I haven’t had Sangria in well over a decade. In my head, it was a pure, spanish sun holiday in a glass. So, in a moment of pure nostalgia, I clicked a £2.50 can into today’s shop, expecting a smooth, fruity treat to go with lunch.
It was a mistake.
Reality hit on the very first sip. It doesn’t taste like Spain; it tastes like carbonated battery acid with a desperate squirt of lemon juice thrown in to cover the crime. I’m sitting here looking at this half-finished tin, purely out of spite, and it’s a violent reminder of why I have a wine collection sitting in my flat that I never actually touch.
The last time Sangria actually tasted good was when I was 14. My mum used to make it properly—cutting up fresh fruit, mixing half a bottle of normal red wine with fruit juice, and letting us have it as a special treat. Later, on family holidays to Spain, I was allowed to drink it while sitting out in the heat. It was brilliant.
Nostalgia is a liar. It tricks you into buying a cheap, fizzy tin of regret because you’re chasing a memory of fresh fruit, red wine, and family holidays. I thought briefly about trying to recreate my mum’s recipe, but honestly? I’d rather leave those memories preserved exactly as they are—safe from modern canned imitations.
At least it cleared my sinuses.