I’ll never forget the first time I ordered myself a beer.
I had just turned 21, of course, and the wife and I were celebrating the occasion with dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. This place had the best chicken fajitas I’ve ever eaten, which offset the strolling mariachi players. Sounds tacky, but it was San Jose, so despite the “entertainment” the food was authentic and good.
The waiter took our order, and the first words out of my mouth were, “Beer!”
“What kind, senor?” he asked.
“Michelob,” I answered confidently. I have no idea why. Maybe because it started with an M, a letter I happen to really like? Or the label was blue? Who knows. I was just excited to be able to order a beer legally!
A few minutes later, he delivered the beer to our table, and I plunged into it eagerly.
And, well…I hated it.
It’s not like I’d never tasted beer before. You know that scene in National Lampoon’s Vacation where Clark Griswold shares a beer with Rusty? My dad did the same when I was younger. He would pop open a can of Olympia and let my brother and I have a sip. Much like Rusty in the movie, I thought that was the coolest thing ever! As a result, I have fond memories of “Oly” and their “It’s the water” slogan. Did I actually like it? Well, no…but I was pretty young. I figured it was a taste I would grow into.
Only, I didn’t. I tried several different brands of beer that year, and just flat out didn’t enjoy any of them, so I gave up the whole manly charade and began my love affair with liquor instead.
Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. I’m in Ely, hanging out with my girlfriend. We’re at this bar and grill for lunch, and it’s a pretty warm day, so naturally we’re thirsty. I ask for an iced tea, and she orders…
A beer.
Which was totally cool, of course. I knew she liked beer. We’d had that conversation before. I’d just never seen her drink it. And then that annoying Masculinity Gene kicked in, the one that made me feel lame for ordering an iced freakin’ tea while my woman downed a Bud Light. Was this just the beginning of some long and depressing slide down a slippery slope of alcohol inequality, I wondered? I envisioned a worst-case scenario in some not-too-distant future in which she was ordering a Guinness Stout while the bartender set a napkin down so the water droplets from my Appletini wouldn’t stain the table. One beer behind and I had already developed a complex. Clearly, this would never do. My mind raced for an answer, and came up with the most logical solution ever.
I’d just have to start drinking beer myself.
And that is how I found myself in the grocery store yesterday, buying a six-pack of Blue Moon Belgian-style white wheat ale.
Ignoring the pesky Masculinity Gene, I had asked Tara for beer suggestions and she mentioned a fondness for Blue Moon, especially with a slice of orange added. This sounded intriguing to me; I figured if anything, the orange flavor would cut down on the bitterness of the beer and might actually make it taste palatable to me. So, I was all in! I bought the beer. I bought a bag of oranges. And I even got carded, which made me feel like this was 1990 all over again.
I got home and started watching the clock, eager to begin my foray into beer exploration, version 2.0. It was 2:45, which of course was much too early to break open a bottle of booze. I’m impatient, though. I tried to justify a mid-afternoon beer. After all, didn’t “Happy Hour” really only apply to drinks with straws? And what of this mysterious “beer:thirty” I’d heard reference to on occasion? Plus, hold the farm – I was also familiar with the phrase “it’s 5:00 somewhere.” Of course! I reasoned. It is 5:00 somewhere! It was 5:00 or later everywhere, in fact, except for the west coast of America, being actually a few minutes past four by now. Or, well…a few minutes before four. You say potato, I say po-tah-to. My mind made up, I grabbed the closest thing I could find to a pilsner glass in my cabinet*, opened a bottle of Blue Moon, tossed in an orange slice, and took a sip.
{* For the record, why does it matter what type of glass we drink alcohol out of? I once started to pour wine into a regular glass that I’d just drank water from, and my dad acted like I was committing treason or something. I don’t care what anybody says, a glass of merlot would taste just as good in a Dixie cup if push came to shove…but I digress}.
Where was I? Oh, right. I took a sip. And…
…well, let’s just say beer is still a taste I am waiting to grow into.
They make it look so good on TV, the bottle glistening with condensation, the frothy and foamy head a meringue-like cloud of bliss. Oh, and there’s that scene in The Shawshank Redemption (best Stephen King adaptation ever) where Andy Dufresne secures ice cold beer for the inmates tarring the roof beneath the hot sun. You can tell by the looks on their faces that those bottles of beer are like heaven in a glass – the best thing in the world they have ever tasted. Is that the secret, then? Do I have to go commit some crime, get sent to a maximum security prison with an evil warden, play Italian opera music over the loudspeakers, prepare tax returns for all the guards, and then volunteer to tar the roof on the hottest day of the year in order to finally appreciate a cold beer?
‘Cause I’ll do it.
My Masculinity Gene won’t hear otherwise…
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