Thirst

Thirst. You know how it is. You crave that very particular taste; you know what it is, what you want. And it’s not just a want, it’s a need. It’s a to-the-core feeling of a need being sated. Not many things can do that, can touch and lift in just that way. A pint please. It pours a pale gold, one pull on the hand pump, then another. Thirst. I can taste it now, can you? Another pull and it crowns over the top, elegant, light, beautiful. The exchange: I give you money, you give me that glass. It has that weight to it, the indescribably right feeling of a pint in hand, rising upwards, catching the sun, a hint of the fruity hops before the first mouthful. Thirst. And it’s always a mouthful to begin, maybe two. Long and slow, mouth-filling, cold, embracing all the senses. And relax. Nothing tastes quite as good as that first mouthful. That first pint. What do you fancy?

Right now I’d take a cold Marble Pint or Thornbridge's Jaipur unless I could get something like draught Pliny the Elder from Russian River. I really am thirsty now, are you?

Sharing Beer

Beer is for sharing. It’s the friendliest thing I know. Beer makes friendships. A love for beer itself is a long-term love affair. You like good beer, I like good beer. An instant bond. An understanding. A desire to share. We meet up for beers; that’s when we see each other. How’s your beer? Try some. Yeah, that’s good. Nothing else is like it. Let’s go to the pub. What you having? If you’re having that one then I’ll go for this. We talk, we laugh, we relax. The best beers I’ve ever had have been shared - they’ve been talked about, they turn into better beers because of it. Wow this is good. I’m not that fussed. I love it. I love it too. The one who wasn’t fussed gets into it. Actually you know what… We bounce words around, hyperbole, lyrical similes, random tastes and smells and memories. We laugh at him, then we get it ourselves, it does smell like that. We can open another bottle, we can order another half; we can drink more beer. Quantity and quality. It’s about being with friends, sharing something important to all of us, having a great time with a few beers. That’s why we drink it.

The Taste of Memories

I’m trying to work on my monstrously over-sized post about GBBF but in the meantime here's something I wrote a few months ago. I’ve been waiting to post it and seeing that Pencil&Spoon has risen to number 5 in the Wikio wine and beer top blogs it seems like the perfect moment! Thanks all, that’s made my day. I’ve laughed over beer and cried over beer. I’ve used it to celebrate and commiserate. It brings us together. Let’s go for a beer. It’s always there. It’s a part of life. So many great memories punctuated by glasses and bottles and the faintest recollection of how it tasted. And the taste is a feeling. It tastes of more than just the beer. The time I first had Deus. I don’t taste the Deus in my memory, I taste the way I felt that night. I taste the moment: it was warm, I was surrounded by my best friends, it was a special night, one of the best nights. I remember drinking it, I see the photographs now, it brings a smile, it brings that feeling back. It was for celebrating. It was to toast a changing point in our lives. It was a special beer for a special moment. A one-off moment, never had before and never to be had again. That memory will always come when I see Deus. Deus is how that memory tastes. It’s a time machine. A journey back to a great memory. I travel through space and time in an instant. I am back there, I see it, I hear the laughter, I feel the warmth, I taste it. Do you remember when…? We smile when we talk about it. He shares the same memory, he has the same feelings as I do, he remembers the beer, that night, that time, the place, the people. The memory tastes good. And every memory tastes different.

That's Iain, Pez, Matt from a few posts, me and Lee, who wrote this. We're all drinking Deus apart from Iain who is drinking something pink. He did drama. We drank some other cracking beers that night but I can't remember what they were!

