“Beer was liquid bread. Bread was solid beer.”

– Tom Standage, “A History of the World in Six Glasses

Walking in is as different at every beer hall as it is the same. Different decor, different vibe to the place, different service… different menus to be sure. Behind it all is a shared sensory vocabulary, however, that make each reminiscent of the others.

The arrangement of tables in the hall, sometimes, so that there is a selection of intimate booths for those who want to drink alone or in very select company and long linked tables for boisterous get-togethers and ersatz parties among colleagues. The general geography- you can see the seats and you can see the bar (the style and texture of which again reflects the mood and vibe of the place.) There is a clear order of operations to be observed here. A ritual to be followed and walked as carefully and unconsciously (for the faithful) as the Stations of the Cross.

The taps you might see as well. The handles of each gaudily decorated with distinctive logos on the handles in lieu of a tap list, or they might be identical- not even numbered- lined up and relying on the bartender to casually remember which beer they dispensed. A chalkboard or screen informs the visitor what is available, how strong it is, and (maybe) what it costs.

Let’s be serious though- if you are here, you can already ballpark the price and to an extent, you don’t care. You’ve come for a drink as old as civilization and a freak accident elevated to an art form- debated over, styled on, snubbed over, then snobbed about, and finally settled into its pseudo-classist strata. Weak, cheap, tasteless stuff for the masses and complex, styled, flavorful stuff for those with the resources to get it.

Sustenance to strata. Joy for all behind a paywall. Ain’t that the way… but not between you and the taps. The cute names, the styles, the familiar brands are all there and you name what you’re tasting. On this lately-updated display screen, how much is left of each beer is displayed as well- a thin red line on the keg beside the name of a favorite inspires as much urgency as the neon green “Just Tapped” does glee. Is there a fresh keg waiting in the wings? For a rarer, more pricy beer, it may be the last chance to try some before the tap kicks. That “freshly tapped”- you’ve never heard of it, but it must be popular to be kept in stock like it clearly is… or is it the lowest common denominator of the taplist, speaking to the clientele more than the establishment?

Ask a question. Have some samples maybe… but make your choice.

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Mine tumbles out of the tap and into the glass as black as sin. Fine bubbles rise and twice as quickly vanish on the surface as the bartender angles the glass to 45 degrees- the beer sliding down the side rather than a violent fall, preserving the carbon dioxide for drinking rather than being lost as “head…” but a head so thick you could shave with it. With the smell coming off the brew, you’re more than half tempted to try.

I’ve handed over my card and taken my prize, watching carefully as it cascades- bubbles rising and breaking along the inside of the glass so that it “settles” into a glass of blackest night topped with a half-inch of creamy foam.

It might be a Baltic Porter, the kind specially brewed to be strong enough that it won’t freeze on voyages through the North Sea. It might be a stout, the style that started with the hearty brew of English porters before it got to Ireland, was deemed too weak, and made “stouter.” It may even be a barleywine- a wine made of grain, thick as cough syrup but infinitely more enjoyable with its typically double-digit alcohol content.

It’s raised to you and yours and I take my first sip.

I shed the world like a wet coat and don the brew like a warm blanket. The deep chocolate/coffee malt ambles down my throat on a wave of carbonation and guided along by the insistent hops. My first communique from the trip is “All is Well”- and it is. Warmth and softness surge from my core to my extremities. The lingering fire on my tongue from the carbonation vanishes against a black velvet curtain of contentment.

“All is Well.”

Else I may have ordered an ale- pale, sharp, and clean as moonlight on a honed knife. The bitterness of hops- counterpoint to the malt and countering contagions- asserts itself every sip. Where the darker beers comfort, pale ales soothe and sharpen. The best ones grab your chin, look you in the eyes, and demand your attention as they say “Take a breath, get your head straight.”

“Get your head straight.”
Alcohol is poison. It’s a toxin. It’s medicine. It’s potion. It’s ritual. If the ancient Greeks were as fond of grain as they were of grapes, Bacchus would speak to us through pints of beer as much as bottles of Pinot. Alas, the delineation between beer and wine drinkers is as old as Caesar and Tacitus noting the “barbarians” they fought- though wild and “uncivilized”- were stronger and manlier for their consumption of beer. The Romans, whose love of wine they took from the Greeks, they observed were more cultured but also delicate and effete.

All the same, Bacchus was the god of the Grape, not Grain.

I would not go so far as to call beer a religious experience, regardless of Benjamin Franklin’s statement that “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Instead, I contend that beer is proof of the good that Humanity can do for itself and others.

The grinding of grain, the roasting of malt, the cultivation of hops, boiling the kettles and so much waiting waiting waiting for something that can, quite simply, not make us think for a moment. It’s something that can momentarily remove AND improve our ill-advised sentience. All through the cooperation, patience, and perseverance that humanity rarely displays in its less potable, more violent ventures.

Until we learn to seize upon this alchemy in our daily lives, it remains to us to remember across barstools, to drink deeply and dream, and to consider the world beyond the door through shades of amber.

Stay Classy,