An Expert’s Perspective on Whiskey and Wine

by Alyssa Stilley

The first time I drank a glass of cabernet was to impress a man. I was standing on the first floor of the restaurant we worked at, the warm wood floors and yellow incandescent lights reflecting off of the rows and rows of bottles in a room holding all the wine. The air outside was cool for a July night, and it was clear enough to see the stars through the stained-glass windows. It was hard not to feel watched by the walls and the paint.

He offered to let me try some of the wine we had circulating for that week, an effort for something else hidden behind the idea of work and “knowing our selections” better. He grabbed one bottle off the shelf; black with gold lettering. He talked about French barrels and cabernet sauvignon grapes as he twisted the opener into the top of the cork, and I didn’t realize I hadn’t spoken in a good fifteen minutes. It was eleven thirty at night and we were the only ones in the restaurant. He joked about how creepy it was at night in the old house and how he was happy to not be alone for once as he poured two glasses. I was happy not to be alone for once too, but I laughed as a response. He handed me my drink, our fingers grazing across the glass as he put it in my hand, and demonstrated how to swirl it just so to see the wine legs and what they meant. Next was to smell. You have to really stick your nose in it, he said, and he smiled as he held the glass up to his nose. I mimicked what he did, the smile too, and watched him watch my eyes. This one smelled fruitier and had hints of vanilla. It had an oak scent too, but the French, not the American, oak of course. I kept the same face, the smile left over from him looking at me, and nodded like I smelled anything like that. In barely more than a whisper, alright go ahead and taste it, he said. I watched him watch me put the glass to my lips and take a drink. 

It tasted like dirt. 

It took everything in me not to grimace; I could still feel him watching me even as he took a drink too. How was it? He asked. I lied and said it was good, then told the truth and said it was just different from what I had drank before. 

We sat there the rest of the night, sharing a bottle of wine with the dark oak desk sitting between us. I kept drinking, hiding pained expressions like when I drink coffee that is too bitter. I didn’t feel like I had to keep drinking, or even necessarily that I wanted to get drunk, but I was drunk off of the idea that I could drink a glass of cabernet and tell someone about the differences between sweet and dry, American and French oak. I liked that I could like what he talked about and that he looked at me when I listened to him. My chest felt warm and his lips were purple; I laughed a bit louder and more often, and so did he. He kept talking about the different wines while we sat: the merlots, zinfandels, red blends. He avoided the white wine and I asked why. Oh, I just usually like the reds the best. I told him I liked the reds the best too. We kept going, the back and forth of him talking and me listening, and I couldn’t place the feeling I felt when I said something and he laughed or smiled at me. I decided then that I would drink more red wine, convinced myself it was an acquired taste and that I would start to like it more and be able to appreciate it the way he appreciated it. If I learned more about these wines then he would look at me the way that I felt looking at him now. 

I’m sitting with my mom on the back patio of our house. The screened porch is casting fishnet shadows over my legs and it’s too hot. She asks how work was and I’m keeping a secret I don’t want to keep.  It’s almost 8 at night, with the sun still up, and my dad is sitting at the grill with the chicken legs we are having later. Do you want a glass of your red?, she asks. I think of the chilled red blend I have in the fridge, the sweetness of it. The moscato of innocence. I think I’ll have a glass of dad’s cab, I say instead. She grabs the top bridge of my book, pulling it down to see my face. That’s new, she says. I’m just trying something different, I say. I can hear her bare feet as they cross the kitchen floor to open the fridge for her pinot grigio. I go back to my book to hide the warmth in my cheeks that isn’t from the sun. 

I’m sitting with my legs crossed on the floor of my suitemate’s dorm. The Target Christmas lights along her wall have a few burned out bulbs. It’s snowing outside but I’m almost too warm in my shorts and sweatshirt. The four of us sit in a circle; I’m facing the window to see the buildings scrape the sky and the cars blare horns and flash red lights below our feet. The rug we are sitting on is old. There is a stain in the upper left corner from freshman year where I spilled pink moscato on it, but luckily my roommate didn’t care. Frank Ocean plays in the background from our TV that we crammed in the common space, and we get on with the conversation of men as we always do. I ask if they’ve ever tried red wine. Audrey said she tried it once, but preferred her vodka Red Bulls instead. Gretchen talks about the time she drank straight whiskey to seem cool for a guy a year younger than her. It seemed like something he would like, she said, but I got in over my head and had to immediately spit it out. I swear I burnt my tongue! I ended up spitting it all over him on accident. We laughed until our abs hurt, falling over each other deliriously, and the red wine I was drinking straight from the bottle almost came out of my nose. 

