Raising a Toast
Here’s the link to subscribe. Remember to leave a like or a comment!
Dear Bolu,
A while ago I happened to be watching a TV show. There was a scene in which two men—neither shabbily nor ceremoniously dressed—were seated by each other. By all accounts, it could not be inferred that either was of one class or the other. They seemed like men of good dispositions—or at least, they were accurately portrayed as such.
These gentlemen were engaged in a dialogue, almost imperceptibly. No funny business. Just two people invested in a conversation and enjoying each other's company. Each had a drink in hand, and at that point, all appeared to be well with the universe.
Suddenly, as if prompted by a strange voice, they both unanimously decided to take the first sip out of their drinks. But before they did, they had to—for no immediately obvious reason—perform a ritual. It didn't require blood, pentagrams, or any other often alleged occult ingredient. Rather, they had to bring their glass cups as close as possible to each other till they heard a slight "clink". Their glasses kissed and both well-disposed gentlemen uttered "cheers" in perfect cohesion typical of medal winners in the Olympics’ synchronized double diving event.
Both gentlemen had raised a toast. It is not at all an uncommon practice and odds are that we all have, at some point, observed it. Mundane as it may be, I found myself asking the question; why do we raise toasts?
The obvious answer is, surely, the fact that we do so to celebrate wins and triumphs, foes who have met their end, enemies turned allies, friends who have remained as friends, and any other jubilatory and/or selfish cause. I knew why we raise toasts, and I'm sure we all do. The question I really wanted an answer for was, I suppose, why we raise toasts the way we do.
Again, the obvious retort would be that we tend to do things a particular way because we have observed them being done in that manner. But that is not much of an answer, is it? That explains away the reason why we do a majority of things—we learn by observation.
You fold your clothes a certain way because you saw someone fold theirs in that pattern. Bar the manifestation of our creativity every now and then, or our accidental encounters with a new dimension to an activity, we pretty much do all we have seen people do.
In fact, we know some things are doable simply because we've seen others do them. You know to do a backflip because you saw Rey Mysterio bust some moves in the ring. You likely never would have thought of a backflip otherwise. It's the persistence and relevance of culture, tradition, and experiences. A world where we don't have the luxury of sharing experiences would not make much progress.
So yes, we raise toasts a certain way because we have simply learned to do so. However, I tried to go a layer deeper into the nature of this goreless ritual and denude some of its aspects.
Do toasts make a drink taste better? When a pair of fluid-bearing glasses come together—as if under the proclamation of a priest at a wedding—and kiss, are there atomic changes in the nature of the content of the glass? Is there some form of fluid exchange—as is usually the case when a couple ties the knot—across the impermeable sides of the cups that alters the composition and taste of the drink? Objectively, I think not. I have no scientific proof to back my claim, so I stand to be corrected.
What about the unspoken laws of distance and number that ever so apply to toasts? These laws are known to all but strangely unutterable.
If there is to be a toast between two men seated at a close distance, then their glasses must kiss. If there is a third man in the group, still, their glasses must be placed, momentarily, together. However, when the number of toasters (participants in a toast) reaches a certain critical point, it is suddenly acceptable for the glasses not to touch each other. Everyone simply raises his/her glass in the air and I can only imagine that there is some wireless "clink" of glasses that follow. It suffices, and the toast is decreed a valid one.
Similarly for distance, a critical meter or inch is reached such that the toasters need not travel towards each other to ensure their glasses touch. Whether it is an arm's length or four arm's length, I can't say. But at that point, it becomes fine to raise the glass in the direction of the co-toaster, and the toast is allowed a successful entry into the records of acceptable toasts.
No one knows what this number or distance is. We are never given values for them, but that is not a problem. We are never unsure of what should be done when a toast is proposed.
About proposals, how does one turn down an invitation to raise a toast? Does one simply act in defiance of the rules of toasts by leaving one's glass rooted unshakably to the table? Does one raise their glass in an inverted direction such that the content of the glass is laid to waste? Should one voice out words in the similitude of, "no, I decline to participate in this toast"? I'm not sure what the rule book says, but it would certainly be an interesting sight.
And of course, perhaps the most important element of toasts is that they require cups. Cups or nothing. It does not matter what liquid it hosts. As long as it is a cup, it can be used in a toast. So if you have other big ideas for a toast, say to use a plate of food, a fork with a sprinkle of rice grains, or a spoon with droplets of soup, you'd be frowned at. It is not a case of picking just any cutlery or crockery—it must be a cup. That's a bit sad but it's understandable. After all, a toast with bowls would require your pair of hands. And a toast with knives, for instance, can easily descend into or be mistaken for a spar.
In any case, it matters less whether or not we know how toasts work. We are all receptive to toasts as an idea and a practice. They are great. They have a tendency to make us feel important and welcome as part of a team or family. Toasts go beyond the clinking of cups or muttering of cheers. If they didn't, we'd be raising toasts to ourselves, perhaps by holding a cup in each hand.
Like the many things we do, and very often derive some joy from, toasts are inherently mundane. They don't make your drinks taste better and they make you a few seconds late in savoring your drink. Toasts are only great because of the people we share them with. A toast is a moment in itself—bearing centuries of tradition, culture, and experiences fuelled continuously by the millions of cups that drink in one accord.
So the next time you participate in a toast, remember not to use cutlery or some other apparatus that is not a cup. Watch out for the number of participants and the distances between them all. I’m sure you'll make the right call on whether to move such that the glasses kiss each other or they are simply raised up high to achieve a wireless clink. Enjoy the moment, of course. And say cheers in perfect sync.
Cheers!
Thanks for reading! I’m delighted you made it here. If you liked this issue of Dear Bolu, you can sign up here so that new issues get sent directly to your inbox.
If you really liked it, do tell a friend about it.
Also, remember to leave a like or a comment!
Write you soon, merci !
- Wolemercy