Ode to Stella

A mistress. She is everywhere. You shouldn’t but sometimes you just can’t help yourself. You certainly don’t want to get caught doing it though. Especially not around these parts. But forget that. Forget right and wrong. Forget the waxed lyricism. Forget the rare bottles, the hyped-up stuff, the big names. Forget everything. Beer goes deeper than that. Beer is simpler than that. There’s nothing else like it. Nothing hits the spot like a beer. And sometimes a pint of lager is exactly what’s needed. You don’t have to taste it. You don’t have to think about it. You just drink it. And beer’s for drinking. It’s golden, it’s cold, the sun is hot, it quenches like a dip in the pool, it chills like a cool breeze. A pint of lager please. I feel naughty for ordering it. Having a second one is completely outrageous. By the third I’m thrill-seeking. The fourth is the default choice: I’m in now. The sun is going down, it’s warm, my skin is zinging, my friends are smiling and so am I as I sit here glowing with the effects of my summer mistress. Our affair is out in the open. Her name is Stella.

FYI: I usually choose Kronenbourg but it just didn’t have the same ring as Stella when I was writing this! And a quick edit: I NEVER drink Stella. I can't stand the stuff! In this post 'Stella' stands as the symbol and figure of lager-pop.

Ode to Choosing The Next Beer

I’m at home. It’s the morning. I want a beer for tonight. I need to hurry or I’ll be late for work. What beer? I know, I’ll have that one. No wait, I’m saving that one. Right… this one. Oh yes, this is the one. I’ve wanted to open this one for ages. Oh. Actually… that could get better if I leave it. Maybe I should leave it a little while longer? Put it towards the back of the cupboard. What else have we got? Those are all no-gos. And those are untouchable too: don’t even think about it! We’ll have them next year. Something to look forward to. A promise of a great beer, a great night. Half the excitement is in the waiting. I like that part. It’s the choosing that is hard. What do I fancy? There are no hoppy beers. I want hops. There’s loads of stout. I don’t want stout tonight. What’s in the fridge already? I could just have one of them… Nah, I don’t fancy any of them. I’ll sit here staring into the cupboard and something will jump out at me. In a moment of inspiring care-free impetuousness I pull out a hidden secret. I hold it, I run my fingers over the label, I can taste it already, the bottle is cool to touch, I feel the graze of the crown, I read the name, it fills me with a profound joy, a huge expectation, I want this beer, I put it back. That beer is too special. I’ll wait. What do I want now? What’s for dinner? What am I doing tonight? What beer fits? Beer for an occasion. Beer to suit a mood. Beer to compliment life. What film will I watch? What beer will go with that film? Maybe I should open a stout. There’s that one or that one? No, not that one, it’s my last bottle, once it’s gone it’s gone. Check the fridge again. What’s the time? Oh crap, I’m late for work now. Right, just choose one. This one? I might not want that later? I could put three or four in the fridge but that just seems too revolutionary. Maybe I’ll stop by the shops and pick up something new? I think I need more beer to choose from.

I’ve written about my beer-hoarding problem before. You can find it here.

Ode to Zephyr

I’ve been waiting for months. Desperate to try it. The idea put me in a whirl. An IPA, 12.5%. Whisky casks from 1965. Fresh strawberries, tart and sweet. Time. I wanted it. I needed it.

I finally got it.

Sentences are redundant with this beer. Unnecessary. Frivolously time consuming. It promises a zephyr and you get the cool breeze of elegance. Have I ever had a beer with so much going on? Will I ever again? Complexity is too weak a term. Complex squared. Each sip is a cotton candy minefield, a padded spike, a punch and a kiss. It defies language. It twists your mind. A dirty secret. A dichotomy.

A zephyr. A hurricane. A beautiful dance between the two.

Golden pink. Strawberries. So many strawberries. Biscuits. The finest champagne you’ve tasted. But better. There’s more going on. A lot more. It’s an IPA. It’s got hops, but only just. They linger in earthy, oaky dryness. A whisky barrel. The strength hides until the end. A warm afterburn. How many other things? It’s a challenge. More with each sip. A rollercoaster. A rare moment when beer is more than beer. Tart strawberries. Sweet strawberries. Vanilla. Smoke. Coconut. Oak. An unmissable creaminess. Electric carbonation. Wood. Fresh fruit. Will it get better? What will happen to this masterpiece in a few years? Will it grow bigger, better? Will it mellow and sweeten? Could it develop more complexity? Complex to the power of three? I must have another. Dare I open it? Maybe I should save it. Can I wait? The big bottles come soon. I’ve been waiting for it.

