Part 2
Who Gets to Drink What? The Myth of “Men’s” and “Women’s” Drinks
You can read Chapters 2 and 3 here…
Chapter 4
The Day They Met
She
The day itself unfolded much as any other. Work calls. Emails. Coffee between meetings. A quick exchange of news. Short conversations with colleagues.
Yet beneath the ordinary rhythm of the day, something felt subtly different. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remained quietly aware that the evening would bring something that had been missing from her life for years.
The moment she got home, she began getting ready. Not because it genuinely required that much time. A woman’s preparation for a first meeting rarely begins when she opens her closet. It starts much earlier—somewhere between receiving the invitation and deciding just how much that invitation really matters?
She had already settled on what she would wear. Dark trousers. A soft, light-colored blouse. A long coat. Clothes that didn’t announce a desire to impress, yet still felt unmistakably feminine.
By forty, women rarely dress for men in the literal sense. They dress, at least in part, for themselves.
Or rather…For the version of themselves that makes them feel quietly confident
Shoes proved more complicated. High heels subtly change everything. The way a woman walks. The way she stands. Even the tone of her voice. But they also create the unmistakable impression that she’d made a special effort.
Shoes that were too casual, on the other hand, could make the evening feel more like an ordinary business dinner.
In the end, she chose elegant low heels. A compromise between beauty and mature common sense.
Then came a pair of earrings and a small pendant that matched them. Everything understated. Not chosen to display its price. Chosen because it completed the picture.
She styled her hair so that it looked as though she hadn’t spent much time on it.
When, in reality, she had.
She lingered over her lipstick longer than she expected. A bold color felt too intentional. One that was too pale made her look as though she’d grown tired before the evening had even begun. Eventually she chose a calm, natural shade. It didn’t demand attention. It simply made her face seem warmer.
Perfume was the hardest decision of all. Fragrance may be one of memory’s strangest languages. People often forget words. Sometimes they forget faces. But the scent of someone’s perfume can stay with them for decades.
She chose the fragrance she had loved for years. Not sweet. Not heavy. Not designed to turn a woman into an object of desire the moment she entered a room. Just something warm. Calm. With the quiet feeling of evening.
A touch of mascara. A slightly more defined brow. Just enough eye shadow to make her look rested—never so much that the makeup seemed to exist independently of the woman wearing it.
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When she finally looked at herself in the mirror, her first thought wasn’t:
— Do I look beautiful?
It was something far more honest.
— Do I look like someone whose life is still moving forward…or someone whose days have simply become neatly organized around work, routines, and living alone?
And besides… I’m not doing this for him. I’m doing it for myself. I just want to feel confident.
Yet she also knew perfectly well that, in a few hours, she would be standing across from a man who already mattered to her more than she cared to admit.
She wanted to believe he would notice her—not the careful preparation behind the evening.
— I’ll try to stay rational. But I already know that reason is quietly losing ground to curiosity…to anticipation…and to the simple emotional pull of wanting to know someone better.
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He
He caught himself glancing at the clock more often than usual. Not constantly. Just often enough to notice.
He arrived home a little earlier than usual. Not on purpose. At least, that was how he preferred to explain it to himself.
Standing in the bathroom, he studied his reflection for a few seconds.
— A clean shave?
Too clean might suggest he had invested more effort in the evening than he wanted to admit.
— Or maybe leave a little stubble?
After forty, an evening beard no longer looks like a college student’s attempt to appear rugged. Sometimes it simply adds a little character to a man’s face.
Much of adult male life, he thought, is spent trying to find the right degree of looking as though you didn’t try too hard
In the end, he settled on a compromise. He neatly trimmed the stubble.
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He was about to close the closet when his eyes stopped on a small box containing his watch and cuff links. The cufflinks went straight back into the box. Too formal.
The watch, however, stayed. A well-made watch from a respected brand didn’t feel like a display of wealth. It felt more like part of the quiet ritual of adulthood—being prepared, being punctual, being put together.
Even choosing a fragrance took him longer than usual.
— What exactly is the right scent for a man over forty? Something woody? Something dark? Leather? Tobacco? Maybe even a hint of whiskey? The sort of fragrance advertising likes to describe as “masculine.”
In the end, he reached for the one he had worn for years. Warm. Subtle. Confident. A scent that didn’t try to introduce itself before the man wearing it had the chance.
— I’m not dressing up for this. I just want to look presentable. Although… if I were meeting a tax auditor—or a colleague from work—I certainly wouldn’t have spent this much time standing in front of the mirror.
Before a first meeting, people rarely change who they are. More often, they simply try to show the best version of themselves
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Before leaving, his eyes fell on the empty vase sitting on the kitchen table.
Flowers?
A small bouquet would have been a nice gesture. But wasn’t it too soon? Two people had met only a few days earlier while standing in line at a supermarket. Would flowers make the evening feel too formal? Too predictable? Too much like something borrowed from an old romantic script?
After a moment’s hesitation, he smiled to himself. Not today. Maybe another time.
