The older I get, the more I prize predictable quality over the occasional excellence. Give me the ninety-ninth percentile nine over the ninety-fifth percentile nine point five any day of the week.

[In this week's installment of On Eating at the Bar, Mr. Arsenic offers some advice to all the aspiring chefs, brewers, distillers, and vintners out there. Good luck.]

That well tequila comes from the same batch as the top shelf (both are to be avoided of course, another story for another napkin), only the bottling line for the latter is checked twice as often. (Aside #1 – I’ve been told this is in fact urban legend, but I choose to believe it anyway, for the same reason I believe in Bigfoot and God — just in case.) But back to the point, the point here is not that you’re being ripped off, it’s that it’s worth it.

Thomas Keller and Johnny Walker know this, as do Ronald McDonald and Anheuser-Busch. The upside down Big Mac sends the plumber across the mall tomorrow just as sure as the the under inflated soufflé sends the eye-banker over to Bistro Jeanty for next Friday’s casual encounter.

It’s not just the occasional error to be avoided, and this is what separates Cyril Ray’s compleat imbiber from the incompleat, it’s the unexpected. There is nothing wrong with the occasional experiment, but only if the control is well established. Any Davis oenology grad worth his refractometer can spit out a 92 point California Cabernet so big and deep and bright you can paint the walls with it. But that’s not the vintner’s job. The vintner’s job is: second, don’t ruin the fruit; first, make the same bottle this year as last.

Yes, the vintage single malt is ordered by the aficionado and the tyro alike, but the seasoned drinker asks for the blended scotch, for he is far more interested in the finding the familiar than foraging the forest for something new.

And yes, James Bond can ask for a récemment dégorgé Bollinger, but remember, he is James Bond, he has forgotten more about wine and women than you or even I will ever know. Our virgin palates and un-notched bedposts are better served by the common bar wench at the pub than that foxy sommelier at Dorsia.

The pub provides us another illustration. Beer, unlike wines and conquests past, does not get better with age, in fact begins to deteriorate immediately after birth, a process accelerated by sunlight and warmth. Note here I am talking about lagers, specifically of the American style, Trappist ales to name but one category could do well with some cellaring. But here Budweiser can rightly claim to be the king of beers (one of the only three kings in this world, along with Bobby Rahal and Elvis Presley), for no other reason than its economies of scale. Go ahead, try to compete with them, they dare you, they taunt you right there on the label:

This is the famous Budweiser beer. We know of no brand produced by any other brewer which costs so much to brew and age. Our exclusive Beechwood Aging produces a taste, a smoothness, and a drinkability you will find in no other beer at any price. Brewed by our original all natural process using the choicest Hops, Rice and Best Barley Malt.

Drinkability indeed. Beechwood, hops, malt notwithstanding, what really sets Anheuser-Bush apart is their quality assurance department. Walk into any bar, crash any wedding, any day of the year, any Podunk town in the country and you can enjoy that famous Budweiser beer, and it will taste exactly like the one you had yesterday. Pike’s Peak Pale may taste great at the brewery, but I guarantee you that keg hasn’t been changed in three months.

The legions of tall can PBR drinkers and what-do-you-have-on-draught -ers will scoff at this of course. These are the same Trader Janes who will buy a case of Two Buck Chuck (your Charles Shaw will cost you a mere two bucks in the two tier states, but up to three in three tier land, write your congressman), lock it in the trunk of their sun baked daddy bought black Jetta GL for a week before bringing it to their boyfriend’s bad art reception to go with their over- olive-oiled hummus and cardboard pita.

(Aide #2 – Back at the turn of the millennium, a Mr C. Shaw produced a plonk just drinkable enough to influence some irresponsible influencer, and then pulled the ultimate bait and switch, Ponzi-ing us into innumerable unearned hangovers ever since.)

Gentle reader, you may not pay attention to what you put in your mouth, and if so, more power to you.

But don’t let me down.