BEER AND A TEETHING BISCUIT.

Spanish bartenders don’t tolerate age discrimination. They’ll serve alcohol to any patron—no matter how youthful-looking—who can establish his maturity via the following quiz:

BRIGHT-EYED PATRON: Bartender! Gimme a beer.

BARTENDER (leaning forward on one elbow): Do you intend to drink it from a glass? Or from a human nipple?

PATRON: Uhhh…from a glass.

BARTENDER (slapping the countertop): OK! Here’s your beer.

Of course, I’m exaggerating a bit. Spain has a minimum drinking age which, I’m fairly certain, is somewhere in the two-digits. And I’ve no doubt that most bartenders observe it conscientiously. But I’m still taken aback each time I discover that the person on the next bar-stool and I share a special affinity for the year 1985 (i.e., I completed my last semester of high school; he completed his last trimester of fetal development).

How could I not be taken aback? I come from a country that goes to the other extreme. In the US, one’s first legal sip of beer (at age 21!) often coincides with the sprouting of one’s first gray whisker. I had forgotten about this absurdity until last month, when I returned to the US for my first visit in nearly two years.

I was in a “gourmet” (i.e., overpriced) hamburger joint and ordered a pint of Bass® ale. The pimply-faced waitress asked to see proof of my age. Now, I’m a 38 years old. And if you’ve looked at my profile photo, it’s quite apparent. But I’m also familiar with the US’s inflexibility in these matters (and, in fact, spent most of my adolescent years finding ways around it), so I handed her my Spanish residency card—i.e., the only ID that I had in my wallet.

She held it at arm’s-length between her thumb and forefinger—in much the same way that a 7 year old from Tennessee might gawk at his first escargot in a French bistro—and said, “This isn’t an Illinois driver’s license.”

“I know. That’s because I don’t live in Illinois.”

“Ummmm...I need to, like, ask my manager. We usually don’t accept out-of-state ID’s.”

“But…but…the nipples! I won’t use nipples!”

Ten minutes later, the manager came to our table, took a brief look at the craggy, hairless relic that is my cranium, and said, “OK. We’ll get you that beer.”

Incredible, isn’t it? In this light, Spain’s relaxed attitude toward serving alcohol seems sensible. I’d imagine that there are some Spanish teens reading this essay and thinking, “Perhaps that study abroad program isn’t such a good idea, after all.”

The people I feel most sorry for, however, are US soldiers. They can be sent to war at age 18…but can’t legally drink until they’re 21. That’s not just illogical; it’s cruel! Why cruel? Because if I were being sent into a battlefield, I’d want to be as rip-snortin’ drunk as humanly possible.

Fortunately for our troops, I think I’ve found a loophole. An 18 year old soldier can’t drink a beer while stationed in the US, but what if the war was on foreign soil? Say, a country that does allow 18 year olds to drink. That would be OK, wouldn’t it?!

Of course, the existence of this loophole makes me happy that there are no US military generals under the age of 21. If there were, they might be tempted to invade Spain for this very reason.