In Georgia they toast to their parents first. The Armenians say this is because the Georgians get so drunk they are afra
Richard Ney

This thing called toasting, I have no art at it. In the States, it is enough to say "to You," tilt our glasses and sip. No such thing as a "bottoms up", at least in the literal sense. And if we are really feeling racy, well, then, "Salude", "Au Sante", "To Your Health" will suffice. For those who down the glasses, well that is for shot glasses and whiskey, or double dares of drinking bouts. In short, for the young or the "Drinking Challenged". The Art of toasting is something new to me.

I categorize toasts ("Genatsetzi") here. They come in layers, each with a sub-toast, a detail that must be covered before one dares touch the spirits to one's lips.

I remember when a friend came from Texas to visit me. We went to the dacha to spend the night. Higher in the hills towards Aragats, we gazed upon the Ararat Valley, across to Turkey, beyond to Ararat. We toasted timidly, "To You", "Salude", "To Your Health", and were completely out of place. Our Armenians reminded me how I used to toast "like a real Armenian". I blushed, for I had not introduced my friend to the strange intricacies of bonding that form the fabric of this society. I half understood them myself, but toasting was a particular wonder to me.

I remembered there was a toast to women ("Not yet. Too soon, Rick. You know it is towards the end, after women have served the dinner". Oh, yes, I forgot.). Well then, to parents ("Always at the end, Rick! Not now.") Armenians pride themselves on being able to toast their parents, no matter how much they have drunk. They will always remember this toast. After so much drinking, I am not sure how many remember what they said in their toasts to their parents, but surely none ever forgot to toast. In Georgia they toast to their parents first. The Armenians say this is because the Georgians get so drunk they are afraid they will forget this toast, and so get it out of the way. The Georgians say it is because they put their parents before anything. Before food, before drink, before friendship. That the Armenians do a disservice to their parents by waiting until the end. A small but important distinction between two neighbors.

To the Host? ("Well, that has already been done, Rick") To the food? ("What, you toast the food, and not the cook? This is not possible. Anyway, that is also after we have been served.")

By this time I had been in Armenia for two years, I had drunk of the culture, fed voraciously of the idiosyncrasies of its existence ("That wall there: which epoch, what king, how many people took it?") But I had never been a Tamada. A Tamada is the master of the table, so, the master of toasting, the one responsible to keep the ball rolling, so to speak. I had always been the guest who milked my glass of vodka or cognac so that I could match every 20 toasts with one jigger of alcohol.

And I sat by as the Armenians taught me how to toast. And they taught. And taught. And taught. "This is a good class," I thought, weaving a bit on my chair. "Eat more bread. We do not get drunk because when we drink, we eat."

"I am eating. And I am drunk."

"Oh, you poor American--"

"--Texasitzi!"

"Ok, Texasitzi. Poor soul. Let's toast to the Texas spirit!"

After they picked me up off the floor, I tried.

The layers of drinking and toasting:

It is actually very simple: You begin with the roots, toast each one, then the trunk and each branch. Then you begin with the leaves, the veins in the leaves, the buds that form the leaves, the sap in the tree that feeds the veins that give color to the leaves. Then proceed to the sun that gives light to the leaves so they may grow and bear fruit, to the rain that covers the earth, giving sustenance to the tree, to the fair weather that protects the tree, the wind that blows at the back of the person so he may embrace the tree for protection, and so on and so on.

My Texas friend has a more scientific way of describing these toasts. She calls them Sub Dash A's. Toast 1, Sub Dash B, Article 127.9 is the hands that pull us up from our misery. Toast 46D Sub Dash C Article 132.8 are the bonds that bind us together. Toast 22B Sub Dash 5, Article 32 is the phrase "Eench karogh hosem? (what can I say?)". It is in every toast.

Whatever system is used to describe toasting in Armenia, it is safest to say I never went through a toasting ceremony like that one we had that day. From 1 p.m. until 4 a.m. the next morning, the hard toasters held their convention, while we watched first in amazement, then with bemusement, then with fatigue. We left, we walked to the Turkish border and back, we organized the wood pile, and the convention was still in session. We made a fire, watched the sun set, told stories, played at sleeping, but always in the background, we heard the words, "Eench Karogh Hosem?"

"Toast 22 B Sub Dash 5, Article 32," said my friend, burying her head in her pillow. "And they haven't even begun on the twigs on the ground yet."

"Come on, this is Armenia. It is something different." I tried to defend my friends at the table, while I wished that lightening would strike and make them dumb. I wonder how deaf Armenians toast? Surely, they exhaust themselves before long, and simply sign, "Akh! Genatset."

That, in truth is my favorite toast. "Akh! Genatset." It is also the shortest toast. (It means, "To you.") Enough of the flowers that grace our tables and make life bearable for men (Women. And let's face it, we give women one toast and then order them back to the kitchen, while we continue to drink and eat. I definitely want to come back as a man in my next life.). Enough of the sacred things in our life (as if nothing is sacred on land so hard won and lived on), of the long "--tsiutiune" words whose tricky formal pronunciations only one Armenian I know says with grace and poise; the pose, response, double response toasts. When it all comes down to it, "Akh! Genatset." Life is like wine, it is sweet if we drink it on time, it is poor if we set it too long. To You.