So I’m at a gathering at a co-worker’s home. He’s proud of his new basement bar, and he’s got several bottles of really top-shelf booze set out, from which he’s proudly pouring drinks for any and all who ask.
One of the bottles was Glenfiddich. I’m a fan, so I asked him to pour me a shot.
It was NOT Glenfiddich. It tasted very much like Cutty Sark – not a bad blended Scotch, all things considered, but certainly not a single malt and certainly not a Glenfiddich.
I wouldn’t have said anything, but as I slowly sipped my drink, he asked me how I liked it. Three times.
The first two I gave him noncommittal answers like, “Thanks, it hits the spot,” and “Yeah, good thing my wife’s driving!” in a cheery voice. But when he responded, “Yeah, and that’s expensive stuff, so enjoy,” I couldn’t take it.
I said something like, “Actually, I’m pretty sure this isn’t Glenfiddich. Malt scotch is kind of a hobby of mine.”
He gave me this little half smile and said in almost a stage whisper, “Yeah, I poured a bottle of the cheap stuff in there. Saves money and impresses the rubes, you know?”
Ha, ha.
Now, this isn’t of earth-shattering importance. It’s not like someone’s going to be allergic to Cutty Sark and safe with The Macallan. He’s not risking anyone’s health.
But it strikes me as a really assholish thing to do, and I was sorely tempted to start circulating the party, talking loudly about how the Scotch was mislabeled. I didn’t, of course, because I’m not ten.
But I was really tempted, which might mean I’m about fifteen. Or is this ire a reasonable adult reaction?

) and trying to catch you enjoying his cheaper stuff.