ATLANTA — My wife and I used to own a house that had a beautiful built-in liquor cabinet made from polished blond willow. The previous owners had it custom designed by a Finnish woodworking student and seemed to regret leaving it behind.
When this older couple asked to visit the house after we moved in, they both lingered by the liquor cabinet.
"Your kids are still so young," said the wife, sweetly caressing its door with her hand. "But when they grow up, you'll be happy we installed this lock."
With difficulty, we stifled the urge to drop to the floor laughing until after they left. It was odd to think this woman looked at our precious 2-year-old and saw her slamming white Russians in her future.
Even odder to us was the thought of investing such emotion in a liquor cabinet. We kept a little wine, and there may have been a bottle of whiskey somewhere in the kitchen. But the liquor cabinet itself became a place to store board games, and not under lock and key.
Maybe for people from an older generation the liquor cabinet was a key household feature. My parents had two. The "hard" one was an out-of-reach cabinet above the fridge where the bottles of gin, rum, scotch, Canadian Club and sour mix were kept.
The "soft" one was on a rolling drawer in the living room credenza and held a variety of liqueurs, the "good bottle" of scotch and assorted glassware. My dad could usually talk any dinner guest into an after-dinner thimbleful of Grand Marnier or Frangelico though not the Mohawk Crème de Banana that sat there, unopened, for the better part of two decades.
I didn't learn this lesson until recently. When we had guests over for dinner I usually served champagne to start, switched to still wine and then kept offering more until everyone felt bleary and oversated.
Recently I tried a new tactic. As my wife and friends sat out on the back deck after dinner one recent evening, I went to the "liquor cabinet" (i.e., the top shelf in our kitchen pantry) to see what I could offer. The choices weren't great: red vermouth, Irish whiskey, cachaça or a gift bottle of dulce de leche liqueur we had never opened. Well ...
I brought out the whiskey and some little cut crystal glasses we had inherited from a great aunt, and then talked everyone into having a drop. How nice.
The warming alcohol made for such a welcome rejoinder to both the cooling air and excess of food we had all eaten. That shared sip was like a coda at the end of a song — an extended moment to appreciate the ending.
Why have I lived my adult life thus far and never appreciated the perfectly great ritual of the after-dinner drink?
By not having a liquor cabinet, it seems, I had thrown the bath water out with the baby.
Now I'm slowly collecting bottles. I still have no place to store them, so they will stay in the pantry until I bring them down for guests. I suppose we could get set up a tray on a stand in the living room, but that just seems a little twee. And, well, we do have teenagers now.
John Kessler writes for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. E-mail: jkessler AT ajc.com