NTKOG #23: The kind of seasoned beer drinker who sucks back pint after pint, indiscriminate of brand, pausing briefly only to bounce quarters off of her steely liver.
I am: a boozehouse, no doubt, and a bit of a fussy one, at that. I adore any classic gin or brandy cocktail, expertly shaken with fresh-squeezed juice and citrus.
I am not: despite all evidence to the contrary, a beer drinker. I’ve drunk wine at football games, the fourth of July, and, yes, even keggers.
The Scene: the neighborhood corner bar this evening. The bartender asks what I’ll have and I start to scan the rows of liquor bottles, then pause to take in his gauged ears and too-tight black T-shirt. He is clearly the kind of guy whose idea of class is a Grey Goose martini — hold the vermouth*.
A beer it friggin’ was.
I hemmed and hawed over the ten selections on draft before selecting a safe, reliable Oktoberfest and knocking it back a bit more quickly than I’d care to admit. When the Douchey But Admittedly Hot Bartender asked if I’d have another, I leaned in woozily:
TKOG: Hey, remember when you were a little kid at like a fast food restaurant? How you’d get the cup for soda and then go to the soda fountain–
DBAHB: –and put in a little of each drink?
TKOG: Yeah! A suicide! Has anyone ever…
DBAHB: There was this one guy, a regular, at a place I used to work who used to come in every night and just asy: “Brian, do your thing!”
TKOG: Well, Brian. Do your thing.
I watch Brian fiddle with various taps, tilt and swirl the glass, decant parts of the mixture, and top the whole elaborate concoction with a dollop of Guiness foam, like a cherry on top. He sets it down in front of me and it is — well, a beer, basically. Is what it looks like. Time to commit beericide.
I'm no gypsy beer suds reader, but I'm reasonably sure the suds on the glass are spelling out "HELP!" in some sort of ancient, hopsy runes.
The beer is actually not too friggin’ bad. The flavors are complexed and kind of layered, ranging from — and you’ll have to forgive the former drink-slinger here for lapsing into highly technical sommelier jargon — “skunky” to “gutted hobo” to “refreshingly and all too fleetingly like a lack of woodland creatures or indigent peoples.” Kind of the gustatory equivalent of chewing a whole handful of jellybeans. It was pleasantly interactive!
It reminded me of high school parties. The end, when the booze has inevitably run out, when those brawny of heart and late of curfew tiptoe through the wreckage, seeking half-full cups that had been recklessly discarded hours before, dumping them together, and snorking back the whole ungodly mess. It tastes like youth. But also, like, kind of unpleasant.
The Verdict: Holy shit, guys, I drank beer (!) in a bar, alone (!!), poured in a manner rarely seen outside of Taco Bell (!!!) soda fountains! Definitely my Delta Burke moment. But, you know, although it’s never going to be my first-choice beverage, and as hard as I tried to make it truly unswillable, I think after our little suicide mission, beer has finally grown on me. Despite the fact that it made me drunk-text The Ex on a Monday night. Dude, thanks for nothing, beer!
*Please do not ask me what is wrong with a Grey Goose “martini.” The simplest answer is that words mean things. Martini, in particular, means a drink made of gin and either sweet or dry vermouth. Period. A Goose martini — hold the vermouth — is just vodka, guys.
Not That Kind of Girl 