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Albus Dumbledore drank absinthe in Paris as a young man and came to love its charms as much as he did the company of pale, saturnine poets.
It's the prerogative of the aged to dwell upon lost days, and so he indulges himself now and again when Severus Snape and good liquor coincide in his possession. A slow kiss and spilt seed taste of harsh herbs, Severus's skin cool as glass until his touch warms it. His head spins, and his blood sings Berlioz's Les Troyens.
A taste for bitterness may not be common, but it is well worth acquiring.