syncategorematic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
syncategorematic) wrote2010-07-25 09:41 am
syncategorematic) wrote2010-07-25 09:41 am
Entry tags:
Where angels fear to tread, I say 'Choose your booze! Let's hit the red eye!'
Got a surprising amount of stuff I wanted to do done yesterday, despite reading comic book discussions and guitar magazines, and having a few things go pete tong.
So I promised to tell the sangria story, of how Spain finally drove me to drink.
I generally do not drink. It used to be, through my high school and early undergrad years, that I did not drink at all, not a drop. The reasons for that are several, and I will not go into all of them here. It was mainly Consuelo who had, during a party at her home for the Language Acquisition Lab folk, persuaded me to at least have red wine with dinner, as it was very good. I had half a glass, then spilled it, and figured that was my limit.
Since then, I've had half-glasses at some parties and play openings, allowing that I may, just may, take up drinking wine someday. I am not interested in beer at all, especially since my biologist brother explained what goes on in the metabolism of it (one the reasons that I can mention for my general avoidance of alcohol, is that I live by my wits, and know that my brain is a very delicate system with a lot of very hardworking neurotransmitters doing a very complex job. I would not think well of myself for interfering with them trying to do it. My brain can be a very fun place, on good days, and it has done some cool things and hopes to do many cool things more, and I don't want to ruin it in ignorance.)
My brother, though, drinks beer himself, as well as wine. So in Spain, he had gone clubbing twice, and drinking in moderation. Apparently when he had asked the bartender for a good Spanish beer, the bartender laughed in his face; there isn't any good Spanish beer. To test this theory, during one of our grocery shopping trips, my brother did pick up two cans of different Spanish beers. Apparently they were both dreck, one dreckier than the other; one ended up in the hotel toilet after one gulp, and the other after half a can. We apologize to the hotel plumbing.
At that time, though, in the grocery store, tall rounded-triangular bottles of blue glass caught my eye, of something called "Real Sangria" (since that's in Spanish, that's Real-Royal as in Real Madrid, not real-real as in real analysis.) It was only 1.89 euros (and in the European style, I was inclined to type in a comma) and a whoppingly low 7.5% alcohol, (it did not feature any fruit, but mentioned that it was made out of red wine) so on the last day, we bought it, and I poured myself a half-glass in the hotel water glass.
I did not expect much, from hearing from wine snobs previously, of a 1.89-euro 3.75-proof wine. I am not a wine snob, obviously, but as they say about art, "I may not know much about art, but I know what I like," and, not knowing what to look for in a wine, I tasted it...and liked it.
The taste was pleasant and surprisingly interesting. Maybe I am missing something with respect to red wines. Maybe I can grow to like them. Call the sangria a gateway drug if you will.
The day of our departure from Madrid, we finished the sangria early in the morning so as not to pack it, and I laughed at us for starting drinking before breakfast. Of course, given the weak alcohol content, I did not notice any symptoms of intoxication in myself, not that I know what those look like. Theoretically, pop-sci-genetically, I should have inherited from my Russian ancestors one of the world's best genetic makeups for ethanol tolerance, not that I intend to test that by attacking triple eau de cologne.
But I can grow to like, half a glass at a time, this red wine thing.
And I decided to do so by asking for red wine with the plane meal, and trying it.
It was an Argentinean 'viejo' wine, was all I saw, looked like it cost more than 1.89 euros --- and it was dreck.
Seriously. The sangria was about eight to ten times better. At least I now know that red-wine-based things can taste good.
But I get slightly ahead of the story by telling it thematically rather than chronologically. In the Madrid airport, on the bloody fifth place I approached (some of which stamped my paperwork, some of which just directed me further) I finally got the VAT on my netbook refunded, in cold hard (soft and papery, actually) euros, and now we faced having to make the most of our euros now, because they are of little use in Canada. So my brother and I went to the duty-frees, got a pair of earrings for me, a box of chocolates for my older brother, and some alcohol for my family, because like the other food, alcohol is really cheap in Spain relative to Canada.
We checked the Internet on the smartphone as to Canada's duty-exempted alcohol amounts, and it was less than we thought, but allowed us something slightly more than a litre each. So my brother picked a litre of Smirnoff vodka, which was 10.90 euros, and we were looking at the other vodkas...
"We might as well try Gray Goose," I said. "I've heard it said this is among the best vodkas in existence. It's expensive, yes, but less so than in Canada, and I have enough euros left, I'll swing it."
So my brother had a litre of the Smirnoff in his bag, and I, who doesn't even drink vodka ever, had a litre of Gray Goose, bought on reputation, in mine, which I did not intend to drink; it will be going in my brother's checked luggage in Toronto, to take to Ottawa to our parents.
It did occur to us that our metal water bottles we had been using throughout the trip are conveniently a liter in volume each. However, we joked about it but it wasn't worth the trouble.
