Some people don’t like beer. It seems like a crime against humanity for those of us that proselytize about its supreme nature, but, over the years of my own conversion, I have come to respect this painful truth about the palette. I suppose it’s so difficult to accept due to the fact that the typical justifications associated with disliking food don’t exactly line up with shunning beer. There are no absurd textures to traverse; mouthfeel usually falls into a simple spectrum that does not include gelatinous, crumbly, or chewy, though there are certainly exceptions to the rule. Offensive or “exotic” ingredients do not find their way into the brewing process, though I will admit that people with particular allergies are disadvantaged from the start. Still, no one has to worry about notes of tripe or sweetbreads making a cameo in something that he or she is sipping (thankfully). Finally, appearance cannot truly act as an outlying factor of detraction in the way it can with other edibles. This doesn’t mean that beer is always mildly attractive, but it doesn’t have the inherent ability to destroy an appetite like a fish head or cow tongue.

With all that said, it saddens me that there are legions that are truly incapable of sharing in one of life’s great joys. It is simply a reality, though; hopefully, a well aged bourbon or scotch, or perhaps a vintage wine, can impart the same feelings. Even if you’re a teetotaler, which I find humanistically sinful (but that’s neither here nor there), there are corporal experiences that can be analogous.

None of these excuses, however, are applicable to the despicably capable masses of beer imbibers with expansive taste buds and not-so-shallow pockets who continue to rely on piss-colored pints and bastardized brown bottles — not to mention the “flavor-ensuring” lined cans — of the massive macrobreweries. Despite the reassuring numbers culled from 2009 that show sales of the Big Three dropping 2.2%, their first annual drop since 2003, it’s hard to validate that, on a whole, more and more people are turning to real beer with an open mind, especially in this economic climate. The truth is found on a much smaller scale: in one’s circle of friends.

I’m very close to a homebrewer who shall remain anonymous for personal purposes. He took great pleasure in the bomber of New Holland Dragon’s Milk that I gave to him for Christmas this year, proving that his taste buds are nowhere near broken. Regardless, he made the regrettable statement that a batch of his beer, an “amber” produced from pre-hopped malt extract and no actual whole ingredients, cut with equal parts Miller High Life, was much more sound than the bottle of Unibroue La Terrible that we were splitting at the time; trust me, this paraphrasing lets him off lightly. Instead of unleashing a tirade on par with a populist rally, I kept myself composed (and helped myself to the rest of his glass).

Then there’s Emily (note: name changed for her sake): a mid-20s college graduate unafraid to patronize pubs with an above average array of beer. Her comfort zone is constructed with walls composed of Lite and Jaeger. Knowing this, I decided to conduct an experiment after she had reached her intoxication threshold. I started her out with a slug of Bell’s Two Hearted Ale, a mild (in my opinion), balanced American IPA that would stand out on her palette but not overpower her to the point of puckering. I was surprised when she gave me a ‘Yeah, so?’ look, stated “that’s not very different,” and jumped back into her can of PBR.

Undeterred, I offered up some of my wife’s Young’s Double Chocolate Stout; there was no way she could proffer a similar response. Though it’s not the most complex or challenging stout, there are noticeable variables on which she could comment, and she definitely did. I was met with a twisted face of disgust. “It just tastes like beer with milk in it,” to which I countered with “But you didn’t taste the roasted or chocolate flavors?” With the shake of her head, I knew any further efforts would be in vain.

Doesn’t that make her akin to the first group outlined? It would if she hadn’t shortly thereafter downed 22 ounces of Goose Island’s Mild Winter from the draft of a local pizza joint, commenting on how satisfying it was juxtaposed against the fatally frigid weather we were having. I’d like to blame it on the change of venue (we walked a block and a half from our prior haunt) or the way the beer matched up with our food (run of the mill breadsticks), but that wouldn’t prove my point, now would it? Without worrying about the expectation of an evangelist, she was able to enjoy a beer completely out of her “range,” and yet I still feel the need to browbeat people like Emily for that very reason!

I guess that’s why I find this topic so compelling. It’s related to something that is simultaneously innate and learned; it’s paradoxical and still makes perfect sense. Through investigation, it’s prompted me with another question – what’s the bigger tragedy? It would be easy to immediately indict the gleefully ignorant that blindly answer ‘I don’t like dark beer’ when faced with a style foreign to their beloved pilsners (and I surely give them their due degradation). What about those paralyzed by the act of downing a barley malt and hops concoction, though?  They definitely shouldn’t be chastised for their deference. Do they also deserve our pity? And how about the purposefully unadventurous? What treatment have they earned? Where is the proverbial line drawn?

Enough piety and metaphysics for now. Cheers.

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.