Sobriety Makes Me Angry. I Have Reasons.
Recently I went somewhere amazing for dinner. It was a special occasion, and I deserved a treat, so I went high end. Like waiting list high end. Not just legendary, the bomb. So, you can imagine how I felt. Doors swishing open to achingly tasteful décor, plush carpet yielding like wet grass at a summer wedding, whispered conversations, tinkling glasses, a breathtaking view. Oh yeah, baby, look at me, I’m a fucking rock star. So I’m eagerly flicking through the pages of the menu when, suddenly, it all comes crashing down. I don’t belong here.
Ok, just so we’re clear: it’s not like I’m not presentable enough. I am. Or at least, on this occasion, I was. And it’s not like I can’t afford it. I’m not about to do a runner or offer to pay by washing up. And I definitely don’t eat with my hands. Unless it’s chips, at the beach. I’m a normal person. Except, as far as the hospitality industry is concerned, I’m not. What I am, apparently, is a monster. A freak. For I, my friends, am sober. Two years sober, to be precise. And I am here, in this incredible restaurant, to celebrate my sober anniversary. An incredible achievement, of which I am rightly proud. Yet amongst all the myriad, wonderous beverages on offer — and I’m talking an inch-thick drink menu here — there is not one soft drink. Zero. Zip. Nada.
Don’t worry, they say. We can make you anything. You just have to ask, they say. It’s not a problem. No. I know it’s not. But yet. But yet. It feels like one. And let me tell you, I am absolutely sick of this bullshit. I’m sick of places that totally, absolutely, wilfully, miss the point. And a place like this? It’s not like they can’t afford the paper. Just tag a teeny list at the end. After all, they can make space for the £500+ Premier Crus and the £65 shots of vintage brandy. But they can’t list a ginger beer? Give me strength.
I’m not asking for much. I’m not demanding elaborate mocktails. Those, I’m afraid, really are unicorns, although why exactly? After all, if a bartender can make a decent alcoholic cocktail, they can make a good non-alcoholic one. And I should know, I was an enthusiastic mixologist myself. Hence the sobriety. I make amazing drinks still, believe me. But that’s not what I’m after at all — I simply don’t want to have to ask.
Let me rewind a bit here. I’m sure by this point you think I am one of those sober people. The judgy, hectoring, superior ones. The ones that look at you pityingly at bottomless brunches. I’m not. I couldn’t give a shit whether you drink or don’t drink. You want to slut drop 8 drinks in? I’ll film you from the best angle. Want to gossip indiscreetly about your friends in the toilet queue? I’m here for it. Will I remember everything that happened tonight? Too fucking right I will, especially the clumsy pass your husband just made. Will I tell everyone? Use my clear-headed, 20:20, only sane person in a madhouse vision against you? No. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. Alright, fine, I am a little bit judgy, lack of hangovers tend to do that to a person, but the point I’m making is this: You, resolutely, can do you, so please, for the love of God, let me do me.
Look, I’m not an idiot. I know that the fact that I don’t drink makes people uncomfortable. After all, I live in the UK, a nation of undisputed Olympic Gold medal winning binge-drinkers. A society with huge class issues around alcohol. Where bottles of Grand Reserve at a business dinner is socially acceptable, but a tin of cider on a park bench is absolutely not. Where yummy mummies hand wring over their iced G&Ts at playdates, engaging in the kind of day-drinking that, if anywhere else, would merit one of their fundraisers. But also where asking for the soft drink menu gets the same horrified reaction as would asking for the blood of a freshly sacrificed infant. Tell me, why exactly is giving up alcohol something I am constantly justifying?
Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier if I just wore a fucking badge — “No, I’m not an alcoholic, but thank you so much for your unsolicited opinion”. My sobriety is a personal choice. I wanted to stop, so I did. And I’m not alone. In 2017, over 20% of the UK population identified as teetotal, and for all kinds of reasons. But not, Mr. Condescending Sommelier, because I haven’t found the right wine yet and need your guidance. I spent a year in Bordeaux and have a cellar full of the finest, thanks for asking.
So here I am in the restaurant. What to do? Pull a Karen and talk to the manager? Play nice and not make a fuss? What would you do? Obviously, I stayed. The food there is amazing, and I’d been on the waitlist forever. Did it spoil the evening? No. Well, not exactly. Certainly, suppressing the rage I felt making everyone else feel better did add a certain je ne sais quoi to my palate. And I did enjoy myself. I did. But did I call them afterwards? Yes. And do you know what they did? They promised to make changes. Probably to their reservation system so I can’t book again, I imagine, but that’s fine, because, from now on, I’ll be taking my custom elsewhere.
Where? Well, if you want to know that, hit me up so I can ask personal, invasive, unnecessary questions about why you don’t drink first. Joking.
