Note: The taxonomy presented in this essay should not be interpreted too strictly. Like most human classifications, the categories are somewhat fluid. A One-Drink Person may occasionally drift into Three. A Three-Drink Person may, under the right atmospheric conditions, wander into Six. Cities, companions, and the general momentum of the evening all play their roles.
The individuals mentioned here — Jon Brooks, my brother Pat, my brother Mike, my father Ross, and my friends Philip and Jack — are cited with affection and respect as exemplary specimens of their respective drinking styles. Any exaggerations should be understood in the spirit of barroom anthropology rather than scientific certainty.
The Simon Joyner lyric used below as the epigraph comes from one of the great chroniclers of American barroom life, whose songs capture with particular accuracy the strange fellowship and wandering philosophy that often emerge around a table of drinks.
Epigraph:
I met the drinker for the drink/ back when I was drinking everything/ but the kitchen sink.
Simon Joyner
Human beings go out for drinks for many reasons.
To loosen up after the day.
To bond with friends.
To flirt.
To seek the company of the opposite sex.
To complain about coworkers and bosses and get it all out of the system.
To chase novelty.
To see what the night might offer.
There may be pool involved. There may be a little weed involved. There may be laughter, storytelling, and occasionally the pursuit of romance. Some people even manage to get into fights, though I have always considered that an unnecessary complication.
Whatever the precise motivation, if you spend enough time in bars — conferences, faculty gatherings, Kyoto wanderings — a pattern begins to emerge.
Drinkers, broadly speaking, fall into three categories.
It’s not a perfect system, but it’s remarkably reliable.
I. The One-Drink Person
The One-Drink Person possesses a trait that fascinates the rest of the drinking world: sufficiency.
One drink is enough.
Not “enough for now.”
Not “enough before the next bar.”
Just enough.
The One-Drink Person orders calmly, often something familiar.
“I’ll have my usual IPA. Just the one.”
They sip slowly. They participate in the conversation. They are fully present at the table. And then, at some point, they stand up and leave with perfect dignity while the rest of the group is still negotiating whether a second round is happening.
I know two pure examples of this species: Jon Brooks and Pat Thomas.
They are calm, stable, and mysteriously immune to the centrifugal forces that tend to expand most nights.
There is also a fascinating adjacent species in my father Ross, who is technically a Two-Drink Person. Ross orders two beers spaced exactly twelve minutes apart for what he calls the “maximum fade.” He informs the waitress of the twelve-minute interval with great seriousness, as if he were conducting a controlled laboratory experiment.
Among the other tribes, the One-Drink Person inspires both admiration and mild suspicion. Their discipline seems almost supernatural.
II. The Three-Drink Person
The Three-Drink Person represents the ideal of civilized social drinking.
Three drinks produce a predictable arc.
Drink one warms the room.
Drink two brings the conversation fully alive.
Drink three arrives at the sweet spot: relaxed, sociable, cheerful.
Then the Three-Drink Person goes home.
No drama.
No philosophical speeches.
No mysterious late-night decisions.
In theory this is the perfect category.
In practice, however, there is a complication.
Many people who identify as Three-Drink People are not actually Three-Drink People at all.
Their most common sentence is something like:
“I’ve only had four, chillax.”
Which is when the observant barroom anthropologist begins to suspect that the Three-Drink classification may be partly aspirational.
These days I am more or less a Three-Drink Person myself. But this is a relatively recent development. As recently as the late COVID years — say 2023 — I was still operating comfortably in a different category.
III. The Six-Drink Person
The Six-Drink Person rarely begins the evening intending to drink six.
In fact the Six-Drink Person almost always starts with a sentence that sounds very reasonable.
“I’ll just have one.”
But the night has a tendency to expand around them.
One drink leads to another conversation.
Another conversation leads to another round.
The stories become louder.
The table becomes friendlier.
The evening begins to acquire momentum.
At a certain point the Six-Drink Person may also say something like:
“OK motherfucker, we are going to arm wrestle!”
This is generally a signal that the night has entered its advanced phase.
My brother Mike is the purest Six-Drink specimen I know. Mike goes for it. If the night has possibilities, Mike will find them.
My friend Philip also operates comfortably in this zone. These are the drinkers who power the great stories.
They are responsible for a very large percentage of legendary nights.
Also, it must be said, a fair number of mornings that begin with a quiet promise to take it easier next time.
A Personal Adjustment
My own shift from Six-Drink territory into the Three-Drink category happened fairly recently.
One evening earlier this year I was sitting at ING and realized something unusual. I had already had two drinks. I ordered a third Negroni, and suddenly a small voice in my head said: that’s probably enough.
The old circuit was still there.
Concrete. Ishimaru. Haru.
The whole Kyoto 4-a.m. constellation.
Their siren songs were faintly audible.
But that night I did something unexpected.
I finished the third drink, paid the bill, and went home.
As Homer might say, Odysseus stayed on the ship.
The Final Observation
Most people believe they are Three-Drink People.
Very few actually are.
In reality the species are fluid. A One-Drink Person may occasionally drift into Three. A Three-Drink Person may, under the right atmospheric conditions, slide quietly into Six.
And certain cities — Kyoto among them — possess a remarkable talent for turning what begins as a perfectly innocent One-Drink Plan into something much more expansive.
Which is how, sooner or later, every barroom anthropologist eventually arrives at the same conclusion:
The taxonomy is real.
But the night always has the last word.
Dedication:
For drinkers everywhere. I love you, bro.
Note: If you liked this essay, you might also like the ones below, which also deal with Kyoto nightlife in all its glory.
The Kyoto Kibbitzer 