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.
