Acquired Taste (first draft)

Red wine is not acquired taste. I have concluded that after countless Christmases when my father uncorks a dark full-bodied red and places it on the family table—the sight of which always triggered fear and dread. Papa seemed to have developed the best way to pour: slow and torturous. But it was enough time to craft the best excuse: I’m filling my tummy with roast, no space for wine! There are occasions when he would insist and I would have no choice. Sitting there on a Christmas Eve, with a half-filled glass in hand, I hate red wine. I hate wine.

Lele turned 18 when I had my first glass. Thirteen-year-old me was excited and thrilled because my father had allowed it. He believed that the best place to learn how to drink was at home, with family, where the most our dirty little drunken secrets could spill was at the table (or at the garden). Of course, this meant that my cousins and I’s explorations would result in us remembering our stupors over decades, hush hush at least.

Back then, my first red and the only one I’ve had was my father’s favorite: the Cabernet. Being the most famous red and the easiest to acquire had its disadvantage: It’s always available.

“It’s bitter,” I told my cousin after a sip.

“No its not,” she says snobbishly. “You’re just too young to appreciate it.” She laughed, with that annoying ladylike air.

How pretentious, I told myself. It really does taste bad! I approached Papa and told him red wine sucks. He had me try a white, which I can tolerate better. With ice I can gulp it down in one go because it tastes like lemon water.

When I turned fourteen the same year, I was finally allowed to stay out late and drink, albeit, only wine. Since I do not like wine, I ended up being the sober girl in my group of friends; the one whose responsibility was to take everyone home. Being allowed only one drink too meant I never got tipsy during my adolescence and I was okay with that.

Those nights opened two realities: One, I hate wine and two, but maybe I can like something else. Luckily, it’s not the only drink in the world.

When eighteen came, I closed my relationship with wine. I was allowed everything. I easily accepted the beer because everyone drinks beer. Beer was easy to like—thick and bubbly, slips through the throat easily without leaving any trace, and most of all, its best served cold. Drinking it off the bottle was cool and doing so made me feel modern. (Of course if you’re a girl you will be given a glass with ice. Discrimination!) I was too familiar with beer that once upon a time, I can take down nine bottles before hitting the sack.

Mid-college, a session with my cousins had me knowing the tequila intimately. Back then, I was secretly depressed over a boy, which my bestfriend similarly liked. My cousins, who were getting acquainted with Lele’s boyfriend were ready with the golden liquid. It was the first time I ever got drunk and it was magical. I laughed so hard that my throat ached. Tequila became my new bestfriend until the morning after, when it gave me back allergies that hurt when I took a shower. I never attempted to finish a bottle on my own again.

After college, I was serendipitously with a man who loved beer. He would never miss a local drink when he travels. His favorites were the Southeast Asian blends: the Angkor is a must, and so was the Bintang. He adored the latter and would even bring home a can—if he can sneak it in the plane. When eventually I could travel to those places he bragged too much back then, I found the Angkor overrated and lacking like our relationship; and the Bintang too strong like his ego. I still prefer the Pale.

Eventually, I would give up beer for vodka. Every writer I know favors the clear liquid, a self-medication for long depressive nights of scriptwriting. I, on the other hand, didn’t like it so much but took it anyway. Taken pure, it was everything the tequila was not: acidic with this deep alcoholic aftertaste. I studied how to tame the vodka until it became my new bestfriend and my waterloo—my blood seemed to devour it hungrily and I end up tipsy after a few shots.

But it was a good introduction for writing talks, which I shared with another writer. Our passion for the craft would lead to deeper unresolved tensions that would be washed away by vodka. He introduced me to the darkest liquors in the book, which I enjoyed while it lasted.

When I had a brief fling with a French gentleman, I was introduced to the Bordeaux, which was from the same grape variety as the Cabernet. I can tolerate the roughness of the Bordeaux better than the Cabernet, though. The exposure made me realize that maybe I do not hate wine at all. Of the numerous varieties in the world, there must be one for my palate. After all, I love grapes, raisins, plums, and berries.

I discovered the Shiraz and enjoyed the pepperiness of it. The Moscato was more refreshing than the Blanc. The Riesling became my favorite white and the dry one I use for cooking gambas. The options were limitless with wine and I liked that.

Last Christmas, I brought home a Chilean Cabernet. Papa poured a glass and we drank as my siblings put up the complicated choochoo train I gave my nephew. I twirled the glass and the scent of berries reached me. I, surprisingly, liked the smell of a Cabernet.

“No boyfriends coming this year?” he asked out of nowhere.

“I can bring one?”

“Tsk. About time you do.”

An awkward silence came and only broke with the roaring engine of the moving train. I laughed. Papa laughed. We drank the red. It tasted better than I anticipated.