François Cotat has other ideas. For years, he has been making wines that last. His 2006 was a fine example: probably as good a sauvignon blanc as one could find outside Bordeaux. He is the best type of wine-maker, blending tradition and terroir, striving for perfection. This is la France profonde at its most enticing.