What is that , some kind of gay beer?”my stepfather asks as I unveil the six-pack of Sweetwater IPA over Christmas vacation.
“What? No.This is Sweetwater, it’s a microbrew made here in Atlanta, you should try it.”
“Well it looks like gay beer to me. What kind of a name is Sweetwater anyway?”
If he only knew about the kind of beer I drink in New York, he would probably whisk me off for a night at a strip club.
But, in a politically incorrect way, he has a point. These fancy-ass microbrews are starting to take the “man” out of beer—turning what used to be 12-ounce curls into bent pinky fingers usually reserved for the world of wine.
Even so, my alternative lifestyle as a beer snob allows me to explore new tastes in ways that I never before imagined. I thought to myself, “It’s beer, it’s here, get used to it.”
In the beginning, everything was all so simple. It was only two years ago that my buddy Davy and I would have been standing at the bar, waiting for the 9-to-5ers to get off work so the night’s festivities could begin. Drawn in by $1.50 bottles of Miller Lite and the allure of college girls from nearby Georgia Tech, an unruly mix of blue- and white-collar men would be pouring in the door any second. They would drink to deal with stress from their jobs. We would drink to deal with them.
I imagine the scene has been the same for ages: Groups of guys getting together to cut loose, blow off some steam and channel their inner Neanderthals. They would clash glasses together, speak with uproarious fervor and cast their eyes upon women in a manner that could hardly be called furtive.
Davy pulled a pair of Fat Tires Ambers from the cooler—a well-planned score from his recent trip to Colorado.
“Cheers!” We leaned back on the bar, savoring the beer, as well as our last few moments of peace.
And that’s exactly how it was. There was never an in-depth analysis of taste or mention of clarity, finish or texture. It was just beer, and all it really came down to was whether you liked it or not. I had no idea that a little harmless experimentation was about to change my taste forever.
Now my neighborhood haunt, The Beer Table in Park Slope, definitely isn’t that kind of place. Small groups of mild-mannered guys and girls in their late twenties and early thirties coolly converse at the bar’s communal tables. The place is small, but anything larger would certainly detract from its charm.
As cool and casual as the atmosphere is, all it takes is one look at the menu to know that this place is way beyond simply microbrews. It’s not the fact I’ve never heard of or can rarely pronounce any of the beers on the menu, or the $95 bottle of Baladin Xyauyu that mocks my poor wallet each time I come in; it’s how the staff treats and talks about beer that I see as the next evolution in beer drinking. This where it all unfolded.
I still remember the first time. It was a bottle of De Dolle Dulle Teve, and it definitely wasn’t like the heavy pints I was used to.The dainty little snifter made me feel uneasy. Cautiously, I sniffed the beverage. A funky sweet, floral bouquet emanated from the glass, a smell I don’t think I’ll ever forget. With the thick aroma still lingering in my nose, I sampled it. The texture was light, but the flavor was overwhelmingly complex. Over the next few months, I began to experiment in ways that I never had before. Soon I was doing doubles, triples and even went so far that I began making it in my own kitchen... solo.
I used to have a great disdain for the pretentiousness of how people talk about wine. It was like playing a poker game where you can never call anybody’s bluff. From my days behind the bar, I remember overly enthusiastic wine reps stopping in and trying to tell me that a particular chardonnay tastes like “springtime in Florence, with a limestone finish.” Huh?
The Beer Table’s menu is remarkably similar in tone, but doesn’t make my stomach cringe when I hear adjectives like hedonistic, animal or deeply medicinal. I’ll admit that I was initially skeptical of these flamboyant descriptors, but after tasting each beer, the characteristics were always there. Maybe it’s that I, like most other Americans, are more familiar with drinking beer than wine. And although we haven’t always been drinking for taste alone, that familiarity gets us partially up the learning curve of achieving higher taste.
Picking out beer for Monday night poker became more and more of a dilemma. I was craving for more taste than the usual Miller High Life had to offer. But what would my buddies have said if I walked through the door with a fistful of unusual imports?
“Look at old fancy pants McGee over here. You want a doily for your bubbly, sweetheart.”
Fuck that! I’ll just grab a sixer of the regular stuff and go by Bierkraft tomorrow afternoon.
Initially ashamed of my secret affair, it would later empower me.While at dinner with my girlfriend, I found myself dismayed that a restaurant could have a 60,000-bottle wine cellar and only six mediocre beers at best. It was the nicest restaurant I had ever been to. White gloves, stiff waiters, the works. I’m not gonna lie to you, I was pretty uncomfortable.
“Oh, all you have is Chimay?” I blurted. Shit, did I really just say that?
Our server wasn’t expecting my snooty response. He stammered a bit, apologetically informing me of previous beer tastings that the restaurant has hosted. Ha! Now I had a legup on these suckers.The whole exchange put me totally at ease, granted I would still have to settle for Chimay.
These days I find myself seeking out specific flavors:The East Village’s Burp Castle has a wide variety of Belgian ales, including my favorite aromatic Tripel. Barbes in Park Slope has Hitachino XH, an excellent Japanese ale that’s matured in sake casks. I go to The Habitat in Greenpoint for Southern Tier IPA.
After nearly a decade of bartending, I only truly began to taste beer eight months ago.Tasting beer for unique flavors and textures has taken a reckless pastime and turned it into a mature, sophisticated hobby.
Is it gay? Nah.As I delicately tip this glass of Ola Dubh to my lips, I know that I’ve transcended to a place where man’s worth isn’t measured in ounces.
Check out more of what Jean-Pierre Chery’s been up to at jeanpierrechery.com
