A Drink with My Dad

Like most, I had my first drink before I was of age. At the time I was thirsty and in need
of refreshment. However, being 2 I had not developed the skills to walk up to the bartender and
ask him to pour me something tall and cold. So instead, I walked up to the first cup I could find.
It was an ornate glass, smaller than what I usually drank out of but since my hands were the
small, fat mittens of a child I didn’t really notice the difference. Without a second glance at the
clear liquid, I tipped it back with the confidence and bravado of a seasoned drinker. In an
instant, my face soured, and I called for my father. I informed him that this was not what I had
ordered. With a sly smile and a shake of his head he said, “No son, that’s gin.”

My next drink (a legal one by the smallest of technicalities) was much more pleasant. I
was 18 in a small town on the coast of Italy and while my contemporaries were drinking in the
scenery, I decided to do a drinking of a different kind. I found a small pizzeria and ordered a
vodka lemonade. I was more interested in the lemonade than the vodka; Europe is sorely
lacking in lemon-based beverages, but I was pleasantly surprised by the gentle ring in my ears
the liquor produced. Happily, I wandered the city streets taking in the beauty of the world and
the warmth that emanated from my chest. I can’t remember what caused it exactly, but after a
while, the ringing and the warmth became too much and the world pressed in around me from
all sides. Terrified, I turned to the only constant I had: my cellphone. I texted my dad and within
seconds he had responded. From time zones away and thousands of miles apart he promised
me that everything would be ok.

By the time I was of age I had done my fair share of sampling and experimentation.
White wine was out. So was red unless it was diluted with sugar. Seltzers were ok. They were
largely flavorless and unoffensive so I drank them without complaint. Beer was a shadow that
hung over my life. My dad has always been a self-proclaimed beer snob. His pallet is of a
refined variety and that has always intimidated me especially since I would rather sip an amber
ale than an IPA. Since I was a child, he would draw me aside and quietly chastise his host for
their poor choice in drink. Bud Lights, Miller Lights, lights of any and all kinds were a watery
slop. Flavorless, inoffensive, and drained without complaint. Memories of these conversations
always managed to push their way through the haze around my brain until I was swallowed by
shame. Even as I continued to sip my drinks surrounded by the cacophony of drunken revelry, I
was bitterly sure that my father was ashamed.

And then it came at last. December 28th, 2020. My 21st birthday. It was a massive flop.
Dropped in the middle of a global pandemic it was painfully intimate and scorchingly dry. The
real celebration would happen three days later. As the year drew up to the bar for last call, I
ordered my first round. My parents insisted that for New Years' Eve we take a trip to a local
cocktail bar. After a quick scan of the menu, I settled on a cranberry mule. It was a sweet drink,
far from the dark porters my dad sampled. Once again, I drowned my shame beneath the frosty
vodka that had damned me in the eyes of my father. I sat sullenly until my father, at the end of
his sampling tray called over the waiter and ordered his own cranberry mule. Once it arrived he
took a sip and nodded, silently complimenting my choice. I smiled, raised my drink to his and
cheered to a good drink and better company.

Now that I am 22, I am comfortable admitting that I am not really sure I like alcohol. I
enjoy the effects and I love to live it up from time to time with some friends, but the alcohol itself
has never been a major draw. No matter how you try to hide it, alcohol has a harsh, brackish
taste that lingers on your tastebuds. I don’t drink much, and I don’t drink often but whenever I go
home for break my dad unerringly asks if I would like to go with him to a brewery. There have
been many breweries and many beers. I like some, I loath others, but largely I am completely
indifferent to the whole affair. All I care about is that in the pressing din of the other patrons I am
able to share a drink with my father that is not gin.