I am ashamed to admit that I do not have a sophisticated palette. If I were blindfolded I could not tell a Chardonnay from a Cabernet although I have an unerring ability to differentiate between Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi. This does not win me many admirers.
That brings me to another shameful secret. I am addicted to Diet Coke; it’s my beverage of choice from the time I wake up (I hate coffee) until I go to bed (Herbal tea? I don’t think so.) I continually have to explain to people that no, I am not on a diet, I just really like the taste of Diet Coke.
My preference for Diet Coke sometimes becomes an issue when dining out. I am ashamed to admit that I’m so spineless that if I am eating out with friends, I will have a single glass of wine. I do this mainly because of peer pressure: it is easier to drink the wine than to explain why I prefer Diet Coke. I have friends who fancy themselves wine connoisseurs and are thrilled that I let them choose the wine. Of course I smack my lips and tell them it’s the best wine I’ve ever had; I don’t have the heart to tell them that it could be Ripple or Cold Duck for all I know.
This brings me to my last shameful secret: The men in my family are able to drink vast quantities of alcohol and never show it, but I missed that gene. One glass of wine and I get very sleepy. Two and I pass out. I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten to three glasses of wine, not that I remember, anyway.
This was demonstrated recently when my partner and I were at our favorite Mexican restaurant in New York City. On this particular night the restaurant was offering 2 for 1 pitchers of sangria. My partner loves a bargain, and he persuaded me that since I was not driving, I could have sangria. He pointed out that the pitchers were mainly filled with ice and getting 2 pitchers would actually save us money over buying individual glasses. This seemed an excellent idea, but with predictable results; I passed out in my flan, so my partner, who was too embarrassed to hail a taxi, had to support me on our walk back to the hotel – 40 blocks away. Midway there, it began to rain and, briefly regaining consciousness, I decided I needed some cardio work, forcing him to chase me down Lexington Avenue. By the time we got to the hotel he was supporting me again. By that time I had lapsed into an off-key rendition of “Stormy Weather.”
Hard as it may be to believe, that was not my low point. I reached my lowest point the night that we were with friends at a restaurant in Sonoma, CA where the locals not only drink wine for breakfast, they brush their teeth with it. I ordered a salad, my dinner and a Diet Coke. The restaurant went silent as the diners stared at the Philistine among them. The waiter, appalled, asked me what kind of wine I wanted. When I repeated my order for a Diet Coke, he cranked up a genuine sneer and said, “Chef does not prepare meals to be accompanied by Diet Coke. Perhaps some mineral water?”
Now I sneered. I was not about to pay $8.50 for bottle of water, and said so. The waiter was triumphant: “Then perhaps the gentleman would like some wine after all?”
I am truly ashamed of what I did next. “The gentleman is in Recovery,” I said. “You may tell the Chef.” At this, the waiter visibly deflated, turned, and ran. There was a Diet Coke in front of me within seconds.
I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day that I confessed to an addiction that I do not have to cover up an addiction that I do, but I console myself with the thought that unlike wine, Diet Coke comes with free refills. I am not only a Philistine, I am a cheap one at that.