Belgians and Pinots

When I was younger, I could eat anything. For that matter, I could drink pretty much anything as well. I suppose you might say I was indiscriminate—except for beer, which I hated. If someone told me that a certain wine was a good vintage I took their word for it. I had to. Unless it was sweet, I couldn’t tell much in the way of subtle differences. Lost on me, I’m afraid.

I learned to like beer as a defense mechanism when I was in graduate school. After class, the group went down to a pub right on Lake Union (I went to the University of Washington) for discussions and arguments around a pitcher. I’m not even sure that the pub had much beyond hard liquor and beer. It must have, but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to be the only one asking. The first beer I liked was Coors, which is about as close to drinking air as possible. Once I had the taste, though, I could drink the others and even went so far as Nut Brown Ale. There it stopped and still does. I can’t bring myself to try Guinesss.

Same thing happened with wine. When I was an undergraduate at the University of Hawaii, lots of students were drinking things like Apple wine, sort of a fruit juice with a kick. We did have our standards though. We never drank Ripple—that was reserved for liquor store clients with brown paper sacks. But we did drink stuff that was so sweet that even now I cringe when I think of it.

I graduated to more subtle stuff through margaritas. I remember one day going to a Mexican restaurant in Honolulu with my best friend Kimi and downing a pitcher of margaritas between us. We walked straight when we left too. I doubt that my liver has forgiven me for that even now although I take guilty pride about having accomplished it even as I suspect that the margaritas were watered down. But there’s no way I could do that today. I was never a heavy drinker anyway, but I know what will happen if I try to drink even one glass.

But it’s not just my capacity for alcohol that has changed with the years. It is also my taste. I don’t like sweet things as much as I once did. I also don’t like lots of competing flavors. I want smooth and subtle tastes now. My doc told me this a natural part of aging—sort of a rearrangement of body functions like the arthritic knobs on my fingers. To me it is an inconvenience of major proportions because what I enjoy now inevitably costs much more. I like the Belgium beers, which cost about as much for one bottle as for a domestic six pack. Same thing with wine. If I drink the cheaper stuff, I get a headache. My local wine shop says it’s the sulfites in the mass produced wines. The owner now points out to me bottles of wine around $15 with the assurance that they have been “made as if they are more expensive.” Sigh.

I hadn’t thought that getting old was going to be so expensive and discouraging. And it’s not only wine. Through the years I have developed intolerance for rice, preservatives, and peppers. Consider the tragedy when you love Asian food, cannot eat most breads except for the (expensive) artisan breads, and live in the midst of some of the best Tex-Mex food in the country. Add to that the need to avoid cholesterol and fats. And I’m sorry—fake eggs just don’t taste the same. Occasionally I mutiny and have green chili stew. That night I listen to subterranean rumbles and gobble Tums for the heartburn. Sigh again.

Just listen to me! Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m turning into my worst stereotype of people my age: finicky, querulous, and self-absorbed. I guess when one of those thoughts crosses my mind, I’d better go have a glass of Belgium beer or a glass of subtle, smooth Oregon pinot noir.