I was 5 I think. Or maybe 6. My folks were hosting a dinner party for all our Indian friends in and around Dublin. All the women were puckered inside the kitchen, elegantly holding on to their glasses of sherry (my mom loved sherry) and guffawing annoyingly. I remember twiddling around there, but the overbearing concoction of perfumes was bothering me. The children had been shepherded into my playroom, and they were a bit unamusing too. So I moseyed my way to the living room. The warm orange glow from the fireplace was inviting. I peered through the double glass doors and saw the men lounging in the room. They were laughing heartedly and some were smoking cigars. I saw my dad pouring a black liquid into his glass mug. He saw me peering at him and he called me in. I asked him what it was, and instead of trying to explain it to a 5 (or 6) year old, he just offered me the first sip. All I got was bitter froth, and I grimaced at the sheer bitterness of it. I made a face at my dad, and ran off to play with the kids.
That was the first time I tasted beer (albeit a spoonful worth). And it was GUINNESS...
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