Confessions of a Nonalcoholic, Part II

Continued from Confessions of a Nonalcoholic, Part I

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As I embarked on a post-college career, the peer pressure lightened as my friends realized that there was more to alcohol than imbibing it as quickly and cheaply as possible.  But as irony would have it, I chose a path that would keep booze inextricably tied to my career.  Restaurant publicity is not without its many tasty perks, and I relished in the many opportunities I had to learn about food and beverage.  There was much to soak in about the world of wine, handcrafted beer and artisanal cocktails, all of which I immensely enjoyed — by the ounce.

It soon became clear that my nonalcoholism would catch up to me.  I distinctly remember a conversation I had soon after starting my job.  The topic was media dinners.

“You can handle your alcohol, right?  I’ve known people who get a little too crazy after a few cocktails.  It’s still a professional setting.”

“Sure, I can handle myself,” I replied. By not drinking.

And so I sipped my way halfheartedly through media dinners, wine and beer tastings, happy hours and all sorts of cocktail parties where colleagues reveled in the free-flowing drinks.  Being a part of the restaurant business, I’ve always felt obligated to order a drink even though I know I can’t finish it.  I love watching a good bartender showcase top-notch mixing skills, or having a sommelier pair the perfect beer or wine.  I did my best to hide my affliction, always dutifully drinking as much as I could before I secretly abandoned the glass.

It wasn’t long before colleagues started to notice.   My friend Caroline on Crack was the first to call me out during a trip to V-vin, the bar at Valentino in Santa Monica.  We were there for the cocktails, Caroline’s specialty, and to be a good sport, I scanned the cocktail list looking for the tamest one I could find.  I settled on the Frizzantino, a cocktail listed as strawberries muddled with balsamic and mixed with lemonade and Prosecco.  I can handle a schmancy bellini as long as I eat, I thought.  The bartender, extremely nice but completely unaware, said he was going to make me his special version.

“But I don’t want a special version,” I admitted. “I’m sort of a lightweight.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll keep it light for you.”  He handed me a bright red drink now imbued with rum and Vermouth.  Damnit.

Even after noshing on a plate of gnocchi with Caroline, the telltale flush began creeping into my face.  “Will you finish this for me?”   She looked astonished.  “You haven’t even drank a quarter of it!”  “I know!  I warned him not to put rum in it…”

Caroline took a picture for posterity — my infamous quarter-finished cocktail now lives on as a subtle link on her blog.

***

In some cases, Asian Red Face was not a sufficient enough excuse for some of my friends and colleagues.  “I know plenty of Asians that get red,” they would retort.  “They can drink more than you can.  You just have to build up a tolerance.”  My weak “I can’ts” were dismissed as cop-outs.

I soon met Stevie, an instant friend and dining buddy who was fearless in his taste for great eats.  On his trips to LA (he lives in NY), we hit everything from sushi in West LA to dim sum in Alhambra to trendy hotspots in Venice and West Hollywood.  I soon discovered that we shared the same problem: genetics.  Stevie, who is also Chinese, would get many of the same symptoms I did after drinking.

As it turns out, there is more to Asian Red Face than just blushing.  As a recent article in the New York Times explained:

The flushing response, which may be accompanied by nausea and a rapid heartbeat, is caused mainly by an inherited deficiency in an enzyme called ALDH2, a trait shared by more than a third of people of East Asian ancestry — Japanese, Chinese or Koreans. As little as half a bottle of beer can trigger the reaction.  The deficiency results in problems in metabolizing alcohol, leading to an accumulation of a toxin called acetaldehyde in the body. People with two copies of the gene responsible have such unpleasant reactions that they are unable to consume large amounts of alcohol.

Stevie learned early on to be confident about his nonalcoholism.  “No thanks.”  It was that simple.

I soon began adopting his nonchalance and stopped ordering drinks for appearances.  “I’ll have a Diet Coke” and “Water’s fine” were accompanied with a smile and a thank you.  When alcohol was an inevitable part of an event or dinner — as it always is at restaurant PR functions — I stopped pressuring myself into drinking more than the few sips I needed to taste it.  I grew more self-assured over time, and it wasn’t long before people stopped asking questions.

Was it this easy all along?

This past November, I took the first step in embracing my nonalcoholism.  Robby and I were at Daniel in New York, placing drink orders to accompany a meal of a lifetime. We contemplated wine, as Robby surely would have been able to drink most of it, but he had his eye on The Revolutionary, a bourbon and absinthe cocktail.  “I’ll have that,” he said.

“And you, miss?”

I looked up our waitress and smiled.  “I’ll take the virgin mojito.”

“Great choice, miss.  I’ll have them right away.”