I’ve sometimes considered what it would be like to drink with various individuals, such as notable statesmen, scholars, athletes, or celebrities. Regardless of when they lived, certain people strike me as fantastically interesting characters, folks whose lives would lend to amazing – if not epic – tales of adventure, comedy, or even tragedy.
People you’d want to raise a glass with, to listen, learn, and laugh.
Those that follow are persons with whom I’d like to drink. For each, I offer an idea on what I think they’d order and a few thoughts on why they’d choose that particular drink. It would be a privilege to drink with any one of these men or women; until then, these entries will remain fictional and perhaps, humorous.
Ron doesn’t hide his love of a dram. Especially when it’s served next to a thick porterhouse or ribeye from any number of his favorite restaurants. The drink is secondary, to be sure, but that doesn’t make it less important.
He’s not a picky man, not with his drink. He’ll remember a good scotch – like that Lagavulin 16 year old he had with his medium rare ribeye back on February 14, 1996 – memorialized for all time in his Mulligan’s Steakhouse book. But Mulligan’s, that’s more about the meal than the beverage.
When he’s drinking (and especially when eating), don’t interrupt him. He’s a solitary man who can’t be trifled with minor distractions like conversation. Or strippers. So perhaps it’d be more accurate to say that you don’t have a drink with Ron Swanson, you have a drink near him.
Grey Goose Martini, up, hold the olives.
Brian Williams is a 21st Century newsman: jetsetter; inquisitor; everyman. Only a few years ago, we watched his reports from Baghdad or Kabul, before that it was Monrovia, Belgrade, or Beirut – where ever the action was.
These days, however, he’s the big man behind the desk, anchoring not one, but two nightly news shows, always clean shaven, coiffed, and poised. Gone are the days of live feeds from distant lands. That’s now left to the junior field reporters looking to cut their teeth.
And so it’s a classic cocktail in a clean, chilled glass. He’s moved into the big leagues where Koppel, Rather, and Murrow used to rule. No more dirty glasses and lukewarm beer. His job is to inform and educate, with an approachability and easy smile that make yuppie co-eds swoon.
That, along with his understated and sly wit. Because it makes you think: Anyone who hangs with Jon Stewart or cameos on 30 Rock must be fun to drink with.
Double Canadian Club, neat.
Trebek is the working man of American game shows, the omniscient arbiter of trivial knowledge and more importantly, pronunciation. Beware of errant singularities and pluralities, for they shall doom thee. And don’t toy with foreign accents, not with Trebek.
He enjoys his drink tall and strong; no watering down his native land’s whisky. He’s proud of his homeland, the Great White North, but he’s a California boy now. Trebek’s understatedly cool; he’s no braggadocio, requires no self-trumpeting. And no mustache.
He’ll slap you around intellectually but only in good natured fun. He knows he’s more intelligent than you, even without the answer cards, but he doesn’t need to prove it. He’s got a sarcastic side, you bet. And he can take a joke, especially parody. Just ask those guys from SNL.