Taste, Anti-taste, and the Ethos of Beer

 

Since my college days, I’ve enjoyed a relationship with beer that, if not passionate, entails more than casual affinity.  I hesitate to call myself an aficionado because I’ve never undergone the rites of passage—the purchase of homebrew equipment, the understanding of brewing nomenclature, the European vacation planned around Oktoberfest—that signify enthusiasm in the devotee.  I do, however, feel deprived if more than a day or two passes without the happy fizz of a Deschute’s Inversion IPA upon my palate, and I often crack open a “cold one” mid-afternoon, justifying my behavior with the excuse, popularized in song by Jimmy Buffet, that “it’s five o’clock somewhere.”  Though Twelve-Steppers might regard this as a sign of more troubling alcohol habits, I contend it simply means I recognize beer’s prominence in the hierarchy of beverages.  Moreover, the true alcoholic, whose pickled brain requires ever greater quantities of drink to produce the desired level of intoxication, eschews beer for high-octane alternatives like vodka, whiskey, and other potent distillations.  In other words, true alcoholics go for the hard stuff.

If I lack the blind devotion of serious fans, I still possess sufficient ardor that I voice only a meek complaint against the abuses inflicted upon today’s beer drinker by the “Lords of the Vat”—a phrase I borrow from James Joyce and apply to the increasing number of American microbreweries charging increasingly outrageous prices for increasingly stranger brews.  I willingly suffer the extortion of paying ten to twelve dollars for a six-pack that just a few years ago retailed for half as much, and tolerate as experiments in creativity the undrinkable concoctions invading supermarket beer aisles—the hazy IPAs that curdle the tongue like rancid grapefruit juice, the mixed-fermentation fruit beers that require chewing before swallowing, the chocolate stouts that resemble specialty coffees at Starbucks more than something known as beer.  I accept these abuses as growing pains that inevitably occur when a vibrant industry pushes the envelope of market capitalism, and console myself with the thought that hopheads today have more to cheer about than folks who endured the bland liquid of the pre-microbrew days, when names like Coors, Pabst, Miller and Michelob dominated the era of “American pisswater.”

Not that American pisswater lacks merit entirely.  No less a spokesperson than Jim Morrison, who sang famously in “Roadhouse Blues” about waking up in the morning and getting himself a beer (or as Morrison crooned, “bee-yah”) promotes its virtues.  In addition to offering a motto to frat-house partyers and counter-culture bohemians, Morrison articulated the ethos of America’s rock ‘n roll youth.  We can reasonably infer that “bee-yah” doesn’t mean some namby-pamby microbrew or sophisticated European import; no, Morrison meant something cheap, canned, blue collar—Schlitz perhaps, or maybe Budweiser.  And I suspect that once Morrison cracked open the can, he found the absence of taste—shall we say, the anti-taste—a suitable accompaniment to the nihilistic, unrefined, “end-is-always-near” mindset romanticized in rock ‘n roll.   As teenagers, my friends and I referred to Budweiser as “Buttwiper,” a term meant to signify the product’s low quality and, by extension, our own lack of refinement.  Of course, consciously or sub-consciously, we drank “Buttwiper” and its ilk precisely because it signified lack of refinement.  If we dared consider something better, voices of derision rose from our peers to mock the idea.  Any beer deemed too unique, too intellectual, or too European risked branding the drinker as uncool.  And so we drank pisswater, not because we liked the taste, but because, channeling Morrison, the anti-taste suited our flannel-and-blue-jean personas.

Not until college, when I departed for a study-abroad semester in England, did I appreciate the idea that a beer might have delightful flavor and, properly sipped from a pint glass in a cozy pub, offer a refined drinking experience.  To go from Buttwiper and its ilk to a pub-draught black-and-tan represented a transformation not just in degree but in kind, the beer equivalent of upgrading to a luxury suite after a stint in a flophouse.  Like a mystical lava lamp, the layered cocktail—Guinness Stout floating atop an amber lode of Bass Ale—mesmerized me, a surprise made more pleasing by the discovery that an English pint measures twenty ounces, compared to the American sixteen.  Happily, the sensory experience extended beyond the visuals.  Passing from glass to mouth, the brew spread a wholesome ambrosia among the tastebuds, hinting at a bygone time when “liquid bread” restored vigor to the yeomen of Sherwood Forest.  Enlightened by such fare, I came to understand how certain pubgoers, whom I initially stereotyped as bored retirees desperate for the consolation of drink, could spend an afternoon hunched over a pint.  Such pubgoers, I realized, merited admiration, not admonishment.

