It’s a time-honored tradition. In fact, it is nearly impossible to divorce the domestically blissful coupling of beer drinking and good company; the American masses would find it especially laughable. Even noting this simple relationship is beyond obvious, and yet it still intrigues me every time I am able to partake in the epochs-old sacrament of breaking yeast with others.
It can be debated that beer actually begat civilization. Some anthropologists and other cultural mavens believe that the departure from the hunter-gatherer lifestyle was spurned by the agricultural need to grow sizable amounts of grain. Granted, the debate hinges on whether these grains were used in bread making or beer brewing, but enough evidence points to the harvesting of barleys (most of which would be very problematic in the process of making bread) that I’m willing to stand with the proponents of fermentation. Flash forward to early recorded history and we’ll find the Fertile Crescent wrought with devout disciples of Ninkasi, the goddess of beer. The Sumerians, from royalty to rascal, would surround oversized clay pots with reed straws and drink deeply, enjoying conversation that, translated temporally, would not be unlike the discussions heard at your preferred pub.
And so what, right? Sure, there’s a lot of novelty to be extracted from the nuggets of information (and certainly enough fodder to fling at your favorite fundamentalist), but why deliver this historical treatise? Where’s the personal touch that denotes “blog?” I’m glad you asked.
Our current mainstream interpretations of this social practice (the ones experienced by those same American masses chuckling at the idea of separating friends and refreshment) have become a watered-down mockery, and I’m not only referring to the beverages. Beer’s marketing is ubiquitous and panders with precision to non-firing synapses. Most of these brains are mindlessly awash in reaching a preconceived level of drunkenness, happily tossing filthy balls into cups that will later be furiously flipped, or sitting on a stool where they can exercise their hand-mouth coordination and put their thoughts inside a warm vat of emptiness. To say that I wasn’t reared in this school of imbibing would be a lie, but to remain a student is even more damning. We settled into villages to embrace our evolving nature with mirth and merriment, not to detach into the open plain of the devoid.
Thus, we arrive in Decatur, Georgia, a mere stone’s throw away from the metropolis of the South, a city like many where the “average American” can be comfortable in the nation’s collective ignorance. The Brick Store Pub is the venue of choice: part German beer hall, part Euro-style rustic coffee house, and entirely a haven for the cicerones of this fine country. I entered expecting to see a wide array of proud beer geeks and snobs holding controlled conversations about life, brew, literature, and ‘ball; I was astounded by the sheer amount of vibrant voices bounding between the burgundy walls. The downstairs was nearly full, so my brother and I took the steps up to the Belgian bar, warmly decorated with appropriate brand paraphernalia and wood paneling under dim lighting, and my inner anthropologist ran amok. How did all of these folks end up here?
We nestled up to the slab in front of seats 45 and 46 facing the wall, and my eyes and ears continued to travel: to the interracial boomer couple to our right, intermittently gabbing about retirement plans between praise for their Weihenstephaner pours and her penne pomodoro, and then back across towards the edge of the bar where two mid-30s female friends erupted into excitement over reuniting, toasting with pitch-black porters. Before I knew it, a gorgeously golden Alvinne Gaspar with a volcano-shaped pillow of head was in my palm, and we were away on our own journey, recounting and philosophizing and engaging in the way intended for this setting. I watched the hipsters hold court in the opposite corner. I smiled at the youngish father and mother standing to our left, and mom bounced a buoyant boy in her baby carrier while the happy family perused the pub’s extensive catalog. Waves of children wandered with their parents through the sea of patrons before eventually shoring up at a cozy corner table in the back room. As I gazed through this kaleidoscopic cross-section, I took a moment to throw Matthew and myself into the mix: twentysomething siblings enamored with the seemingly never-ending selection at their fingertips, but more engrossed with each others’ prospects and worldviews, our triumphs and tribulations, and the fact that we were sharing much more than a handful of pints.
And that’s the point. Humanity is hinged upon our incredible ability to relate to those around us and to relay the joy that we mine from the senses (be it from a Bell’s Two Hearted or a cellared Aventinus Weizen-eisbock). Make no mistake: I am overly critical with a discriminating palate and enough pretention to dedicate an entire post to how you, regular guy or gal, should take part in the ancient art of social drinking, and there’s certainly something to be said for independent investigation of taste. Regardless, I find more sin in the cultural waste of this lauded treasure, eyes transfixed on the middle distance or a meaningless screen, than the general force-feeding of cold, drinkable, “triple-hopped” swill, though the latter is evidently worthy of its own diatribe. Our species originally adapted its existence and invested in this process in order to reach a happier, healthier, and higher plane of being. It is our responsibility to uphold the tradition.
Cheers.
