The cocktail conspiracy

Now that the holidays are over I’ve unpacked my suitcase and have settled back into my beach chair. Being back in my milieu inspires profound thoughts, such as, “What does milieu mean?”

Hey, don’t ask me. I’ve got no idea what it means. But it sounds classy.

And that’s probably the only dose of class I’ve got to offer. Not that people haven’t tried to improve me on this score. They have.

In fact, over the holidays, I was the target of a cocktail conspiracy, as colleagues, friends, and family tried to refine my woefully unrefined palate.

I will admit that my taste buds are stuck in my college days. I still consider pizza to be the pinnacle of gastronomic accomplishment, though I’ll allow that a good cheeseburger is hard to beat.

And, more to the point here, the closest I get to a “cocktail” is a half-pint of flat beer on occasion. Sure, that’s a far cry from the chug-a-lug fun of college, but those days were never meant to last forever.

But, speaking of forever, I have always thought that anything stronger than beer tastes like turpentine. The lack of loft on my taste buds supposedly marks me as a man of low breeding, since I fail to appreciate the nuances of a vintage wine or the personality of a single-malt Scotch.

That’s why some well-meaning people think I’m missing out on the finer things in life.

Before Thanksgiving my wife and I attended an upper-crust wine tasting event, which came via an invite from big international bankers. For all its refined pedigree it was a casual affair, which is good since I left my silk ascot at the cleaners.

The people at the event were very nice, and I got to hobnob with gourmets (or whatever they’re called) from Hong Kong, Tokyo, and other fast-moving venues. These guys spend more on a bottle of wine than I did on my last car.

Many were surprisingly young; such are the fortunes of Asia’s up-and-coming hotshots. The old school was, of course, well-represented, too. As for me, when it comes to wine, I’m simply no-school. Fortunately, I’m a practiced hand at being respectfully deferential, which can wallpaper over a lot of rough spots. So I survived the event.

This was, however, just the first round in the cocktail conspiracy.

Shortly thereafter, a holiday trip landed us with old friends, one of whom is a refined gentleman with a well-schooled nose for Scotch. He, his wife, and my wife had compiled an assortment of various labels to sample and compare. This compilation was no last-minute thing but had, in fact, been in the works for quite some time.

So for that week all the grown ups, except me, were titillating their tongues with fine spirits after dinner. As for me, I watched zombie movies and ate popcorn with the kids.

But the year wasn’t over yet. As it drew to a close, my wife and father would enjoy a fine Scotch every evening during a visit. Me, I’d have a beer, but nobody wanted to talk about beer. No, they’d discuss Scotch. I shrank into utter invisibility. I felt like I should be wearing overalls and playing a banjo in the most distant corner of the room.

I fear that family references to me are given sotto voce as I’m twanging on my banjo safely out of earshot. Here’s what they are saying about me:

“Yeah, that’s Junior in the corner. He’s a bit dim, as you can see from his vacant expression. We just keep him around to fix the cars and to eat whatever won’t fit in the compost heap. Don’t worry, though, he doesn’t drool much, unless he smells ketchup.”

“Ketchup? How dreadfully plebeian.”

“Indeed.”

“Then I suppose offering him some Scotch is completely out of the question.”

“Completely. Last time somebody tried that, he bit them.”

“He got violent?”

“No. He got hungry. We forgot to compost last week.”

Well, that’s pretty much how 2013 ended up.

As you can see, despite the cocktail conspiracy, I didn’t accrue any equity in the “class” category. But, as a matter of principle I did procrastinate more than usual, so I figure that the year pretty much balanced out.

Which bring me back to this milieu thing. Whatever it is, I’m comfortable with it, and I’m not going to let any highfalutin’ bunch of snobs mess with it. So we’ll just set the milieu right here on the beach, next to the bag of potato chips, where we can keep an eye on it.

And then we’ll get on with the important things in life, like sitting in beach chairs and watching sunsets.