I'm an Amateur Beer Drinker

Yesterday afternoon, I strolled down to the Bier Stein for a pint of Old Speckled Hen and then I joined the Deke at Sixteen Tons for two half pints, a saison whose name I can't recall and a Black Butte Porter XXIV.

When I arrived at the Bier Stein, I ordered the Speckled Hen promptly, without thought.  My decisiveness caught the attention of a bloke at the end of the bar, a Brit as it turns out, and he remarked, "Looks like you are a man who knows his beer."

My throat went dry.  I might have blushed.  Mild fear struck me. 

I don't really know beer.

I've been drinking the kind of beer sold at Sixteen Tons and the Bier Stein for over a year now.  Many come from small brewers and are experimental, some made in small batches, and all are flavorful, pleasing.

Yes, I do know a few things. I'm not crazy about intensely hopped beer, not crazy about IPAs, but I enjoy saisons, ales from the firkin, stouts, brown ale, porters, ambers, some pale ales, lagers, pilsners, some sour beers, lambics, wittes, and, well, if the hops are not too over powering, I like just about everything.  I like Budweiser with tomato juice, Budweiser with bloody Mary mix, Budweiser with orange juice, and Budweiser straight from the tap -- as long as it's ice cold.  I like Canadian beer, Belgium beer, Japanese beer, Dutch beer, German beer, Irish beer, English beer, Czech beer as well as Idaho, Montana, Washington, Oregon, New York, Missouri, Colorado, California, Utah, etc. beer.

What makes me an amateur is when it comes to talking about beer.  Aside from always being concerned about the Alcohol by Volume (I don't like to get intoxicated) and being able to give some attention to the IBU (International Bittering Units) (the higher the IBU, the more bitter the beer), I mainly talk about beer by saying, "Yeah, that tastes really good" or "It's a little too bitter for me" or "Wow!  That's really interesting!  I like it".

I read beer reviews (Hey!  Check out Emily's blog!) and I listen to gals and blokes at Sixteen Tons talk about beer and they talk about chocolate and tobacco and citrus and overtones and finish and drinkability and booziness and how the beer is smooth or tart or has hints of grapefruit or cherry or subtle hints of chicory and I just nod dumbly.

I can't tell any of that stuff.

I love beer, but I don't have an analytical experience.

As with so many things, when I drink beer I have a romantic experience.  How does this beer make me feel?  Does it trigger any memories?  Did I like the company I drank it with?  Where was I when I last drank this beer?  Does it taste so good it brings tears to my eyes?

If it tastes so good it brings tears to my eyes, I won't be able to tell you why in beer talk.  Maybe it reminded me of some cask conditioned beer I drank near Ambleside in the Lake District while eating deep fried scampi after a gorgeous walk on easy trails with my first wife in 1979 and maybe the beer makes me want that moment back so intensely that I tear up.

Beer, my love of beer, is an intensely personal experience.  It's why I almost never recommend a beer, why I give vague answers when someone sees what I'm drinking and asks if it's good and why I would never write a beer review.

So when the guy at the Bier Stein heard me order an Old Speckled Hen and told me that I was a man who knows my beer, I refrained from saying, "Well, yes, this past July 1st I had gone to worship at The Church of the Holy Apostles and went back to my Brooklyn hotel room and after a nap savored Tiger Woods' win the AT & T National golf tournament and I decided to go to Park Slope and try Russell's favorite fish and chip place and when I sat down at the Chip Shop I ordered a pint of Old Speckled Hen, not knowing what I was doing, and the first taste was so overwhelmingly sweet and delicious and it brought back so many memories of English pubs and long walks in towns and countryside throughout England that I nearly cried and when my huge fillet of fish and golden chips arrived the Old Speckled Hen complemented the food so perfectly that I nearly cried again and then a couple of days later Scott Shirk and I found the Chip Shop on Atlantic near Brooklyn Heights and we were good friends but became even better friends when we shared in the deep pleasure of an Old Speckled Hen, so, now, whenever I can drink it, whether in a can or on Nitro, I order it, and, if possible, go somewhere in the bar alone and, as if I am kneeling in a private chapel in an abandoned Episcopalian church, I drink in the private pleasures and memories and sweet goodness of Old Speckled Hen."

Instead, I said, "Yeah.  I really like English beer.  It's not so bitter."

The English bloke did what all non-amateur beer drinkers do: First he asked me if I'd ever drunk an English beer I'd never heard of and then he explained to me the difference between English hops and Pacific Northwest and other American hops and how they impact the bitterness of beer.  I nodded dumbly.  My eyes were growing vague.

The bartender brought me my gorgeous pint of creamy Old Speckled Hen.  I raised it to the Brit, smiled, and gave a hearty, "Cheers!"

The Bier Stein was not crowded.  I found an isolated spot to drink my Old Speckled Hen. 

It was spiritual.