This past Thanksgiving, my family and I gleefully reminisced about what I’m sure we all discuss at hallowed family gatherings around the hearth – our panoply of drinking sessions that resulted in vomiting. The conversation proceeded with a lively debate about whether or not celebrations should continue after the climactic event (which, for the record, they should not. The upchuck reflex is the body’s missive to the mouth that your night is unequivocally over.) Despite its jovial nature, the discussion induced a sobering reflection: drinking copious amounts of alcohol to the point of expulsion is embarrassingly common in the United States – a practice tacitly condoned as a rite of passage. This lusty desire to divulge in a deluge of booze stems from the first forays of freedom as an undergrad and fosters a lasting habit for the nascent drinker. We always drink like we’re in a damn hurry…and I am adamantly opposed to it.
Which is not to say that I am adamantly opposed to drinking. On the contrary, I firmly subscribe to the carnal delights of a good buzz. We would not be studying, tasting, or genuflecting at Dionysius’s altar of libations if they didn’t slake our thirsts for knowledge, for a fleeting escape from the relentless tyranny of time, for our collective necessity for communion with our fellow man: all with the aid of alcohol. I can’t deny that getting hammered can be a hell of a good time. This is not, I repeat, not an indictment on getting drunk. I will submit, however, that for lack of education or the inhibiting effects of our deeply-rooted piety, most Americans simply do not know how to drink.
As a sommelier I once approached a table where I had the privilege of opening a bottle of 1986 Chateau Palmer for a gentleman and his son. I inquired about the bottle and the occasion, the father relaying that he had purchased a case long ago to mark the year of his son’s birth, an event that they were currently celebrating. We chatted casually and I congratulated them, conceding that I couldn’t necessarily relate – my father only drinks Coors Light in a can and if he saved some from the year of my birth it was purely by accident and there was no way I was drinking it. I appreciated the conversation on the merits of discussing (and tasting) vintage Bordeaux, but also, sadly, because of its rarity.
The stubborn puritanical roots of American society preclude a healthier relationship with alcohol. Specious taboos and the perceived evils of drink contribute to the over-indulgences of any generation once they can find someone old enough to buy them the cheapest case of light beer. These taboos obscure not only the historical and cultural significance of wine and spirits, but also the many pleasures to be had from drinking. This includes knowing exactly what the hell is in your glass. The pleasure becomes a cheap thrill and inebriation follows the path of least resistance. I say resist! When we understand the terroir of the land and the personality of the vigneron and the particular weather of a particular vintage, the simple pleasure of drinking the wine becomes immensely more gratifying. Such an education can heighten the senses, permit us a low-cost means of transport through the vessel of a glass, and perhaps even impress our date enough to have her agree to a second bottle. This is not license to pretense or posturing. But we should also not be ashamed to give a shit that a Corpse Reviver #2 cocktail is a derivation of The Last Word and both are served in coupes, glasses which the apocrypha suggests were modeled after Marie Antoinette’s left breast.
I advocate for discerning taste, not regarding the beverage of choice, but the way it’s consumed. Intoxication should never be the primary destination – rather it should be the place where you invariably end up. Drinking for the exclusive purpose of being drunk is the purview of dilettantes and alcoholics…and drunken vomiting after college is attendant to pathetic. The progression of proper drinking is a nimble caper to admire the view, not a sloppy Gollum scramble for “the precious.” My suggested method for a night of drinking is as follows. Utilize the potency of aperitifs and start with the gin-based Negroni cocktail, or Lillet Blanc on the rocks, or Champagne. Transition next to white wine or rosé. Your palate is properly vetted and whetted and you’re ready for either a steely Chablis or Schiava from Trentino-Alto Adige. Or Champagne. After that I suggest the lady in red. Consider a structured Oregon Pinot or a Rioja or Australian Shiraz from a high quality producer. The options are endless and there is no wrong answer. When in doubt, remember that there is never, ever a wrong time for Champagne.
In a theological debate, it could be argued that our puritanical forefathers were right in advising against the dangers of drinking as a prudent way of honoring the celestial. Or rather, perhaps truth lies in the words of the Greek poet Panyassis, who wrote that “wine is the gods’ best gift to mortals, shining wine. All songs go well with it, and all dances, and all sensuous lovemaking. It drains all the troubles from men’s hearts.” The Cistericans and Benedictines and Carthusians of yesteryear certainly held faith in the divinity of vinous cultivation. In the spirit of respect, the best laid scheme should be the early education of young mice and men: that the godly progeny won’t misbehave when the cat’s away.
My father preferred his Coors Light in a koozie sitting in a recliner, flanked by his family on the adjacent couches. During commercial breaks in reruns of The Andy Griffith Show, he would ask one of his four sons to “throw another beer in the freezer.” He liked it ice cold and knew that a beer could stay in the freezer for about 20 minutes before the liquid froze, expanded and broke the can. On weekends he would indulge in a few more than his weekday limit and was occasionally inspired to regale us with stories: about working on cars in high school, which of his cousins went to prison, the years living on a ship during his time in the Navy. What a person decides to imbibe is irrelevant. However, whether your tipple of choice is Coors Light in a LAZ-E-BOY or a pristine 1945 Cheval Blanc of impeccable provenance in the booth of a Michelin-starred restaurant, proceed like you’ve done it before. Here’s a novel idea: enjoy your beverage. Sip slow. The story of being drunk is not novel, but the unique progression of it always is. Drinking is meant to be part of a shared experience: the stories fathers tell their sons, the anecdotes sisters share ad infinitum, the memories friends rehash and reshape, facts notwithstanding. We shouldn’t drink our drinks like we stream our shows. The stories behind the history and mystery and the fellowship engendered through wine and its like are stories worth the telling…and the time.