Part 2
Who Gets to Drink What?
The Myth of “Men’s” and “Women’s” Drinks
Chapter 1
Can You Understand a Person by the Drink They Choose?
The Story of a Chance Encounter in Denver
Prologue
On a warm summer evening in Denver, Colorado, a group of friends gathered for a casual get-together by the pool.
Nothing unusual.
Several married couples. A few people who had come alone. Most of them were roughly the same age—thirty, forty, perhaps a little older. Old enough not to treat every party as the event of the year, but still young enough to enjoy evenings like this.
The hosts had taken care of the traditional American part of the gathering: the grill, meat, salads, ice, plates and glasses, nonalcoholic drinks, and everything else needed for a pleasant summer evening.
The guests were responsible for the alcohol. Someone brought wine. Someone else brought craft beer. Bottles of bourbon appeared, along with tequila, gin, several liqueurs, rosé, and even an assortment of cocktail ingredients.
Some of the bottles gradually made their way onto a long table beside the pool. Others remained chilling in large plastic tubs filled with ice.
Summer evening in Denver. Wine, bourbon, cocktails, beer, and conversations by the pool no longer follow the old rules. Yet questions about what is considered “masculine” or “feminine” have never entirely disappeared
And that was when someone unexpectedly noticed an interesting detail.
The women were casually pouring themselves whiskey. The men were reaching for well-chilled rosé, which seemed almost ideal in the ninety-degree heat.
One of the guests—a serious university professor whom most people knew as an exceptionally rational and reserved man—was enthusiastically mixing brightly colored cocktails and decorating them with slices of citrus fruit.
No one seemed particularly surprised. And yet, at the same time, the scene was intriguing. Only a few decades earlier, it would have looked rather unusual.
— Not so long ago, our grandparents—and even our parents—had very definite ideas about which drinks were considered ‘masculine’ and which were considered ‘feminine,’—someone remarked.
The conversation suddenly came alive. Almost everyone had a personal story, an observation, or an example to contribute.
And it quickly became clear that the question was far more interesting than it first appeared.
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1. The First Connection
She
Her life looked much like the lives of millions of Americans who had long since learned to rely on themselves.
A good job. A condo or townhouse in a quiet neighborhood. A comfortable income—enough that she didn’t have to think twice about every purchase, but not enough to forget the value of money or the work it took to earn it.
A few trips to the gym each week. Travel whenever she could find the time. A couple of close friends. Several streaming subscriptions.
And a calendar that somehow always seemed fuller than she wanted it to be.
She was old enough to have stopped believing in fairy tales, yet not so old that she had given up on them entirely, especially during those lonely evenings when the world felt a little quieter than usual.
There had been relationships in her past that once seemed destined to last. Perhaps they had even felt too serious to fail. Life had reached a different verdict.
These days, work occupied most of her life. Choosing a career over a relationship? In a modern American city, that had long since become almost ordinary.
She looked to be about thirty-eight or forty. She belonged to that stage of life when taking care of herself was no longer about impressing anyone else. It had simply become part of who she was.
That evening, she stopped by the supermarket on her way home. Nothing unusual.
A few things for dinner. Instant coffee. Mineral water. Lemons. A piece of cheese. Olives. A package of pasta. And a bottle of wine tucked into a brown paper bag—a purchase made more out of habit than for any special occasion. The wine wasn’t meant for a celebration. It was simply a way to unwind, to let the worries of work give way to something ordinary, familiar, and comforting.
The day felt as though it had wandered into the wrong season. It was late April, yet wet snow, a biting wind, and a gray sky made the evening feel more like an endless February.
People hurried through the supermarket with the familiar impatience that bad weather always brings. Everyone wanted to get back to the warmth and comfort of home as quickly as possible.
Only three checkout lanes were open. The line moved in slow, uneven bursts. One customer had an item that wouldn’t scan. Another was searching for a loyalty card. Someone else was disputing the price of vegetables. The air carried the smell of wet coats, takeaway coffee, and fresh bread from the bakery.
She joined the line. There were about eight people ahead of her, and within seconds several more customers had fallen in behind.
She shifted her shopping basket from one hand to the other. She hadn’t bothered taking a car, only had a few items, and it had never occurred to her that the checkout line would be this long.
With nothing else to do, her eyes wandered around the store. They lingered for a moment on a man standing two places behind her in line.
If anyone had asked what caught her attention, she wouldn’t have had an answer. He simply happened to be there. After all, she had to look somewhere.
He was carrying the same kind of shopping basket. Holding it in one hand, he absentmindedly scrolled through his phone with the other. Almost without thinking, her mind began making quiet observations.
“He looks about my age. Nice shoes. An expensive jacket, but understated—no flashy logos. The kind of attentive expression you see in someone whose career has gradually taken over most of life… rather like mine. He looks like someone who’s used to dealing with people all day, yet has learned to treasure the rare moments of silence.