Palate upgraded, I returned from England just as the American craft beer revolution started to go mainstream.  Soon, my refrigerator featured a regular inventory of brands like Red Hook, Sierra Nevada, and perhaps that most mainstream of craft brewers, Sam Adams—an indulgent expense for an English major whose bookish sensibilities made for a generally anemic income.  Yet though my spartan budget (decent paychecks eluded me until I graduated with my Master’s degree and began my teaching career) often relegated me to a ramen diet, I never wavered from my Commitment to Craft.  This reflected not a Jim Morrison-inspired lifestyle expression, but rather a poetic appreciation of beauty.  If Budweiser represented the ethos of rock ‘n roll, then craft brew, I believed, represented the ethos of sublime experience.  The following anecdote from my college days provides an illustration.  One evening, bolstered by my belief in the sublime quality of microbrew, I witnessed a moment of magic juxtaposed against the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.  Frazzled from writing an explication of Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” for my Victorian Lit class, and depressed by the poem’s despondent final stanza, I toted an acoustic guitar and a six-pack of Red Nectar Ale (Humbolt Brewing’s ambrosial classic) to the Santa Monica Bluffs, thinking to serenade the sunset and take a break from Matthew Arnold’s intellect.  In disregard of the traffic on PCH, whose noise reminded me of the “melancholy, long, withdrawing roar” lamented by Arnold in his poem, I plucked an upbeat arpeggio, gulping mouthfuls of Red Nectar between chord progressions.  Of course, as anyone familiar with the Santa Monica Bluffs might predict, this bacchanal summoned from the shadows several representatives of the area’s homeless population, one of whom, a noxious fellow in torn denim and flannel, invited himself to a seat on my bench.  After inquiring if I might spare a bottle, the man turned his eye toward the guitar.  Annoyed, I grudgingly allowed him to strum a tune, but soon appreciated the fortuitous quality of the moment:  as the interloper slurped his suds and attempted a rasping rendition of “Proud Mary,” I watched the last rays of the sunset paint the horizon with a neon glow that culminated in a burst of vermillion—the fabled “green flash” of urban lore.  Though several variables combined to make me a witness to the event, I believe the microbrew played a significant role, and to this day, influenced by nostalgia as much as taste, I buy Red Nectar when I chance upon it.

But. . .fast forward to 2021.  As with so much rendered uncertain in a time of pandemic, my microbrew mania revealed its shortcomings as a guiding creed.  At a friend’s July birthday party, craving refreshment after some fellow attendees goaded me into a hacky-sack competition, I found myself drinking keg beer from a plastic cup.  Something about the taste—or rather, the curious absence of taste—allowed the delightful contrast of cold beer on a hot day to reach its full potential, quenching my thirst with efficiency.  As I drained my cup, each gulp brought an echo of memories I couldn’t quite place.  Intrigued and perplexed, I asked the host what brand of beer the keg contained. 

“Budweiser,” he informed me, somewhat apologetically.  “Some folks call it American pisswater, but it goes down smooth on a hot day.”

“Pisswater, huh?” I mused, refilling my cup.  Gleaming in the summer sun, the keg resembled a silver totem, and I regarded with newfound appreciation the liquid it dispensed.  Buttwiper never seemed so good.

 

An Open Heart for the Open Road: Praise for SELDOM SEEN by Patrick Dobson

 

 

     On the eve of his departure for a months-long backpacking road trip through the Great Plains, Patrick Dobson attempts to reassure his friends, who consider him foolhardy for setting off without the protection of a gun.  “I want to meet people, not shoot them,” he declares, coining a phrase that, as his journey progresses, comes to represent a manifesto for open-hearted travel.