That was the first time that I had imported alcohol into the country, obviously, but customs did not give me trouble over the Gray Goose; they gave me trouble over the netbook. I had filled in on my declaration card a rounded-off euro amount I had spent, including the netbook, and the girl in the customs row asked me about it. I freely named the netbook and the Gray Goose. Among other things she asked was "When was the last time you had been in Spain?"
"1998," I replied. So obviously, if I'm running a smuggling ring, it's one with a very extended timeline.
"Did you travel with anyone else?"
"With my brother, who had just cleared Gate 9 (the one next to hers) a few minutes ago."
She asked a few more questions, and then wrote on my declaration card R26. The officer at the end of that customs room looked at my brother's card, R11, and waved him through, and looked at mine and told me to go around into another room.
So with my luggage, I did so, into a minimalist clone of the customs section, where a young man looked at my card and asked me about where I had been in Spain; I replied Madrid. Where did I stay? I named the hotel. Who was I with? I said my brother, who had gone through customs already as well. What was it like? I mentioned the World Cup festivities briefly. When were you last there? 1998, on a school trip (that is an oversimplification, but yes; the main point was that yeah, untenable business model for a contraband ring; he could see my passport, so if he wanted to he could do some quick mental math as to how old I must have been.) What did you buy? A netbook and one liter of vodka. How much was the netbook? About 250 euros, and less than that because I got the tax refunded. Would you happen to have the receipt with you?
"As a matter of fact," I said, trimphant after having run around with that bloody receipt and paperwork through five instances in Barajas airport, "I do." It wasn't in my purse, but it was at the top of my backpack, and I hand it over to him.
He verified that yes, it was 249 euros, shrugged, and sent me on my way, to go out into the arrivals lounge and finally find my brother. And find a place to pass the Gray Goose to my brother.
So that, ladies and gentlemen, were my adventures in the great world of those who like ethanol.
So I promised to tell the sangria story, of how Spain finally drove me to drink.
I generally do not drink. It used to be, through my high school and early undergrad years, that I did not drink at all, not a drop. The reasons for that are several, and I will not go into all of them here. It was mainly Consuelo who had, during a party at her home for the Language Acquisition Lab folk, persuaded me to at least have red wine with dinner, as it was very good. I had half a glass, then spilled it, and figured that was my limit.
Since then, I've had half-glasses at some parties and play openings, allowing that I may, just may, take up drinking wine someday. I am not interested in beer at all, especially since my biologist brother explained what goes on in the metabolism of it (one the reasons that I can mention for my general avoidance of alcohol, is that I live by my wits, and know that my brain is a very delicate system with a lot of very hardworking neurotransmitters doing a very complex job. I would not think well of myself for interfering with them trying to do it. My brain can be a very fun place, on good days, and it has done some cool things and hopes to do many cool things more, and I don't want to ruin it in ignorance.)
My brother, though, drinks beer himself, as well as wine. So in Spain, he had gone clubbing twice, and drinking in moderation. Apparently when he had asked the bartender for a good Spanish beer, the bartender laughed in his face; there isn't any good Spanish beer. To test this theory, during one of our grocery shopping trips, my brother did pick up two cans of different Spanish beers. Apparently they were both dreck, one dreckier than the other; one ended up in the hotel toilet after one gulp, and the other after half a can. We apologize to the hotel plumbing.
At that time, though, in the grocery store, tall rounded-triangular bottles of blue glass caught my eye, of something called "Real Sangria" (since that's in Spanish, that's Real-Royal as in Real Madrid, not real-real as in real analysis.) It was only 1.89 euros (and in the European style, I was inclined to type in a comma) and a whoppingly low 7.5% alcohol, (it did not feature any fruit, but mentioned that it was made out of red wine) so on the last day, we bought it, and I poured myself a half-glass in the hotel water glass.
I did not expect much, from hearing from wine snobs previously, of a 1.89-euro 3.75-proof wine. I am not a wine snob, obviously, but as they say about art, "I may not know much about art, but I know what I like," and, not knowing what to look for in a wine, I tasted it...and liked it.
The taste was pleasant and surprisingly interesting. Maybe I am missing something with respect to red wines. Maybe I can grow to like them. Call the sangria a gateway drug if you will.
The day of our departure from Madrid, we finished the sangria early in the morning so as not to pack it, and I laughed at us for starting drinking before breakfast. Of course, given the weak alcohol content, I did not notice any symptoms of intoxication in myself, not that I know what those look like. Theoretically, pop-sci-genetically, I should have inherited from my Russian ancestors one of the world's best genetic makeups for ethanol tolerance, not that I intend to test that by attacking triple eau de cologne.
But I can grow to like, half a glass at a time, this red wine thing.
And I decided to do so by asking for red wine with the plane meal, and trying it.
It was an Argentinean 'viejo' wine, was all I saw, looked like it cost more than 1.89 euros --- and it was dreck.
Seriously. The sangria was about eight to ten times better. At least I now know that red-wine-based things can taste good.