Two steaks. A bottle of olive oil. Bread. Coffee beans. And the exact same brand of pasta that’s sitting in my basket. So that’s what caught my eye. Out of all the pasta brands in the store, he picked the same one. Interesting. Maybe he cooks for one as often as I do. Or maybe I’m already inventing a story about a complete stranger.
Sometimes everything begins on the most ordinary evening after work. A supermarket checkout line. A shopping basket. A paper bag from the liquor department. One brief glance—and the beginning of a story neither of them yet knows exists
I kept watching him a little longer, which surprised even me.
The man carrying a bottle of good olive oil and two handsome-looking steaks was either someone who genuinely knew how to cook… or someone who wanted people to think he did.”
— It almost feels like they hide the cashiers in the back whenever everyone’s in a hurry, — I said quietly, more to myself than to anyone in particular.
He looked up from his phone, smiled, and answered in exactly the same easy tone.
— Probably part of the business model. Give people enough time to rethink their purchases and put half of them back.
I turned automatically toward the voice. It was the same man I’d noticed a few minutes earlier.
This time, though, my eyes lingered a little longer than a casual glance required. Mostly because I suddenly felt like talking to someone.
— Or maybe, — I said with a smile, — It’s to give us enough time to realize how much we don’t actually need.”
He laughed. Not loudly. Just enough to make the wait seem a little shorter.
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Eventually her turn came. She paid for her groceries, packed everything into a plastic bag, and headed toward the exit. The moment the automatic doors opened, a blast of wet snow swept into the entryway. She stopped beneath the overhang, hesitating before stepping outside. The wind was pushing abandoned shopping carts across the parking lot.
— For April, this is almost insulting, — she heard a voice behind her.
She turned. It was the man from the checkout line. She could easily have ignored the comment, but they had already exchanged a few words. Replying felt almost natural.
— For Denver, — she said with a grin, — this still counts as a compromise.
They both laughed. The kind of effortless, perfectly synchronized laugh that happens when two strangers suddenly discover they share the same sense of humor.
Silence returned. But it was no longer the silence of strangers waiting near the exit. It was the comfortable pause that sometimes appears at the beginning of a conversation.
— I think somebody canceled April this year, — she said after a moment.
He nodded.
— Denver has always treated the seasons more like friendly suggestions than actual rules.
She smiled.
— And this morning it almost felt like spring. I was beginning to believe it.
— That, — he said, — was your first mistake.
— So was wearing a light coat in Colorado.
He laughed.
— There was a time when you could at least pretend you knew how to dress before leaving the house. These days every morning feels like a bad investment… or a game of Russian roulette.
“I looked at him more carefully. The conversation was still completely accidental, yet it already had that strange sense of ease that sometimes appears between two adults after only a handful of good exchanges. No awkward flirting. No pressure to impress each other. Just the unexpected feeling that talking to this person required no effort at all. By the time you’re forty, you begin to appreciate people around whom you don’t have to perform.”
She slowly buttoned her coat, adjusted her scarf, and glanced out at the parking lot with the familiar expression of someone mentally preparing to step into unpleasant weather.
“I was just about to head outside when he turned toward me.
— Listen…— he said. — Since we’ve survived the checkout line together, endured this weather disaster, and are apparently sharing a mild case of climate depression… maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere warmer one of these days?
I looked at him carefully. Not with surprise. More as though I had been quietly expecting something like this.
— That actually sounds reasonable, — I said. — Especially if the place has good food… and even better conversation.
He mentioned that he’d choose a café or restaurant later, explaining that trying to make firm plans in Denver before checking the weather was almost an act of optimism. I had to admit he had a point.
He took out his phone.
— Then maybe we should exchange numbers. We’ll see if Denver can give us at least one snow-free evening before May.
”I gave him my number almost immediately. There didn’t seem to be any reason to pretend I was undecided. I genuinely wanted to see him again. The conversation had been surprisingly easy. There was no need to sound more interesting than I really was. No need to appear more successful. Or younger.
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Driving home, I caught myself thinking about how rare encounters like that had become. Especially at our age.
People meet in movies. They meet in novels. But in real life? Not very often.
What exactly had attracted me to him? It certainly wasn’t his appearance, although he was attractive enough. It wasn’t his jokes, either. A good sense of humor is pleasant, but by itself it means very little.
And it definitely wasn’t because I suddenly felt an urgent need to change my life at forty.
If I was honest, I couldn’t give myself a clear answer.
Maybe it was simply that rare feeling of ease that appears almost instantly with certain people. He seemed to be one of them. The kind of person with whom conversation feels natural from the very beginning. Those encounters are uncommon. And worth continuing.
If I had to describe it in just two words, I’d call it…emotional chemistry.”
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He
His life looked successful enough—as successful as the life of someone who had long since learned that, in the end, the person he could rely on most was himself.
