Farewell, oh, Bacchus

Following the massive gastric hemorrhage last March, which put me in the hospital for five days, I bid farewell to Bacchus who had me well in his protective embrace. My kind doctor advised me to refrain from wine.

I like wine better than beer or ale, or hard liquor. There was a time when I appreciated, in particular, martini and scotch. I was also habituated to aperitif and liqueur, like vermouth, cointreau, campari, and punt-e-mes, which I kept in stock, and sambuco and strega when I was out. I am not into cold beer in hot summer; at one point I learned to appreciate beer at room temperature the old-world Bohemian way that enhances its taste. But nothing beats them all like good dry red wine. I have always had social glass of wine through my adult life, that is, some 60-odd years. But it was in my first sojourn in Italy, 1960-61, that I acquired the habit of a daily glass of wine at the evening table -- a small glass. I was correct in having red with meat and white with fish for a while but progressively I liked red with any kind of cuisine. I never imbibed a lot; a bottle shared by two was the maximum. A glass a day, I firmly believed, was healthful.

I miss having a glass of wine at dinner, and I am melancholic about it. But I shed no tears parting with Bacchus. I was gradually broken into the new habit. When I started to live part-time in New York after retirement, I quit wine at dinner by circumstance as I frequented theater in the evening, and wine at dinner was too soporific. On the days of the week back home in Swarthmore, I kept up the good old habit. Since moving wholesale to New York, I go out theater-hopping almost every night, and I stopped having wine almost completely, that is to say, except on those evenings when I have no theater and go out to have dinner out with friends or to be an invited guest at a friend’s place.

The doctor’s advice was to refrain; she did not say I should abstain. So, I cheat. At a dinner out with a friend, we order the same wine and ask for an extra glass so that I allow myself a half glass and ask my companion to finish the other half. And, oh, it tastes so good -- like any forbidden fruit. As a good Asian, I glow fire-engine red very quickly, so even with a half glass I can appear cheerfully inebriated as though I had several glasses and thus congenially social at a party.

I haven’t really dismissed Bacchus; I am still waving at him in the distance.