Yet one thought kept circling quietly in his mind. After thirty-five or forty, most people stop trying to impress someone at any cost. But they never completely stop wanting to be liked. Instead, they simply become better at pretending it doesn’t matter.
Because admitting—I genuinely like this person—is another way of making yourself vulnerable
And vulnerability is expensive. It’s not something you hand out to everyone you meet.
Most roads never cross. But sometimes two independent paths through life unexpectedly begin leading to the same place
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Chapter 5
At the Restaurant
He
He arrived about fifteen minutes early. Not because the restaurant was far away. And not because he was worried about being late. By his age, people rarely rush to a date, buttoning up their coat as they hurry through the door, slightly out of breath.
Besides, having a few quiet minutes to settle into a place before someone arrives is never a bad idea.
The restaurant hadn’t changed since his last visit. Soft lighting. Comfortable noise levels. No fashionable culinary theatrics. No music so loud that holding a conversation became an accomplishment.
The hostess led him to a table by the window. There were plenty of empty tables. Thursday wasn’t one of the restaurant’s busy nights.
He took off his coat, draped it over the back of his chair, and almost automatically opened the drinks menu before looking at the food. It offered pretty much everything one would expect. Wine. Beer. Cocktails. Whiskey. Nothing unusual.
He decided not to choose anything yet. He would wait and see how the evening unfolded.
Then another thought crossed his mind.
— What would she order? A glass of wine? A cocktail? Beer? Or perhaps nothing alcoholic at all?
And why are people so eager to build an entire picture of someone else’s personality from something as small as what they choose to drink?
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He set the menu aside and glanced at his watch. It showed exactly the time they had agreed to meet. Almost at that very moment, the restaurant door opened, letting in a brief wave of cool evening air.
She stepped inside, pausing for a moment to look around—the way people naturally do when they’re entering a place for the first time.
And suddenly he realized that, without even noticing it, he had spent the past few days imagining her slightly differently. In person…She looked better. Not more glamorous. Not younger. Not more striking. Simply…more alive.
Sometimes a single glance across a room is enough to know that this evening will not be like all the others
A light-colored coat. Carefully styled hair. The calm precision of someone comfortable with herself. And that quiet kind of femininity that doesn’t try to capture everyone’s attention—yet somehow still makes a man look up and keep looking.
He noticed how understated her makeup was.
A confident woman, he thought.
Of course, he had no way of knowing that she had spent twenty minutes deciding between three shades of lipstick. People rarely see the work behind someone else’s appearance. They only ever see the finished result.
For a brief second he regretted not buying flowers. Even a single long-stemmed rose would have suited her perfectly.
He stood as she approached, greeting her with an easy smile.
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She
She arrived exactly on time. Keeping someone waiting on purpose had never appealed to her. Years of professional life had taught her that respecting other people’s time was one of the simplest forms of respect.
“I spotted him almost immediately. As I walked toward the table, I found myself noticing several things almost without thinking. He had arrived early. He wasn’t buried in his phone. He didn’t look like a man trying too hard to appear younger than he was. And the restaurant itself suggested he’d chosen it for conversation rather than for show.
I liked that.
I also noticed he hadn’t brought flowers. A practical man? Although… flowers would have made me smile.
(She couldn’t possibly know how long he had debated that very question before deciding against them.)
At the same time, somewhere deep inside, the familiar voice of female caution quietly reminded me that first impressions are among the least reliable things in the world.”
She walked toward the table at an unhurried pace. He rose to greet her. And for the first time, neither of them saw the other as just another stranger from the supermarket checkout line at the end of a workday.
They saw a man and a woman who had deliberately made room in lives that had long settled into familiar routines…simply to be here—and to meet each other.
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Chapter 6
Ordering the Drinks
He
They exchanged a few easy remarks about the drive, the weather, and the pleasantly unexpected lack of traffic. Then, almost in unison, they opened their menus. Both of them turned straight to the drinks list. Without thinking. Experienced diners know that servers usually take drink orders first.
The gesture was so automatic that neither of them even noticed it.
The drinks had not yet been ordered. But the stories about them had already begun
“I let my eyes drift over the list once again. Wine. Cocktails. Bourbon. Gin. Amaro.
👉 Amaro is an Italian herbal liqueur with a bittersweet flavor. Traditionally served after dinner as a digestif, it is known for its complex blend of herbs, spices, and citrus.
My thoughts immediately split in three directions.
Please don’t look predictable.
Please don’t look like you’re trying too hard.
And please don’t make her think you’re playing the role of a sophisticated middle-aged man because you’ve seen too many movies.
Whiskey felt like the safest choice.
A grown man. A good restaurant. A dark sweater. A nice watch. Everything seemed to fit the picture.
Men have spent centuries being taught that projecting masculinity matters more than simply enjoying what they drink
And yet… What I really wanted was a cocktail. A good one.
A Negroni, ideally.
But somewhere inside me, there was still that old masculine hesitation.
