As a boy, I had no love for baijiu.
Beer was crisp, a cool gulp to quench a summer’s thirst. Rice wine was sweet, warm, and mellow, like a soft blanket on a winter’s eve. But baijiu? What was there to savor in its fiery sting?
In my JN hometown, village feasts followed an unspoken rule: each table received a bottle of baijiu. The women abstained; the men indulged. Those JN rogues, seasoned drinkers though they were, never dared gulp it down recklessly. They poured it into tiny cups, sipped it with a quick zilu—a sharp inhale—and grimaced, eyes squinting, faces caught between agony and ecstasy. They’d tilt their cups to show empty bottoms, crowing, “Bottoms up! Bottoms up!” I watched their contorted expressions and thought to myself:
They can’t possibly think this tastes good.
Once, as a child, my uncles forced baijiu upon me. They were deep in their cups, cheeks flushed, and asked if I could handle a sip. Before I could protest, they filled a cup, dipped a chopstick in it, and pressed it to my lips. I took a lick—fire! It scorched my nose, a blaze up my nostrils. I leapt back, and they roared with laughter, slapping their thighs.
So, I asked again: what was good about baijiu?
When I left home, I drank baijiu only in one circumstance: farewells with friends. We’d start with beer, letting it carry us to a merry haze, then switch to baijiu for the final plunge. In 2005, I overdid it—seven bottles of beer followed by two of baijiu. The world spun, the liquor’s burn dulled to a vague warmth, and I collapsed into oblivion. When I woke, my head throbbed, and still, I couldn’t recall baijiu’s taste.
In 2010, I traveled to Chongqing with Ruo. Her father, my future father-in-law, hadn’t yet warmed to me. In his eyes, I was still an outsider, a stranger scheming to steal his daughter. My politeness was stiff; his was coolly distant.
At the banquet, Uncle He joined us—a dashing man, quick with words, whose charm eased my awkwardness. With his lively banter, I began to feel less like an interloper and more like family.
Then the drinking began.
Unbeknownst to me, my father-in-law had been a legend in his youth, a jiushen—a god of wine—who’d outdrunk rivals across two provinces. Uncle He, a titan in his own industry, was no lightweight either, said to down a thousand cups without a stagger. Ruo told me this later, of course. That day, I was blissfully ignorant, facing two oceans of liquor with no map.
We started with beer, then moved to red wine. The conversation went like this:
Uncle He: “This man’s practically your father-in-law now—show some respect!”
My father-in-law: “Uncle He’s vouching for you today. You’d better honor that!”
They flanked me like generals, goading and teasing. After the red wine came baijiu. By then, I was seven parts drunk, my face flushed, ears burning, the top of my head floating free. My words tumbled out, disconnected from their predecessors. And then, something strange happened. Baijiu began to taste… good. My father-in-law seemed less daunting. A sip burst in my mouth, a spark that rushed to my nose, and as I exhaled, I caught a hint of sweet fragrance. I raised my cup. “To you both,” I said, and downed it. Uncle He arched a brow, glanced at my father-in-law, and matched me, shot for shot.
On the drive back, I slumped in the backseat. Ruo kept touching my forehead, asking if I needed to vomit. I didn’t, though the world swayed uncomfortably. She helped me to our room, placed a basin by my side, and had me crouch over it, just in case. She sat with me a while, then said softly:
“You passed.”
“Passed what?”
“You passed their test. They wanted to see your true colors. They said a man’s character shows when he’s drunk. You held it together, so they’re at ease.”
A few days later, at another meal, my father-in-law looked at Ruo and me. “Take good care of each other,” he said. He hadn’t touched baijiu that day, and there was a flicker of melancholy in his eyes. My mother-in-law scoffed. “He’s not young anymore—why’s he still chasing baijiu?”
After 2012, I began to understand drinking. It started with sweet whites from Jurançon, then Sauternes, followed by Port, Bordeaux, whisky, and gin. I tasted everything.
In Paris, where winters stretched endlessly, I turned to vodka. From it, I learned the soul of distilled spirits. Before braving the cold, I’d pull a chilled bottle from the fridge, pour a small glass, and down it in one go. It slid down, icy, stinging my throat with a sweet chill. Moments later, the spice bloomed, mingling with that sweetness, filling my mouth with an exotic perfume that lingered on my cheeks. A warm line traced to my stomach, my eyes widened, my face flushed, and my body felt light, unburdened. No winter’s bite could touch me then.
In the summer of 2015, my in-laws visited France. In Nice, at a seaside seafood stall, my father-in-law froze at the sight of oysters and mussels, stunned by their price. He waved at the short menu. “One of everything!” he declared, ordering Loire Valley white wine to pair. He savored each bite, marveling, “Do you know how much this would cost in Chongqing? This is a steal, and so delicious… These Mediterranean oysters have a hint of almond, unlike the Atlantic ones… This wine’s perfect…” He finished, then waved again. “Another round of everything!” My mother-in-law intervened. “Your health!” she snapped. He sighed, relenting. “Fine, just the whelks and oysters then…” She turned to us, shaking her head. “His uric acid’s through the roof, but he still acts tough. He’ll regret it when the pain hits.”
