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How I Came To Like Gin

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I know what I like, and I’ve always been that way.  I know I like men’s cardigans and doing crosswords in bed.  I like the sound of toe shoes clapping against marley.  I like the smell of newspaper.  The velvet syllables of the Hawaiian language.  I like the tickle of a man’s breath in my ear.

I know I like asiago.  I know I don’t like white chocolate.  I like burgundy and mezcal.  And for the past decade in which I’ve been imbibing, I haven’t liked gin.

The day I turned 21 I decided to start drinking like an adult—gone were the days of wine coolers and frat keg beer.  From that day on I’d start ordering the one mature drink I knew by name.  A martini.  The problem was that in my youthful ignorance, I didn’t realize martinis could be made with either gin or vodka.  My friend Mona, who was much hipper than I’d ever be, ordered her martinis with gin, and I mimicked her order.  And so I suffered through countless evenings of gin martinis, ordered remarkably dirty, because the snap of the olive juice made glass after glass somewhat bearable.

Then I grew up and my world broadened.  I consumed grappa and sambuca in Naples, akvavit in Stockholm, and sake in Japan.  I participated in scotch tastings and mezcal samplings.  I made my way through about 300 varieties of craft beer, and drank my way through wineries from Bordeaux to Santa Ynez.  The list of what I liked expanded, and gin never made the cut.

On a recent Friday night, after devouring a particularly spicy bacon sandwich, followed by the maple bacon donut, at Nickel Diner, our group walked to Artisan House for a nightcap.  My friends mused over the wine list while I reached for the cocktail menu, and before I had time to digest the options, our bartender stopped by to take our order.  I didn’t think anything of him at first.  Average height.  Brown hair.  Brown eyes.  And then he opened his mouth.

“You know what you want?” he asked.

“I need a minute, I haven’t decided,” I shrugged.

“Well, what do you like to drink?”

“I’ll drink anything except gin.”

“Then I’ll suggest the Caulfield.  It has gin, lavender, and grapefruit.”

“I think you misheard me, I said I don’t drink gin.”

“I heard you.  If you don’t like gin, I suggest you try something with gin.”

“Are you joking?”

“I think you should try something you wouldn’t normally order.  The Caulfield tastes a little bit like a soapy lavender bath.”

I set the menu down and stared at him.  He stared back.  Silent.  After a beat I nodded.

“Fine, I’ll try it, but what happens if I don’t like it?” I asked.

“I think you’ll like it.”

The bartender left and I turned to my friends muttering something about smartass bartenders and my preference for whiskey.  When the bartender returned, he set down a martini glass, filled with liquid the color of pale sunshine, garnished with a cut of lemon peel. I took a sip.  “You made this?” “I did.” He was right—it tasted like a soapy lavender bath.  And I liked it.  I liked him.

This is the type of guy I always fall for.  The ones who understand life can be arranged to make room for another thing to like.  They’re the same guys who know how to kiss in blinding sunlight.  They’re the ones who show up unannounced on doorsteps and tuck flowers under your windshield wipers.  They teach you how to reach.  They keep you up all night.  Then they make you late for work the next morning, because they’ll fight to keep you in bed.

As our group made our way to the exit we waved goodbye at our bartender, while he stood behind the bar.  I wondered if he was single and glanced back.  Our eyes met and he grinned.  I smiled and stepped out into the still winter night.  I know what I like, and I like men like him.  And now I also like gin.

Cocktail


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