Fun With Mixers

My pal Orton keeps pushing me to visit that new wine warehouse that’s opened in Norwalk next to the Stop & Shop, and I keep resisting. “They have everything there!,” he says to me. “And the prices! The place is right up your alley.” Then, as if he’s a Seventh-Day Adventist moonlighting for the discount-liquor industry, he thrusts a circular from the Sunday Advocate into my hands. “Hundreds of brands of beer in stock!” it says. “Thousands of red and white wines from all over the world. Lowest prices in Connecticut!”

Oh, I don’t know. Price has never been a big issue for me when it comes to stocking my bar, if for no other reason than I already tend to buy whatever’s least expensive in the first place. If this new store were to cut the price of my go-to bourbon by much, for instance, they’d be paying me to take it off their hands. I’ve learned to go slightly more upmarket for gin, it’s true, on account of an unpleasant incident back in college. But beer is beer. Hundreds of brands? I only drink one at a time.

I wonder if my lack of a sophisticated drinker’s palate has prevented me from enjoying my nightly cocktail hour as much as I might. Probably so. When wine lovers I know sample some vintage or other, I hear them coo over things like the “blueberry notes” they taste, or “a hint of almonds,” while all I can figure out is whether it’s red or white—and that’s by looking. Beer drinkers can be just as discriminating. (“Not too hoppy, and is that a scent of dandelion seed I detect? Or is it essence of soy?”) Part of me envies their refinement, and wishes that I could taste that hint of almonds, too. Then again, there’s a certain pleasure in simple-mindedness: when I try a new beer, for instance, the only thing I need to know to decide if I’ll like it or not is whether I think I’ll be able to drink it for three hours without feeling gassy. As for my bargain bourbon, it comes in shatterproof plastic bottles. Peace of mind!

The only part of my libationary repertoire that involves me actually paying extra for something—and you’ll think this sounds crazy, I admit—has to do with my favorite brand of tonic water. Seriously. You’d think Schweppes would be good enough for someone who has no problem buying wine-in-a-box, but no. Instead, at the Food Emporium last summer I happened on one of those premium tonics (which I won’t name, for the sake of its reputation) that produced for me, on my very first sip when I got it home, a truly rapturous drinking experience, gin-and-tonic-wise. Talk about refreshing! Don’t ask me what it is exactly that makes this tonic taste so darn good. I can’t say for sure. “The bubbles are smaller,” I hear myself telling people, which is as idiotic an explanation as I can imagine. Or, “it has a nuanced taste.” What does that mean? Who knows? But I’m hooked. Since that day at the grocery store, I’ve developed the sort of devotion to my new favorite mixer that, if his followers had displayed a similar level of enthusiasm, would have embarrassed Sun Yung Moon.

This is not something I’m happy about. First, it’s a clear violation of everything I believe as a drinker. Which is to say, the darn stuff costs way too much. Five dollars and 99 cents for four seven-ounce bottles! Just typing that makes me dizzy. Worse, I find I’ve become kind of obsessive on the matter. “Do you have any bottled tonic water?,” I’ll ask the bartender at whatever place in town I find myself in. “No? Well you really should. It tastes much better. And if you’re wondering which brand to stock . . . .” Then I’ll launch into my full-on spiel and, before long, the poor guy will be staring blankly off into space, twitching. At home, it’s even worse. I’ve inflicted my Tonic Tirade so many times on so many guests that some of them have sworn to not come back until after gin season’s over.

As far as I’m concerned, this little phase I’m going through can’t end soon enough. I’d like to have my friends back, for one thing, and for the bartenders in town to not wince when I walk through the door. And given the rate I imbibe when I’m on vacation, next month on Nantucket is shaping up to be even more expensive than usual if something doesn’t give. But all that will have to wait. It’s nearly cocktail time and I’m running low on you-know-what. So it’s off to the Food Emporium to stock up. Good heavens, I just can’t help myself.

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