Once is not enough.

It’s a work of organic art; so many variables placed together at their own mercy and given time. What if…? Is it magic? Is it fate? Free will verses determinism. Layers of life, of history, left in the end to create itself and rise into something new. Something even more complete than its glorious parts. A work of art packaged inside another work of art. Something incredible.

This post was in part inspired by this wonderful piece at Impy Malting. The beer kind of does this to you. It has a magic all of its own. And look closely at the picture. My tattoo says it all.

The Session 25: Love Lager

Time for The Session, which this month is hosted by The Beer Nut with the topic of ‘Love Lager’. I was unsure what to write and where to begin for this one, so I started start right back at the beginning…

I’d never tried it. It’s what the Dads drink. It’s for adults. They stand around with the stubby green bottles they picked up on cruises to France when my sister and I picked up cool crisps and loads of chocolate. Those little green bottles. Their horrible smell, the strange and nasty taste, the cool beads of condensation. He used to drink them most in summer; the smell of fresh cut grass and barbequing sausages. Me raking the lawn after he had cut it, me copying him drinking from my bottle of juice. Working together in the small garden. The satisfied gulp, the relaxed sigh. I’d never tried it.

Then I was allowed to drink some. ‘Eurgh,’ I’d groan as the men laughed back. ‘One day you’ll love it’ they told me. It started with lemonade. Then I’d add orange cordial. I didn’t like the funny taste, the bitterness, but it’s what the men were drinking. The men who were standing around chatting, laughing, talking about cars and football and work. I didn’t know anything about that. I was still a boy. I didn’t drink beer.

Then I started to drink it. All my friends were. It was about fitting in, belonging, brotherhood, growing up. Talking to girls, smoking, drinking too much, misbehaving. Experimenting and learning limits. It was the beer that my Dad now offered to me. Those little green bottles. I was starting to act like the men do. I was drinking their drink. Lager.

Then I drank it all the time. It was the first pint I got served in the pub. It was the second, third and forth… It was drinking from the can with friends. It was getting drunk. It was behaving like an adult but acting like a child. I was 17 and it was pints at lunchtime. It was the laughter and the fun. It was the getting away with it. It was the rock concert where I was pushed deep into the sweaty, bouncing crowd. The nightclub who served all drinks for a pound before 10. It was drinking in the park. Not being asked for ID. Being an adult, doing adult things, drinking lager: ‘Do you want a beer?’

And it never goes. It is everywhere. It’s part of being a man, of being a part of something, of becoming an adult, of belonging. It’s for celebrating or commiserating. It’s comfortable, always the same, it doesn’t change.

It’s the cans around the student house. The cold bottle on a hot day. ‘Something to drink?’ ‘A beer’. A bottle while cooking dinner. The nights out where lager was all they had. The drinking games. The parties where everyone drank the same beer because it was free and the bath tub was filled with cans. The making a fool of yourself, losing the drinking game, the throwing up; the bad times. Or the good. The time we won the cricket tournament and I drank beer straight from the trophy. The pint after the work is done. The taste of achievement. The lying around and drinking a cold pint in the hot afternoon sun when I should’ve been studying. The celebration when it’s all over.

It’s no longer the drink of choice, but it’s still there. And there are new ones. Better ones. Or just bottles of the old. The Budweiser which tastes so familiar despite never drinking it. The cold Kronenbourg from the fridge to slake a thirst without having to choose from the beer collection. The pint just because. Mythos in the hot Greek sun, a bottle while cooking meat on the barbeque, the stubby green bottle. Still being able to enjoy something simple. There is always a beer behind a story. Always a memory.

A pint of lager: something which has shaped the person that I have become; something that is very important. It’s about growing up. Learning. Belonging. Shaping ideas, making choices, becoming who I am.