MAN ABOUT TOWN
TEXT
JACKSON BIKO
ART
MOVIN WERE
EXPLORER
TAVERN
The cats who come
here are mature,
average age of 40
years, which means
they wouldn’t use the
word “cat.”
Jackson Biko, is a lover of whisky and
people watching. He likes to walk the
shadows of the city at dusk, picking
conversations of a people spurred by the
night and by their drink.
Y
ou have cats that fashion
themselves as whisky
connoisseurs. Friends of
mine. Friends of friends.
They wear bow ties and
cufflinks that match their socks. They
never sit anywhere but at the bar
counter with one leg planted firmly
on the ground. To anchor them.
Whisky-heads. I’m seated with one
of them now and he’s saying, “I don’t
particularly fancy blends. [That’s
blended whisky for all you poor
wine-drinkers], because blends don’t
have that distinct character that
single-malts have.” You can tell he’s
a phony because he has used the
word “character” to describe a drink.
Now he brings his glass to his nose
before sipping his whisky. Shortly,
he will launch into this long, drunken
debate about whether because a
whisky is single malt naturally; it has
to taste better than a blend.
“It’s like saying just because
a woman is from Brazil she is
40.
automatically more gorgeous than
a woman from Haiti! [No offence to
the Haitians who might be reading
this],” I hiss, as the Glenmorangie
slides down my throat like mercury
on a glass.
We are at Explorer Tavern bar in
Kilimani, not Lavington, as some
people might think. It’s a whisky bar
as you might have guessed by now…
Stocks hundreds of different types of
single-malts and blended whiskies.
The cats who come here are mature,
average age of 40 years, which
means they wouldn’t use the word
“cat.” There is a large garden at the
back with umbrellas. There is seating
behind the building and cosy whisky
branded lounges where groups
of whisky loving women in glitzy
dresses often crowd in, blowing
decent money on decent whisky.
The beauty of Explorer is that they
have made whisky affordable. Their
pricing is extremely fair. Because
they are always having a promotion,
you will always almost buy a tot
of the single-malt of that week at
something ridiculous like Sh400!
At some point we will step outside
on the verandah where Mr. BowTie-I-Don’t-Drink-Blended-Whisky
will guillotine the head of a cigar
and light it up. We will move to a
different debate, maybe about cars,
as we scan the parking lot for those
massive guzzlers with grills that
look angry. The sky is now greyblue. Folk will stumble in through
the entrance stopping briefly at the
noticeboard at the entrance to see
which whisky is on offer. Some driver
– I won’t say what sex – will be doing
a 560-degree point turn to reverse
parking.
We will chuckle, with my boy
absentmindedly passing the burning
cigar to me and me ignoring him, but
not the rancid smell of cigar entirely,
which will curl at the back of my
throat as if settling in for the night.