I’m sitting at the restaurant again. The manager’s desk is between us, but we lean in with every word and our glasses sit close enough on the table that our forearms are almost touching. I’m playing with the rim of my glass because I don’t know this wine and I can’t look at his eyes waiting for me to try it. It's a port, he says. It’s going to be way sweeter than you want it to be but just go for it. It’s almost August now and the air is colder than before. There are goosebumps on my shoulders. I catch his eye as he watches me lift the glass to my mouth, this time in less time because I’m not scared of grimacing anymore. It’s a ruby port, so it gives off the same color as my cabs, merlots, red blends, but it is sickening once it hits my nose. I’m tasting straight sugar and fighting back a cough as I choke it back. I keep my eyes locked with his and then finally glance away, careful not to incriminate myself. It’s good, I say, just a bit much at the start. He laughs at this, and the ringing in my head gets louder and I can look at anything but him. Yeah you could say that. He keeps his vision locked on me as he takes a sip too and the yellow lamp lights reflect off his glass and into the honey of his eyes. I’m warm in the chest again, although this time with too much caramel in my lungs. 

I’m standing in a bar on the north side. The music is blaring and I’m waiting to get a drink while trying to ignore the way my boots stick to the floor. The girl next to me is making out with the guy she just met and the air smells too hot, but I’m standing here anyways waiting for the bartender to look my way. The lights glimmer off of the bar top and the skylight in the ceiling, and it's dim enough that I almost don’t see the guy approaching me from the left.

He is as tall as me and looks me in the eyes when he asks my name. He tells the bartender to get him two lemon drop shots and I have to basically scream in his ear over the music: I’m drinking bourbon and don’t want to mix. He stares back at me, smiling with one side of his face and through his eyes like I just asked him to fuck me right there against the bar. Whiskey, huh? He asks. I smile and lick my lips. Yeah, whiskey and coke. He looks me up and down before turning around to the bartender and ordering two whiskey and cokes. He grimaces as he takes a sip of his drink, the grimace like bitter coffee, and pulls me closer. We walk to the dance floor and I meet the eyes of my friends who are already dancing with other people. He hovers over me as we dance to the music, the genres ranging from Queen to Doja Cat to a rap song I don’t know. He slurs his words a bit when he speaks to me. You know, you’re pretty intimidating. He says it like a compliment and I take it as one. Yeah, I know. In a hot way, though, he says. I just laugh as a response, careful not to spill my drink like he already did his over my shoes. I don’t say anything as he puts my number into his phone and I know I will ignore his messages the next morning. 

I don’t remember the first time I drank whiskey, but I do remember the second. My dad was sitting with me at the kitchen table he made of rough cut ash wood and we were quoting stupid jokes from History of the World Part One. My mom was making fun of us for laughing so hard because she didn’t think the jokes were funny, but frankly I don’t think we thought they were either. My brother was sitting on the edge of the table playing his band demos on my acoustic guitar and my sister was writing a paper. My grandpa stared into his bowl of pasta, his eyes glistening a bit too much. He raised his glass of bourbon, a toast of just one, and my dad poured me and him each a drink to join him. To family and Sunday nights, my grandpa said. Our glasses clinked and I grimaced at the burn as it went down my throat, but this time I laughed and enjoyed the warmth.

I’m sitting in my apartment after a double Sunday shift in July. The new restaurant I’m working at makes me wear all black even in the sun and the lights are fluorescent white all the time. I’m sitting in the red and tan corduroy chair I got from Goodwill and there are candles burning on the hardwood table. Billie Holiday is singing from Gretchen’s phone as she makes us a drink and I take my shoes off. She comes back with something clear, mint leaves floating along the top. Just try it, she says. I oblige, only because I got her the simple syrup and shaker on the way home tonight and want to see what she was so excited to make. It’s sweet and pungent and the mint sticks to my teeth. I grimace because the vodka is too strong and the syrup doesn’t do enough. There’s no warm burn. I set the drink on the coffee table and keep taking off my shoes, untying the laces to my boots. She stares at me, waiting to say something. You can say you don’t like it, you know? I know you’re more of a whiskey girl anyways. I laugh and say yeah, I think I prefer my whisky and wine. She stands up to grab my glass. As long as that’s what you like, she says as she walks away. She grabs me a glass of bourbon so we can talk about our day together. We both listen. 

I’m in my apartment and it’s almost Halloween. Paper bats make a trail along the wall from our TV playing Phoebe Bridgers through the speakers. The purple lights above our couch are tangled with fake cobwebs that almost get stuck in my friend Sunny’s hair. Kenzie is in the kitchen baking pumpkin bread and I’m almost dizzy with the smell of pumpkin and cinnamon and chocolate coming from the oven. The hard wood floors drink up the warmth of the yellow lamps in my living room and when Kenzie comes out with the finished loaf of bread she leaves only the hood light on. The lighting is dim but there are no shadows on the wall. The buildings outside arch into a skyline and create flickering stars in the window panes. I ask them what they want to drink. I have some merlot, a bit of cab, and I also picked up this sweet chilled red I thought you guys would like. I get to talk about how the chilled red is really nice because it has the weight of a deeper red wine but the sweetness of a moscato. It makes me feel like I’m drinking wine in a Roman pavilion next to a warm marble hearth on a Persian rug. They look at me excitedly and ask for two glasses. I pour the wine while Sunny slices the bread and Kenzie chooses a movie. We all three drink and eat and laugh at the love we see on the screen; they drink up the wine, getting warm in the face and I start to talk too loudly. I don’t worry if they watch me drink my cabernet.