In Defense of the Holy Beverage
I grew up in a religious household (and am in fact still religious myself), and American Protestantism, depending on the denomination, often frowns on alcohol consumption. This belief ignores the total absence of any admonition against drinking in the Bible or throughout church history (Jesus' first miracle wasn't turning water into grape juice!). My parents are a fine example of this kind of thinking: they're teetotalers, and while they don't knock or judge those who do drink, beer, wine, and spirits aren't something I grew up with a working knowledge of.
Now when I got married and came of age, I dabbled with various drinks: mixes, shots, wines, champagnes, and the like. One time, I tried a beer, a Corona. It was awful, and I ended up throwing most of it out. Following this experience, I avoided beer for the most part, though I would have the odd Bud or Miller piss-water can when at a party, barbecue, or what have you. I still wasn't a huge fan of most other drinks either, with the exception of the occasional fruity drink or malt beverage, and I hated taking shots as I wasn't trying to get drunk.
One fateful Sunday afternoon, the wife and I purchased a couch at a now-defunct Levitz furniture store. It was a great couch at a fantastic price, but that's a story for another time (I'll even make a mental note to start a "Furniture" topic). The salesman, who uncannily resembled Matt Damon, was amiable. As Damon was finalizing the paperwork for us, somehow we got on the subject of beer, and my wife volunteered, "My husband hates beer. He says it tastes like urine."
Damon was visibly shocked. I even caught a glimpse of pain in his eyes, similar to expressions he used in The Bourne Supremacy. Wanting to make things right, I offered, "I'd be willing to try it again; I guess I just haven't found the beer that I like." This seemed to improve his spirits a bit, and he suggested that I try a Newcastle the next time I was in the mood for downing a few, and I thanked him for the advice.
As we drove our new sectional home in a friend's truck, we stopped at the local Albertson's and picked up a six-pack of the stuff. It was tinted a rich reddish-brown, unlike other beers I had tried. We packed it in the cab and continued home, where we set to work assembling the couch with the easy-to-follow instructions. Within a short time, I was relaxing on my new couch, feet up on our secondhand coffee table and my first, fateful bottle of ale in front of me.
I popped the bottle cap off with an opener and took a swig. Thoughtfully, I took another, and another, until I had polished off the drink in its entirety. I sat quietly, brow furrowed, lips smacking, breath slow and measured. The world stood still, awaiting my reaction. Birds ceased their chirping and children their play as I prepared to hand down my judgement upon the drink of brown and red.
I won't pretend I was instantly sold. Yet, finishing the beer without at any point wanting to pour the stuff down a drain was, in retrospect, a turning point for me. It was full and at times bitter, but there were moments of delight too: a passing hint of nuttiness, a fleeting taste of coffee or caramel. Maybe there was something to this drink of both kings and peasants alike from ages past.
In the months and years that were to follow, I began to expand my tastes from relatively light ales like the ale from Newcastle to darker fare like Guinness, fine lagers like Stella Artois, and smooth golds like Boddington's. Sometime along the ride--I'm not sure when--I started to seriously enjoy myself. Making a new find, whether a classic consumed by millions or a local microbrew, became a joy and a triumph. I read up on pouring and the correct type of glass and temperature to serve with each type of ale, lager, and stout.
While many people my age see beer as a one-way ticket to drunksville, for me, it turned into something more sacred. It was a way of enjoying the bounty of the earth, of experiencing different regions' unique flavors and character. The beer says something about the beer's maker, and I like that. Rather than grabbing a 36-pack of Keystone for a party, I'll peruse the store for the latest seasonal or a micro made by a small business owner ten miles from my house. Selecting a drink to match with dinner is a fun, risky adventure that sometimes succeeds, and sometimes takes a turn for the worse. Reading up on the history of the region and brewery enriches and enlivens the experience, bringing something to beer drinking that can't be had with mixed drinks and the like.
I'm not saying beer's for everyone, but I just wanted to share my story and with some luck show non-beer-drinkers a little glimpse into why it's so well-loved. It's a journey, not just a drink.
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Also, for anyone wanting to try a fantastic beer, pour a Saison Dupont and let her rip.