A good job. An apartment in a comfortable part of the city.
A car he had chosen years earlier for its reliability rather than for the impression it might make on neighbors or coworkers.
A handful of trusted friends. The gym, whenever work allowed. A few favorite restaurants. A couple of places where he liked to unwind.
And the habit of planning in advance things that, ten years earlier, had simply happened on their own.
Money had long since stopped being his biggest concern. But he remembered all too well the years when every major purchase required careful thought. That was why he still treated money with respect. Not as a symbol of success. More as the visible result of time, effort, and countless decisions.
He looked to be just over forty.
He belonged to that generation of men who no longer tried to look younger than they were, yet still cared about the impression they made.
He, too, had relationships behind him. Some had once seemed certain to last for years. Time had decided otherwise. With age, he had learned to accept that without turning every ending into a personal tragedy.
Work had gradually become the defining part of his life. He knew it. Sometimes he even promised himself he would change that. But understanding a problem and actually doing something about it are often separated by years.
It had been an ordinary stop at the supermarket after work. The weather, however, had other plans.
Nothing unusual. Two steaks for dinner. A bottle of good olive oil. Coffee beans. Bread. Pasta. And a handful of small household items that had all, somehow, run out at exactly the same time.
Outside, the snow kept falling. The weather looked as though the calendar had long since lost its right to argue with nature.
He picked up a shopping basket at the entrance and made his way through the aisles. Finding everything he needed took only a few minutes. The checkout line, however, was considerably longer than he had hoped. He wasn’t in any particular hurry. Still, he disliked wasting time when it could be avoided. There wasn’t much choice. He joined the line, pulled out his phone, and began scrolling through his latest messages. He replied to a couple. Checked the news. He probably shouldn’t have bothered. The headlines looked exactly like yesterday’s.
When he finally looked up, his attention settled for the first time on the woman standing a few places ahead of him.
“The first thing I noticed was her light-colored coat. Then the expensive but understated handbag. Wind-tousled hair. A calm, slightly tired face—the face of someone accustomed to relying on herself. She’d obviously had a long day. The kind of day when you’re simply too exhausted to waste energy being irritated. She looked about my age.
My eyes drifted toward her shopping basket. A perfectly ordinary dinner. Nothing unusual. Except for the brown paper bag from the liquor department. There was clearly a bottle inside. Without even realizing it, I found myself trying to guess what it was. Red? White? Rosé? Rosé didn’t quite fit a snowy April evening. Then again… maybe that’s exactly why she’d bought it. Or perhaps it was an expensive bottle of sparkling wine. Some people don’t believe in saving good things for “special occasions.” Maybe she was one of them.
At that moment I heard her quietly remark that the store never seemed to have enough cashiers when everyone was trying to get home after work.
For some reason, I felt like answering.
— Looking at your basket, — I said with a smile, — I’d say this weather still isn’t going to ruin your evening.
She glanced at me and smiled.
— That was the plan this morning… before all of this happened.
A few minutes later she paid for her groceries and walked toward the entrance. I checked out right behind her.
I was planning to make a quick dash to my car before the snow got any worse. Instead, I found her standing just inside the doors, watching the storm outside. Something—some instinct I still can’t explain—made me stop beside her.
I made a joke about Denver’s weather.
Then, almost without thinking, I suggested that perhaps we should continue the conversation somewhere warmer another day.
Later, I surprised myself. Where had that sudden confidence come from? Maybe it was simply the end of a long workday. Or maybe it was because, from the very beginning, nothing about our conversation had felt awkward. There was an unexpected ease between us. Almost a little magic.
Before we left, I joked that she must have a direct line to whoever was responsible for Colorado’s weather.
She answered without missing a beat.
— I’m afraid my connections don’t reach quite that high, — she said. — Whenever I try calling, all I get is, ‘The subscriber you’re trying to reach is currently out of coverage.’”
I laughed. More importantly… She hadn’t rejected my invitation. Quite the opposite. It almost felt as though she had been quietly expecting it.
We exchanged phone numbers and agreed we’d figure out the details later. Then we headed to our separate cars and our separate lives. Sitting behind the wheel, I caught myself smiling. Chance encounters become surprisingly rare once you reach your forties. They happen all the time in movies. In novels. But in real life? Not nearly as often.
They walked toward their cars, both believing their brief encounter was already over. Yet sometimes the final glance matters far more than the first
So what exactly had caught my attention? It wasn’t love. I’m no longer eighteen. It wasn’t passion, either. We barely knew each other. Maybe I was simply assigning too much meaning to an ordinary conversation in a grocery store.
And yet… Something about her stayed with me. It wasn’t her appearance. It wasn’t her age. It wasn’t even the way she was dressed. It was the feeling that, somehow, we were tuned to the same quiet frequency.
And if I wanted to be completely honest with myself…I’d have to admit there was a little emotional chemistry there, too.
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To be continued…
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