It’s difficult to talk about one’s love for drink due to the fact that oftentimes it’s interpreted as “having a problem”. But reality forces me to come clean.
I love to drink.
Now before I get eight gigs of e-mail telling me that I need to seek help, let me state for the record that rare is the night that I have more than one glass. Rarer still is the night when I become inebriated. In fact, the last time was when I had one too many glasses of absinthe, and I’d think I’d like to keep it that way, purely for the anecdotal pleasure that it gives.
What is it about a glass of bourbon or Scotch whisky that comforts me? Why is it that I have a desire to seek out and explore new and untested liqueurs and shots? The answer is simple. Subtlety.
The taste of alcohol does nothing for me. In fact it actually is a detriment in some measure, for it hides the flavor of the drink. The sweetness of a bourbon, or the dark richness of a well made schnapps comes not from the alcohol, but from the tastes that the alcohol seeks to cover. And therein lies my joy.
Every drink is a treasure hunt, hidden pleasures of finding out things like “Oh, was that elderberry on the back of the palate?” or “Wow, that coats the tongue like syrup.” These are rarely obvious moments, one has to know how to look for these epiphanies. Drink…good drink…contains the beverage equivalent to subtext. There are rarely wrong answers, only individual interpretations.