I'VE ALWAYS BELIEVED in decadence as a way of life, and rum has historically been the libation most closely associated with decadence. Figures such as Reverend Samuel Burkhard and Winston Churchill seemed to view the consumption of rum as one of the basest vices.

The former, referred to as "an ass in the shape of a preacher" by his detractors, was a staunch advocate of prohibition. In an 1884 speech he famously declared, "We are Republicans, and don't propose to leave our party and identify ourselves with the party whose antecedents have been rum, Romanism, and rebellion." And Churchill proclaimed of the British navy, "Don't talk to me about naval tradition. It's nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash."

By my estimation, these men are complete stiffs. Anyone who defames rum, rebellion, sodomy, consensual lashing, and more rum is not welcome in San Francisco. Nay, we scoff at blowhards like Burkhard and Churchill. Today their fulminations sound more like passages from an op-ed praising the Supreme Court than the scathing insults they were once intended to be.

My own feelings on rum tend to be more attuned to those of Lord Byron: "There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms / As rum and true religion" (Don Juan, canto ii, stanza 34). I don't practice any traditional form of religion or meditation, for that matter. Yet, were I to admit to a mantra, it would be either the word ocean, spoken in a kind of onomatopoetic approximation of the surf lapping on the shore ("Ooo-shhhunn"), or rum ("RRRrrrrummm"), resonating deep in the chest, the jaw vibrating like a tuning fork. Throughout my life I've had a few "perfect moments," times when I was utterly relaxed, free from any care or anxiety, and usually in the presence of some kind of large body of water. Rum is the golden distillate of that state of mind. It's eating fresh grilled barracuda in Bali, listening to Marley's "Natural Mystic" pulse through the waiter's battered radio. It's a bottle of aged rum planted in the hot sand between my feet, warming to the perfect temperature, the sea air lazily blowing the rum's vanilla aroma by my nose. It's grinning ear to ear, admiring my girlfriend's golden, cocoa buttery beauty as a cool breeze rustles the palm trees on the beach. Liquid reverie. It is humidity and sugarcane, sun-drunk lovemaking in a place without air-conditioning ... RRRrrrrummm.

I recently hit the bar at Habana on South Van Ness with my special lady friend, and despite our best intentions we quickly found ourselves embroiled in a steamy samba with their cocktail menu. The cocktails don't come cheap (seven bucks a throw), but they're all made with top-shelf rum. Great care is taken to prepare perfectly muddled mojitos using only the mint leaves, no stems, and Habana's house-made mint-infused simple syrup. The Old Habana Cocktail is a kind of aged-rum Manhattan served with a kumquat garnish. The Hemingway daiquiri (Hemingway, booze, and Cuba are inextricably linked, it now appears) is a tart, masterful mix of fresh lime and grapefruit juices, sugar, and maraschino liquor. When I asked the bartender for his suggestion on a sippin' rum, he pulled down a slender bottle of Pyrat Pistol.

Pistol is the medium-range offering from the Anguilla-based Pyrat rum distillery. It is also my new prescription. Not as heavy as their super premium (and superpricey) versions, Pistol has a very smooth caramel and vanilla taste with citrus undertones. It smells like the scent of orange blossoms wafting through the battered shutters of a beach cabaña.

Rum's unique flavor is a result of its base ingredients: sugarcane juice and/or molasses that is then fermented and distilled. Purists cite the lack of officially recognized standards or controls to govern its production as the primary reason rum has been considered a second-class spirit. Once the most widely consumed liquor in the United States, rum was displaced by whiskey in the 19th century as settlers moved into regions rich in corn, rye, wheat, and barley. Luckily there's now a wealth of premium rum produced using methods more akin to those used for producing scotch and small-batch bourbon, a development that has purists suckin' eggs. The popularity of rum is rapidly growing as those who can't take the bite of scotch or the sting of bourbon find much to love in the relative sweetness of rum.

If you really want to get a feel for good rum, head to Hobson's Choice in the Haight. Considerably more rough 'n' ready than Habana, Hobson's offers a full bar, a varied selection of beers on tap, and affordable food from neighboring Asqew Grill. Hobson's fancies itself a Victorian punch bar and boasts more than 60 rums (yes, they have Pistol). Their menu offers a three-rum flight from a list of 13 premium rums for $6.50, with descriptions of each to aid your selection. I went for a variety that included a light rum, Cane Spirit Rothschild from St. Kitts; an older rum, aged 12 years, Nicaraguan Flor de Caña Centernario; and a younger blend, Rhum St. James Hors d'Age from Martinique. They also offer fine rum punches much admired by the drinking classes available by the glass or in a small bowl ($25 to $30) or large bowl ($50 to $60).