How Not To Eat: CHOCOVINE

After evaluating the critical acclaim that my last "How Not To Eat" post garnered from nearly four people (in at least TWO different tax brackets!), I decided to attempt to make this a regular feature. After all, it's not as if I've suddenly gone health nut on you -- and, once I reach Britain, I could do a seven-part series on Mushy Peas (which I loathe) and doner kebabs (which I ashamedly love) alone.

Now, who wouldn't want to eat that??

Today's instalment, however, focuses on the wonders of less-than-quality alcoholic beverages. On the whole, I'm very fond of "good" alcohol of all types (and may make a few posts here with some new cocktails/beers I've discovered that would be worth your time), but let's not forget that not only did I spend a long and mostly fruitless period of my life hovering around the college "scene," I also spent a month touring the hostels and pubs and Threshers of the UK, so it's not as if I've never drank a Pabst, or 4-Loko, or Carling, or... 

Well, you get the idea. I'm not going to make it a hobby of drinking crates of shit alcohol and blogging about it, but if I come across something particularly memorable, you can expect that the experience will eventually make its way to this corner of the internets. 

This week's monstrosity occurs after the jump. 

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Our group of friends gathered together this past Christmas (or Festivus, rather) for a rather entertaining night of turkey and gift-giving. I think everyone got some pretty cool stuff -- I know I did. I also got this:

Well, and the Sonic Screwdriver, but that's another post.

Yes, that is chocolate wine, and no, this wasn't a completely random gift: one of the blogs I frequent (but never post at) is run by the wonderful folk at Every Day Should Be Saturday, which is basically a den of nerds/lawyers/college football fans. I read on one of their gameday open threads that one regular poster had a bottle of this in their fridge and was debating between the Chocovine and sobriety. I later mused to my friends that I couldn't believe such a thing existed -- I'm sure I dropped some false indignation and a bit of hyperbole in as well -- and, two months later, I found myself the proud owner of the play-at-home version of the "Chocovine vs. sobriety" game. 

The first thing that frightened me was the bottle itself. First of all, look at the price -- $9.99! My friends had told me that they had bought the bottle at 7-11, so we can take a mark-up of at least 25% into consideration when evaluating the worth of this...stuff, but even then, I can get a pretty decent (for me) bottle of wine for eight bucks, and for nine and change I could buy THREE bottles of Wal-Mart's own brand. 

Or about sixty of these. 

I've found that, as opposed to beer, wine can generally be plotted along a functionary "price:goodness" line with very little deviation. (Also, as opposed to beer, I know very little about wine, apart from "red wine gives me heartburn" and "Riesling tastes the most like grape juice!" which would explain why I've purchased $3 Wal-Mart own-brand Chardonnay.) So the fact that I was anticipating hating a $10 dessert wine (if that's how you want to classify it) turned my world view all helter-skelter. 

But now read the label: 

We've already mentioned my distrust of red wine, but let me reiterate -- it burns. As for "Dutch chocolate,"

well, the Dutch aren't exactly known for their chocolate, are they? In fact, Wikipedia only lists one Dutch company under its list of "major" chocolate manufacturers, so I'm assuming that the Verkade company isn't involved in the making of Chocovine. I was expecting a cross between chocolate milk and Night Train malt liquor, and therefore decided that this special drink deserved a special occasion. 

As it turns out, "being bored" constitutes a special occasion for me, even though it's a fairly common occurrence. Who knew?  

I went into my garage-bedroom, bottle in hand, and prepared for the initial tasting. I told myself that I was doing this alone so I wouldn't be seen with a bottle of Chocovine in my hand, but the damned thing had been sitting in our refrigerator for nearly three weeks, so they were bound to notice it was gone and that I had finally gotten desperate -- or at least gotten a date with a drunk. Really, I think the self-imposed isolation was to ensure that no one could hear me scream, since the smell I encountered once twisting off the cap (classy!) all but guaranteed that this was going to burn more than if I were just ignoring all pretence and swallowing fire instead. 

The smell -- there aren't really words to describe the initial impact of Chocovine. I've heard tell of people who go all-out with their wine tasting, what with the smelling (making sure to waft fumes, rather than plunging your nose into your wine goblet, naturally), swishing, spitting, and all-around pomposity. I certainly wouldn't recommend sticking your nose directly into this bottle -- you'll either lose an amount of nose hair, pass out, or test your gag reflexes to the utmost. I'm straining for an accurate representation of the actual smell; think, perhaps, of a bottle of Bailey's (or other Irish-style creme) that's been sitting out for an amount of time, say, five years. Then imagine someone wanting to consume said Irish-style creme, noticing the rancidness of the creme, and then coming up with the brilliant idea that the best way to make it drinkable is to add about half a bottle of rubbing alcohol. THAT is the smell of Chocovine. The best Holland can get.

The pure irony of Chocovine is that it is so truly awful that your optimal drinking stance is that of the high-class wino, the old sniff-swash-and-spit. It is definitely not a chugging wine -- but what is? -- but it's hardly a sipping wine either. In fact, it's so bloody thick that it's hardly drinkable at all. What's more, it teases you; you take a sip of this liquid that has the consistency of chocolate milk yet is much thicker than any milk you've ever had, and the burn hits immediately, and you think your chest cavity is on fire. A split-second later, the thickness comes into play as it coats the entirety of your oesophageal lining, and as the pain subsides you begin to wonder what the hell that stuff is actually doing to your body -- if it's this nasty to your throat, imagine what havoc it's wreaking when the "fine red wine" hits your stomach or (God help you) your liver. 

And, for the love of Mike, whatever you do, don't let it get warm. It's not so uncommon to want your drinks chilled (although a lot of actual fine red wines are best at room temperature) -- as a beer drinker, it's almost a necessity. But if I let, say, a Guinness sit out for a few minutes, it'll be not as good, but you'll bet I'll still drink -- nay, finish -- the silly thing. If you let Chocovine get above about 50 degrees in temperature, you may as well throw the bottle out; the consistency is now more syrupy than anything else, and the soothing anti-burn coating action is pretty much non-existent.What was a semi-tolerant slog is now an exercise in attempting to come up with alcohol mixtures that either resemble or would be more disgusting than what you're still trying to drink. Bailey's and Mad Dog? Kaluha and Natty Light? Chocolate Milk and Triple Sec? This is not a fun game to play.

Of course, you could put the bottle back in the fridge, as I have done, but that just leaves the pain and embarrassment of having to see your half-conquered concoction every time you want a string cheese, gnawing away at you, saying "C'mon Corey, it's just another 12 ounces! Surely you can stomach my Dutch goodness for another 12 measly ounces!" and NO. No, I cannot. I can't do it. I can't throw it out, but I sure as hell can't drink it if I'm sober. I probably couldn't drink it if I was drunk, because that's a sure-fire way to spend the next day with your head in a bowl. 

SO not what I meant.

So, it's Corey, 0; Chocovine, 1 -- or, if you're still playing at home, Sobriety, 1; Chocovine, -58. Like the Double Down, I'm glad I did it, if for no other reason than to discourage people from even thinking about trying it. What is life but a series of new and exciting experiences?     If I'm sitting on my couch in my old age and can't look at times like this and laugh, then what was the point in it all? I'd rather do something disgusting and non-life-threatening than nothing. 

Now, where's those mushy peas?