But I get slightly ahead of the story by telling it thematically rather than chronologically. In the Madrid airport, on the bloody fifth place I approached (some of which stamped my paperwork, some of which just directed me further) I finally got the VAT on my netbook refunded, in cold hard (soft and papery, actually) euros, and now we faced having to make the most of our euros now, because they are of little use in Canada. So my brother and I went to the duty-frees, got a pair of earrings for me, a box of chocolates for my older brother, and some alcohol for my family, because like the other food, alcohol is really cheap in Spain relative to Canada.
We checked the Internet on the smartphone as to Canada's duty-exempted alcohol amounts, and it was less than we thought, but allowed us something slightly more than a litre each. So my brother picked a litre of Smirnoff vodka, which was 10.90 euros, and we were looking at the other vodkas...
"We might as well try Gray Goose," I said. "I've heard it said this is among the best vodkas in existence. It's expensive, yes, but less so than in Canada, and I have enough euros left, I'll swing it."
So my brother had a litre of the Smirnoff in his bag, and I, who doesn't even drink vodka ever, had a litre of Gray Goose, bought on reputation, in mine, which I did not intend to drink; it will be going in my brother's checked luggage in Toronto, to take to Ottawa to our parents.
It did occur to us that our metal water bottles we had been using throughout the trip are conveniently a liter in volume each. However, we joked about it but it wasn't worth the trouble.
That was the first time that I had imported alcohol into the country, obviously, but customs did not give me trouble over the Gray Goose; they gave me trouble over the netbook. I had filled in on my declaration card a rounded-off euro amount I had spent, including the netbook, and the girl in the customs row asked me about it. I freely named the netbook and the Gray Goose. Among other things she asked was "When was the last time you had been in Spain?"
"1998," I replied. So obviously, if I'm running a smuggling ring, it's one with a very extended timeline.
"Did you travel with anyone else?"
"With my brother, who had just cleared Gate 9 (the one next to hers) a few minutes ago."
She asked a few more questions, and then wrote on my declaration card R26. The officer at the end of that customs room looked at my brother's card, R11, and waved him through, and looked at mine and told me to go around into another room.
So with my luggage, I did so, into a minimalist clone of the customs section, where a young man looked at my card and asked me about where I had been in Spain; I replied Madrid. Where did I stay? I named the hotel. Who was I with? I said my brother, who had gone through customs already as well. What was it like? I mentioned the World Cup festivities briefly. When were you last there? 1998, on a school trip (that is an oversimplification, but yes; the main point was that yeah, untenable business model for a contraband ring; he could see my passport, so if he wanted to he could do some quick mental math as to how old I must have been.) What did you buy? A netbook and one liter of vodka. How much was the netbook? About 250 euros, and less than that because I got the tax refunded. Would you happen to have the receipt with you?
"As a matter of fact," I said, trimphant after having run around with that bloody receipt and paperwork through five instances in Barajas airport, "I do." It wasn't in my purse, but it was at the top of my backpack, and I hand it over to him.
He verified that yes, it was 249 euros, shrugged, and sent me on my way, to go out into the arrivals lounge and finally find my brother. And find a place to pass the Gray Goose to my brother.
So that, ladies and gentlemen, were my adventures in the great world of those who like ethanol.
no subject
If you can find it in your part of the world, you might try Evodia Garnacha (http://www.google.com/products?q=evodia+garnacha&rls=com.microsoft:en-us:IE-SearchBox&oe=&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=3UFMTOGlM9CMnQf5lanYCw&sa=X&oi=product_result_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CCUQrQQwAA). My mother doesn't care for heavy or strong wines, but wanted a bottle for after dinner when I was visiting this spring. So I bought a bottle of Evodia, which is one of my current favorites. The next day, we returned to the liquor store and she bought a case of it. =D
It's worth a try, at least, if you're interested in dipping your toes into the wine pool. I'm interested to hear if you try more wines, and what you think of them.
no subject
Given that I live alone and don't entertain much, and socially I've been conditioned that alcohol is for socializing --- the thought of telling I bought a bottle to drink alone feels a lot like telling about masturbation :).
no subject
Having a bottle of wine stoppered on the counter, just waiting for me to pour it, is a delightful thing.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Australian shiraz is often a safe starter red. I find Aussi reds to be smooth usually. I'm presently drinking Cabernet Franc, Merlot (with food, a heavier wine usually), and sometimes Pinot Noir... mostly from Canada. I've also had decent luck with Chilean reds. I'm told that France and Italy are good places for reds too but I don't have much experience with them.
I'm a port lover. It's fortified and yummy. I also enjoy the odd glass of Madeira but I don't recommend that to a beginner.
Sangria (punch) is sweetened and fortified usually. Sweet wines are easier to get into when one is learning to drink wines. This is why people usually start with whites and move to reds (whites are sweeter, reds are drier).
I was planning on mixing up some sangria this week.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject