I want to find my perfect drink
Well, it’s 2007, and the big event I’m waiting for this year is my 21st birthday. Then, even though I will have been an adult for three years, I will be able to drink alcoholic beverages legally in the eyes of the government.
There’s only one problem: I’m a persnickety cuss. See, I’ve drawn a surprising conclusion from the few quick sips of alcohol my parents have sneaked me in restaurants and the hours I’ve spent in liquor stores smelling random bottles: I don’t like alcohol. I’m serious. Every single glass of booze I’ve tasted (the operative word here being “tasted” and not “drunk”) I’ve turned my nose up at.
The only wine I’ve ever had was at my grandparent’s house. It tasted like sour fruit juice. One of my drinking-age friends likes vodka, and I once caught a whiff from an open bottle that he was drinking from.
It smelled like rubbing alcohol.
Being the closet pirate that I am, I thought I’d have a natural affinity for spiced rum. After tasting it, I’ve decided I prefer drinking Louisiana hot sauce straight from the bottle. Just as much burn and three times as tasty.
When I was just a kid I saw a glass of alcohol on the kitchen counter that I thought was apple juice. I chugged it. Not only did it taste terrible, but I vomited up my toenails about five minutes later. Once bitten, twice shy.
Despite my finicky nature, however, I am wholly convinced that somewhere out there, perhaps in some fine restaurant, perhaps in some divey corner bar, there waits for me an alcoholic drink that I’ll fall in love with.
Given the fact that there are many different kinds of liquors and a plethora of mixers, additives and garnishes, the statistical likelihood is that there is some magic combination out there that I’d be willing to kill for once I taste it.
With that in mind, I have set myself a goal. It’s a quest, really. Starting on my twenty-first birthday I intend to go out on the town every week to try and find that drink.
I’ll do whatever it takes. I don’t care if I have to hit every restaurant, bar, saloon, liquor store, or winery in the United States. I don’t care if I spend hundreds of dollars. I don’t care if I have to sample every libation in the bartender’s handbook to get there, I’m going to find that drink. I’m going to go slow, so I don’t get alcohol poisoning.
I’m only going to try one drink a week, at a rate of 52 drinks a year. I’m definitely not going to do anything stupid like chug every drink I see. If I do that my blood alcohol level will shoot up so high I’ll drop dead, and they’ll use my booze-saturated carcass to swab patient’s arms in the hospital before they give them their shots.
No, I’m going to go slow. I want to be in the most competent state of mind possible by the time I find that magic drink.
This shall be my quest. I’ve been waiting years for the momentous occasion to get here, and with a measly eight months left to go, I’m all fired up. Wish me luck. And if you find my booze-saturated carcass lying in a ditch somewhere, kindly drag it to the hospital.
Andrew is a senior studying mass communication.
Columnists' opinions do not necessarily reflect the views of The Spectrum