Me, A Beer Snob?

05/15/2006

Okay, I have to acknowledge right up front that when it comes to beer I could be labled as a snob; however, I am surely not a “beer snob.” I do snob over exactly what beers I will drink.  Though my definition of a beer snob is arguably different than that, no doubt, of 99% of the other inhabitants of the planet, mine is so much more correct.  Even my beloved Nancy has labeled me a beer snob, and I believe she takes personal pleasure in announcing it to the strangers and bar flies we happen to sit next to occasionally when we visit a drinking establishment. 

In all actuality, those with knowledge of beer and in the know about beer - its various styles, characters, flavors and varieties - would label me a “hophead,” but never beer snob.  Through the years I have come to adore the taste and finish (the after taste) of heavily hopped beers.  This is an acquired taste, so the Bud drinkers of the world would have you incorrectly accept, and certainly not one for the faint of heart, but most assuredly one for the true lovers of brewed delicacies.  A beer snob will drink all the various beer styles, even the wimpy American made crapola brewed by such infamous notables as Pabst, Miller, Coors and the world’s worst: Anheuser-Busch.  Those beers will include pilsners, lagers, ales – there are many types, and others such as porters, wheat beers, lambics and stouts.  Beers from around the world are the playground of the true beer snob.  I am way too particular to drink just any beer, foreign or domestic. 

My beer drinking proclivity had an auspicious beginning, in fact, other than a few beers here and there – just one (yes, just one) beer the entire time I was in high school and one occasion while in the service wherein I over did it a tad – I did not begin to drink with any kind of regularity until I was twenty-seven years of age.  I have not stopped since.

I described previously a little of my high school days, so this won’t take long.  If memory serves me correctly, my one high school drinking experience was suffered in the summer prior to my February 1962 graduation from the Baltimore City College, and that occurred in Ocean City, Maryland.  I made the trip with some of my buddies – not all from my high school class; my cousin Dwight Windsor, and friends, Barry Burgin, Harry Reilly, Jimmy Herald and Bill Reckett, as all piled into Harry’s car and drove to Ocean City – a mecca for high school students back then – about 125 miles from Baltimore.  We went there without thought to accommodations other than with a plan to sleep on the beach.  After an arduous trip in a car with five other guys very near my age and speaking of all of the subjects a bunch of eighteen- and nineteen-year old guys hold meaningful (that being female and sex related), we arrived in Ocean City.  I do not recall what time a day we landed there, but after scoping out the local talent and realizing our sexual fantasies would remain intact for a while longer, we found a secluded spot on the beach and settled in for the night, or so we thought.  Anyway, it was on that beach that night in July 1961 that I experienced my first taste of beer. 

The Black Label beer was not nearly as memorable as the thunderstorm that drenched us later in the night.  We spent a most uncomfortable, very moist night cramped in Harry’s car where I got to ponder the thrill of under age drinking.  I must have missed something.  Beer had a horrible, near repulsive taste; it was like drinking Bromo-Seltzer (to those of you on the younger side it was like Alka-Seltzer). I did not care for it at all, and saw no reason to ingest anymore of the vile crap, and that did not change for over three years.

My next experience with this accursed liquid -my view is now somewhat altered - came while serving our country as a proud member of the United States Air Force.  Rome, New York, November 1964, Sandra (the former Mrs.) and I had been married for just five months.  One crisp, fall morning I received an unwelcomed telephone call at home in our spacious one-bedroom apartment.  The place was a furnished apartment decorated in Early Oddball, and included some luxurious plastic window treatments and a sofa that almost sank to the floor when sat upon.  Anyway, the call was from my unit commander’s office informing me I was the proud owner of a set of orders reassigning me to a base in Tripoli, Libya.  Cast immediately into the doldrums, I made my way to work later that day, my face glued to my chest.  I found out one of my mates, whose enlistment was up, was having a going away party.  I attended the affair.  What I remember most about it is the going part and the aftermath, but little of the middle. 