     Propelled by leg power and the kindness of passing drivers, whose vehicles provide timely solace from hailstorms, dangerous stretches of highway, and bouts of exhaustion, Dobson meanders from Kansas City, MO to Helena, MT, hoping to meld with the landscape in a way that only slow travel can achieve.  As Dobson explains, “I wanted to move slower, to feel the distance and lose myself in it.  I wanted to know the plains more deeply than from conversations with strangers filling the gas tank or coffee thermos.  With decent shoes and a backpack I would become familiar with the scenery and its people.  I wouldn’t hitchhike.  I would need no gas stations or interstates.  I offered a ride, I would take it, but no further than the distance of a day’s walk.  That was enough.”

     The motive for Dobson’s wanderlust-- the frustration of working a dead-end job and growing complacent in a robotic routine—will resonate with anyone stuck in, numbed by, or otherwise dispirited with the workaday treadmill.  Throughout the book, the quest to find the soul of the prairie, and belief in the redemptive power of that soul, raises a hopeful counterpoint to the decaying towns and hardscrabble lives (i.e., the “Seldom Seen”) that dot the grasslands.  We root for the author because we want to believe in the merits of his journey, and verify the idea escaping drudgery requires only courage and an open heart for the open road.  At its core, the narrative underscores this idea; each new chapter brings a catharsis as, like flowers waiting to bloom, the people and places Dobson encounters open up to him, as if his desire to break free catalyzes their own spirit potential.  Additionally, we root for Dobson because his vulnerabilities remind us of our own struggles.  Hints of backstory reveal humanizing angst:  though highly educated, Dobson works a job unsuited to his skillset; a recovering alcoholic, he fights the demons that cost him time and relationships; a caring father, he seeks greater involvement in the life of his little girl, but his ex and his wanderlust thwart a closer connection.  Ultimately, the psychological dimensions of the journey rival the physical dimensions, immersing the reader in a man-vs.-self conflict that, by the end of the book, brings the recognition that embracing humanity means relishing its dichotomies—“its mediocrity and beauty and ugliness, meanness and generosity, sadness and pain and joy.”

     Rich with detail, the narrative proceeds quickly, with crisp descriptions (“Casper looked like a town that need a bath and a shave”) and deft use of storytelling tactics—active voice phrasings, appeal to the senses, and three-dimensional characters.  Though limited to cameo appearances that rarely last more than a chapter, the characters Dobson encounters display quirks and attributes that infuse the tale with intrigue, making the prairie’s flat horizon come alive with multi-dimensional possibilities.  At times, these characters serve as foils, conversational counterpoints by which Dobson refines and articulates his road-trip philosophy.  In other instances, they show that behind small town facades lurk interesting oddities:  a frustrated housewife who attempts to seduce the author while her husband sleeps in the other room; a misanthropic van-dweller who prefers the companionship of cats to the injustices (whether real or imagined) of people; a front desk clerk who moonlights as philosopher, dispensing enlightened commentary about human nature.

     In a travelogue that spans a range of places and people, some experiences inevitably leave Dobson with a bitter taste.  At a rodeo in touristy Jackson, Wyoming, an accident inflicts grave injuries on a contestant.  The incident makes Dobson lament the random cruelties that society tolerates for the sake of profit.  As disparaging thoughts about the rodeo owners and their tourist customers loop through his mind, Dobson feels a sense of guilt that inspires a longing for loving connections: “I hated myself for my part in putting that kid in danger.  I had bought the ticket and been one of the spectators.  I had been part of it. . .I wanted to go home and be with my daughter.  Who was I kidding?  Traveling across the country?  To do what?  To do what?”  Such moments of self-doubt not only render Dobson a more authentic narrator but remind us that setting out on the road sometimes results in a more cherished notion of home.

     Travel literature, like travel itself, impacts us most when it opens the door to discovery.  Though set in America’s backyard, Seldom Seen takes the reader on a journey that encourages a fresh view of the Heartland.  Along the way, it inspires us to open our hearts to the open road, and find what curiosities await in the geographies we call home.