Michael Harlan Turkell, author of the 2017 vinegar book Acid Trip, had told me that no investigation could be considered complete until I tasted vinegar made by Erwin Gegenbauer, an Austrian maker whom Turkell credited with his interest in vinegar in the first place. A fair amount of string pulling resulted in my being sent four bottles of Gegenbauer, which are extremely difficult to find in the United States. A more complete and lively tasting thing has never passed my lips. Erwin Gegenbauer confirmed to me directly that not only does he play music for his bacteria but he reads them stories. I cannot say whether it is the quality of the cucumbers or bananas or sherry that he ferments or the quality of his storytelling that is to thank for the absolute superiority of what he makes, but whatever it is, it is transformative.
As a clutter of bottles of varied sizes and hue began to accrue on my worktable, I considered the irony of a widespread embrace of microbes in a moment of pathogenic trauma. It gives me no small amount of faith in human intelligence that amid a global pandemic, we seem able to parse the difference between good bugs and bad ones. I turned to tasting all the vinegar, which was, with rare exceptions, entirely pleasant. The standouts were immediately clear. The Tart kombu vinegar was a condiment under the sea—slightly salty, refreshing, and bracing. American Vinegar Works’s hot (like spicy) apple-and-pear cider vinegar was slightly sweet, slightly peppery, suggesting a pour into tomato juice on ice, or a quick mix with seltzer on taco night. Brightland’s champagne vinegar was all citrus and summer sun. Keepwell’s apple cider vinegar was more apple-y than apples. I will never again make lemonade without adding a tablespoon of Acid League’s honey yuzu living vinegar. Tasting Artizn’s tonic of handmade aged Korean vinegar and fresh fruit juices, and then Apple State Vinegar’s ginger and Hawaiian chili shrub poured with fizzy water, I realized almost unconsciously how narrow an experience it is to drink sodas that are only sweet. Remember the first time you had sea salt on chocolate? Or salted caramel? Sourness, so often isolated, is really essential to a full enjoyment of anything sweet. This argument found its finest point in Element’s blueberry-rosemary shrub, which, when mixed at a ratio of one ounce shrub to five ounces seltzer, tastes precisely like I always imagined fresh spring water did in C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books.
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