I remember very clearly there was a keg located in the center of the room, which allowed me unimpeded access within seconds from anywhere in the room.  I partook of the keg in an almost continuous, coreographed cycle – fill the glass, empty the glass.  I went to this affair with a buddy named George Pachinko (not sure of the spelling).  That was the only smart move I made that evening – a designated driver.  George also got me home, and this is where I begin to be a little vague on the details and sequence of what occurred that evening.  I went to a party, got oh so knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk.  I worshipped the porcelain god most of that night and the better part of the ensuing days.  My hangover was so intense I did not report for duty for three days after the party.  The name of the guy in whose honor the party was given was obliterated from my conscious memory by the vast amount alcohol I consumed.  I only remember that he had red hair and an “I-am-out-and-you-are not” kind of smirk on his face as he waved farewell.  That was the last alcoholic beverage I “seemingly” enjoyed until June 1971.  My, how time flies.  By the way, thanks to Muammar al-Qaddafi and a few shannigans of my own doing, I did not have the pleasure of spending time in the endless desert of Libya on an eighteen-month tour of duty.

In 1971 I was working for Crown Petroleum in Baltimore in the Real Estate Department.  My boss, one Mr. Phil Sterner, saw to it I got a promotion and was made a sales rep.  After about a year in the job in Baltimore, I accepted a transfer to Richmond, Virginia.  I have always loved Richmond, though I only knew it from the sections of it I saw while traveling through it as a kid on the way to vacation in North Carolina.  I jumped at the chance to move there…and, all in all, it was a smart move for me and my family.  My new job started in June.  The house Sandra and I had purchased (1400 square foot, brick rancher for $24,500) was not to be completed until August, so I rented a room in a boarding house.  I had no kitchen privileges, and yuck! I had to share a bathroom with another guy whom I never met or laid eyes on the whole six weeks I stayed there.  I did smell him a couple of times.  Meals had to be eaten out. 

It was at this time I became acquainted with the Quarterdeck; a small, albeit quite comfortable, neighborhood pub within walking distance of the rooming house.  It was located just a little less than three blocks from my temporary home.  I went there almost every night after work – I did not have a TV in my room to enjoy, but the Quarterdeck did.  I would settle in at the bar, order a sandwich (liverwurst with a slice of onion and a little mustard on rye) and a Coke.  I felt badly, having finished eating but still taking up a seat at the bar so I could see the TV, about not giving up my seat to a patron who would pay for the privilege of a seat at the bar by drinking something more expensive than a Coke.  After a couple of visits to the Quarterdeck I began to purchase a Strohs – one of God’s nastier brews – so I wouldn’t feel badly about sucking up bar space.  Well, hell!  I should at least have sipped at it once and in a while, right?  So I did, and the rest is history.

I must make it known at this point that I have only found myself twice in my life where I consumed so much brew that the god of head-thunder took over my body the next day.  I have told you of the first, just up a few paragraphs.  The second was at my former brother-in-law’s wedding in 1977.  Trust me, it was very ugly.

Pinpointing the exact time I discovered there are beers in the world with both flavor and character may prove fruitless, but I can narrow it down to a year, I think.  I say about 1985 I began to experiment with Lowenbrau Special Dark at Christmas.  I was used to drinking Miller Lite and some other mass produced industrial swills – never anything made by Anheuser-Busch.  Well, that isn’t exactly true but close.  I do not like Bud, Bud Light, anything Michelob (Ultra is very foul).  I tried numerous imported beers and micro-brews over the years, all the time seeking a flavor, a character.  I don’t know when I found it, but India Pale Ale is my preferred choice these days and has been for a few years.  IPAs are very hoppy, some heavier than others, but nonetheless made for me to consume in copious amounts.  I am a “hophead” and very proud to be one, but I am not a beer snob.  And this is all I have to say about beer.

Benjamin Franklin once said, “Beer is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy.” I just know he and I would have hit it off.  I love this kind of thinking.