Would ordering a cocktail seem… not quite masculine enough?
👉 Negroni is a classic Italian cocktail made with gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari. It’s known for its bittersweet flavor with citrus and herbal notes.
What about wine?
Red might make the evening feel too much like a business dinner.
White somehow seemed overly cautious.
Rosé… Well… Rosé still occupies strangely dangerous territory for the male ego.
— Why does a glass of rosé still feel almost like a political statement to some men? — I caught myself thinking.
And then I realized just how absurd all of this sounded—even inside my own head. People my age like to believe we’ve moved beyond these stereotypes. At least that’s what we tell ourselves.
But cultural habits rarely disappear completely. They usually just become quieter
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Then his thoughts shifted to her.
— What would she order?
Her choice, somehow, suddenly seemed capable of revealing an entire story about who she was.
The idea made him smile at himself.
— Was an educated adult really still judging people by what they chose to drink?
Apparently… Yes!
— If she orders wine, that would probably be the most natural choice. Maybe a Pinot Noir. A Sauvignon Blanc. Or a nice Chardonnay. But why am I assuming that? Because she’s a woman? Because that’s the version of her I’ve already begun inventing in my head?
What if she orders bourbon? Or rye whiskey? Or even a dark beer? Would that suddenly make her a different person? Would I admire her more? Honestly… I don’t even know.
The most interesting part may not be what she orders. It may be discovering what her choice says about me.”
Apparently, even adults carry around an entire collection of small cultural stereotypes
With age, they simply become better disguised as common sense
👉 Bourbon is an American whiskey made primarily from corn and aged in new charred oak barrels, typically offering warm notes of vanilla, caramel, oak, and spice.
👉 Rye whiskey is made primarily from rye grain. Compared with bourbon, it is usually drier, spicier, and more peppery, with pronounced herbal and oak flavors.
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She
“The server brought me my own menu and set down a glass of ice water—even on a cool evening like this.
For a few moments, neither of us said much. We had already met. But the real conversation was only beginning.
I studied the drinks menu more carefully than I normally would. And I knew exactly why. The first drink order on a date is almost never just about having something to drink. It’s a small introduction. A quiet message about yourself. Even if both people pretend it isn’t.
For someone like me, wine would have been the simplest choice. Safe. Socially neutral. As though society had already prepared the entire script for a woman my age: a glass of Pinot Noir, a gentle smile, a pleasant evening, comfortable femininity.
Maybe that’s exactly why I suddenly didn’t want to choose it automatically. Not because I had anything to prove. Simply because, after forty, you begin to grow tired of all the invisible roles people keep performing for one another without even realizing it.
My eyes wandered to the spirits section. I smiled to myself.
I wonder what he’d think if I ordered bourbon…“
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I glanced at him over the top of my menu.
What will he order?
Whiskey would be the obvious choice. If he orders bourbon…Would that mean he genuinely enjoys it? Or simply that it feels like the proper drink for a man his age?
Or maybe he’ll deliberately avoid the obvious.
A cocktail?
That thought made me smile. For some reason, a man who confidently orders a well-made Negroni seemed far more comfortable in his own skin than one who orders whiskey simply because that’s what men are expected to drink.
And what if he ordered a glass of rosé? That possibility interested me even more. Not because of the wine itself. Because it would tell me something about his willingness to ignore other people’s expectations.
The most convincing stories about strangers are born not from facts at all, but from our own imagination
Then I suddenly caught myself. I was almost certainly doing exactly what he was doing at that very moment—trying to guess who the other person was from a choice that hadn’t even been made yet.
Then I stopped myself. These were only guesses. Perhaps he simply wanted to drink whatever he enjoyed. No symbolism. No social statement. No hidden meaning.
For some reason, though, people rarely allow one another that luxury. We’re constantly trying to read each other through tiny details—perhaps because admitting that a person is always more complicated than any symbol we’ve invented for them is much harder.
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The server returned with an easy smile.
— What can I get you to drink?
“I noticed he wasn’t rushing his decision. He didn’t immediately grab the first ‘manly’ whiskey just because that was the expected thing to do. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He didn’t launch into a speech about single malts. Oddly enough, I liked that. I’ve always grown tired rather quickly of people who constantly feel the need to prove how sophisticated they are.”
👉 Single malt is a whiskey produced at a single distillery using only malted barley. It is often prized for expressing the distinctive character and style of that particular distillery.
— May I help you decide? — the server asked politely.
Almost at the same moment, they answered together.
— Not yet, thank you.
They exchanged a brief smile.
Sometimes a person becomes a little closer before making their very first choice
The server remained beside the table.
Sooner or later, someone had to make a decision. He broke the silence first.
— Funny how choosing a drink can turn into a surprisingly delicate decision.
She nodded almost imperceptibly. For a few quiet seconds, something passed between them. Not romance. Not awkwardness. Recognition.
Without saying so aloud, they had both traveled the same unexpected path—from a drinks menu…to a story…and from that story…to their own hidden assumptions.
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