A month later, in August 2015, my father and I traveled to Chongqing for the formal engagement meeting. My mother, whose heart faltered in summer, rarely traveled. She was nervous, warning me: “Our families are worlds apart—different jobs, customs, backgrounds. Your father’s so laid-back, always rambling when he drinks. Don’t let him mess this up!”
At the banquet, my father-in-law was in high spirits. He turned to my father.
“Dear in-law, can you handle baijiu?”
“Absolutely!”
I hadn’t warned my father-in-law that my mother strictly limited my father’s baijiu intake, her glare enough to stop him mid-sip. Nor had I told my father that my mother-in-law constantly urged her husband to cut back, leaving him to guzzle wine by the bottle to satisfy his thirst.
So I watched, helpless, as they uncorked the baijiu and turned to me. “Want some?”
“Sure, sure.”
That day, I wasn’t the star of the show, so I sipped slowly, observing the spectacle. For the first time, I grasped the rhythm: a quick zilu of baijiu, a bite of food to chase it. The liquor demanded to be downed in one go, its burst of flavor a fleeting thrill. When the aroma exploded, it filled the mouth, rich and deep. Taste, I realized, matures. Like my early encounters with Chongqing’s fiery cuisine, which I’d found only spicy until I discerned its layers of fragrance, numbness, sweetness, and salt.
My father-in-law and father matched each other, cup for cup. They didn’t speak of Ruo or me, only drank. After three rounds, my father-in-law’s eyes reddened, and he began to share stories—tales of work, emotions, and a parent’s heart for their child.
I glanced at Ruo; she glanced at me. Later, it dawned on me: some things are too heavy to tell those too close or too distant. Ruo and I were too young for such confidences. But a fellow in-law, seasoned yet unentangled, was the perfect confidant.
Back in Wuxi, my father couldn’t stop praising him. “What a refined, profound man your in-law is!” he told my mother, who grew exasperated. “Every time he talks about Chongqing, it’s like he’s been on some grand adventure!” she complained to me.
After the feast, my father-in-law, still buoyant, had Ruo’s uncle drive my father to Nanshan to see the twinkling lights of Yuzhong Peninsula. Watching them stumble up the hill, arm in arm, Ruo and I exchanged wordless looks.
Later, we reflected.
“Has your dad’s tolerance slipped a bit?” I asked.
“You think so?”
“Back then, he and Uncle He floored me without blinking.”
“He’s getting older,” she said. “We don’t let him overdo it anymore.”
“My dad used to hold his own too,” I admitted. “Now his face flushes fast.”
In early 2016, during a frigid Chongqing winter, Ruo, her parents, and I settled into a hotpot skewer joint. While Ruo and her mother went to pick skewers, my father-in-law leaned in.
“Fancy a drink?”
“Absolutely!”
“Baijiu?”
“You bet!”
He flagged the server with a swift hand. “A bottle of Lao Jiao, quick!” The bottle arrived, and we each took a cup. He sipped, his face blooming with delight. “Good stuff!” I sipped too. With time, I’d begun to discern baijiu’s softness, its deep aroma.
My mother-in-law returned, spotting the bottle. “Oh, no! Drinking again?”
He pointed at me, feigning innocence. “He wanted it! I’m just keeping him company!”
She looked at me, shaking her head. “You’ve been had.”
I sat there, mouth agape, betrayed.
This past Spring Festival, before heading to Chongqing, my father helped me prepare gifts for Ruo’s family. He pored over the list, selecting presents for her uncle, her mother, and others. But for my father-in-law? He hesitated.
On the second day of the new year, I sat with my father and uncle-in-law, sipping and chatting. What gift would suit my father-in-law?
My uncle-in-law was firm. “Send baijiu.”
My father and I protested. “He’s got plenty of liquor, and my mother-in-law’s always on him to drink less!”
“Baijiu,” he insisted. “Trust me.”
My father thought it over, then slapped my uncle-in-law’s thigh. “You’re right—baijiu!”
“But he has every kind already,” I said.
My father gave me a knowing look. “You don’t get it. When I send baijiu, he can say, ‘This is from my in-law!’ and drink freely, no guilt. Think about it.”
I did, and it clicked. I was in awe.
Later, I wondered how my uncle-in-law knew such a trick. One glance at my aunt, and I had my answer.
I messaged my father-in-law about the baijiu gift. Soon after, my mother-in-law vented in a group chat: “Just days ago, he was all meek and begging my permission. One message, and now he’s strutting like a peacock!”
So, what’s good about baijiu?
Once you get past that first, unfamiliar burn, it’s honestly pretty damn good.
Just like my father-in-law himself.