An Apology for Demon Rum

I'm pretty sure “demon” isn't the right epithet. I know about the “moderate” use of spirits and the virtues of red wine, and I’m familiar with the dubious advantages of extra relaxation and reduction of inhibitions. Those aren’t the qualities I'm thinking of. Drink can be a great tool for assessing character.

As a wonderful elderly friend used to say, “Comparisons are odious,” so I try not to indulge in them too often, but sometimes I can't help myself. For instance, when I read a certain kind of supposedly sophisticated fiction, I often feel a glow of satisfaction if I spot some reference to a foreign city I've visited or a wine I’ve tasted. I'll remember that when, as recently happened, it was drink what was on offer or go thirsty (and the weather was pretty warm.) I really did find the celebrated local product was worse than anything I had ever imagined would be bottled and sold.

I’m equally embarrassed when a similar reference leaves me out in the cold because I never heard of it. That’s when I decide it’s time to begin reading the weekly wine column in the daily paper. I’ll never be an expert, but it’s like doing crossword puzzles. If you guess right, it makes you puff up a little.

One thing I’ve learned, however, is the danger of becoming a doctrinaire pain in the usual place about wine. I honestly do prefer white over red with some food, and the reverse with other food. I know perfectly well that one should drink what one likes, and the experts be damned, but since I think they’re right most of the time, I’ve had to learn to keep my mouth shut and go along with the crowd, say in a restaurant where a bottle is the only sensible purchase, and there are too few of us to order more than one. Especially important if I’m the only one who doesn’t like the choice.

After all, as a dear French friend commented years ago when my husband and I took him to see the oldest vineyard in the US, “Oh, wine is not poison.” Maybe not, but you couldn’t tell from the samples at the tasting counter. Or maybe it was one weekend when he was visiting. I'd put together lunch from leftover lobster (sic!). I was teaching at the time, and a grateful (?) graduate had brought us a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé. We were saving such a treasure for a special occasion. We discovered to our chagrin on a Sunday morning that it was the only white wine in the house, so we stuffed it in the freezer to chill.

The bottle was nicely misted when my husband applied the corkscrew. The glass was green, so we didn’t much consider what was inside, until it flowed into the first glass. It looked exactly like iced tea. Then we checked the year on the label. It was ten years old. Maybe it was then that poor Gabriel made his wonderfully ambivalent remark. The lobster salad was good, and after a glass each, we drank the rest, as I remember. As you can tell, he was right; it wasn’t poison.

It upsets me when the occasional teetotaler who isn’t a recovering alcoholic expresses horror over the consumption of alcohol. I keep wanting to remind that person that Jesus turned water into wine, not the reverse. Like most people who have lived as long as I have, I’ve seen some pretty terrible ravages wrought by overindulgence, so I have to remind myself to be tolerant. What I object to, though, is the inability of people on the other side to do the same.

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An Apology for Demon Rum

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