“He’s been at the kummel again,” the world-weary butler sighed deeply. He was a regular customer at the Knightsbridge wine merchant where I was assistant manager. Every week, he’d turn up in a black Range Rover and buy a case of this liqueur for his dipsomaniac charge, who he referred to with heavy irony as “the young master”. Our shop got through more Kummel than any other in the country. This went on for weeks until one night a dishevelled-looking youth ran into the shop waving a £20 note and screamed the word “kummel” over and over again until we gave him a bottle. He ran out, never to be seen again. It was clearly the young master, but what was this drink that had such a hold on him?