Every Saturday morning Xiao Yang squeezes fresh orange juice
for all takers. He's kind enough to also bring coffee and some sort of
breadstuff (he uses the purchase of fresh bagels or muffins as an excuse to
drive the car, which he enjoys very much). But my favorite part; the fresh O.J.
with plenty of vodka and a little Galliano added has changed. No more "eye
opener" for me after each Friday night's mayhem. For two weeks now, Yang has sat with
me and enjoys his own coffee and glazed donut while I partake of my breakfast.
He wants to know why I've been so quiet lately (usually I'm rather loquacious).
I haven't bothered to look up the Chinese for "manic." Yang used to enjoy my
manic antics when I'd have had a few too many glasses of whatever it
was I was having of an evening. Yang can't understand why all of a sudden I've
gone from being a lush to a tea-totaler. Yang doesn't drink much; a cold beer
on a hot day, or maybe a good snifter of Cognac at the end of dinners out.
These days political correctness dictates that we no
longer find humor in the excess consumption of alcohol. Joe E. Lewis, Dean
Martin, and Foster Brooks are all now ancient relics whose humor must be
enjoyed in private, in no small part thanks to the efforts of MADD. I remember
the days long before MADD when cops used to drink at bars, in uniform. When
cocktails at 12:00 noon were de rigeur. When I'd enjoy the looks of sheer
horror on the faces of other drivers on the Hutchinson River Parkway when
they'd spot me taking a good swig off of my bottle of scotch, behind the wheel
at about 75 miles per hour, happily heading for the country house in
Connecticut.
Don't get me wrong, there's a place in this world for MADD, until people stop
underestimating the degree of their intoxication and killing others with their
motor vehicles. Heck, I've engaged in irresponsible behavior with regard to
drinking and driving and I'm ashamed to admit it.
The Chinese still get a laugh out of drunken humor, or humor at the expense
of a drunk. I can't tell you how many times, for fun, I've summoned the staff of
the restaurant into the bar for lessons in "drink making". I'd always end up
filling the blender with cracked ice and "booze" (in this case water poured into
an empty vodka bottle) and switching the machine on "high" with the cover off,
intentionally dousing myself and my surroundings with the imaginary "cocktail"
within. Then, emoting sheer frustration, I'd grab the nearest bottle of (real)
booze and drink heartily.
There's irony in being a notorious boozer and suddenly not having a glass in
one's hand all the time. It's normally been my habit when arriving at a favorite
watering hole to buy a round of drinks for those who're known to me. Often, the
gesture is returned; but it's not expected on my part. Well, about five times
lately in my own restaurant these same kind folks, noticing that my glass is
either empty or there's no glass at all, order a drink for me from the waitress
and have her send it over.
The wine salesmen have all been coming around with sample bottles of wines
and spirits. Perhaps it's my imagination, but this seems to be happening much
more frequently than when I was buzzed all the time.
The restaurant we frequent on our once-weekly visits to New York City makes a
wonderful martini. The bartender was astounded, after he'd chilled the glass and
got ready to pour, that I declined, politely. I had him open a nice bottle of
white wine and told him to send it to our table when our guest got there. I
drank about a third of the bottle (a Gruner Veltliner from Austria) and it was
like nectar. On my way to use the washroom mid-meal, the bartender asked me if
my health was okay and I told him yes. Then he asked if my wife was reining in
my martini consumption - "you can always have a quick one in here with me." I
told him no. I just said that I think I'd had enough gin for the time being and
left it at that.
Finally, it's summer party time. That's tough. Far be it from me, however, to
allow peer pressure to get the best of me. I have my couple of seltzers and when
the party gets too boozy I leave. End of story.
My doctor says that 1-2 cocktails a day for a male my age is just fine. He's
leaving it up to me to decide if I can moderate my intake (as do many of his
patients, he says, who're in a similar predicament). Should I not be able to,
there'll be meetings to go to and new friends to be made. Let's see what
happens.
UPDATE 07/30/07: Hyphenated articulated my predicament well: "It's so hard when the thing you want to stay away from makes you feel so good on so many levels. Then too, you work in food and entertainment. You're required by the force of your job to be the life of the party. I hope everyone around you can get used to the new you and support you." I love that woman and I've never even met her in person. What would I do without her, and the other noders who've offered kind, supporting words?