I found myself at a nude beach wearing only a turtleneck, flannel-lined khakis, long underwear, and three pairs of socks.
It was an hour before sunset on a warm April evening and I was at Lizardville, a temple to alcohol in a Cleveland suburb. It was darker inside than out. The walls had posters of old beer ads, beer paraphernalia, and cans and bottles of one type of alcohol or another. Wine bottles were by the entrance. Wood tables and chairs were readily available for those who chose not to stand.
I was there for a beer tasting. There will be several accounts of this evening. Some may be more factual.
We were served a variety of small pizzas, sausages, and cheeses. But we, a group of bloggers, were there for the beer. I was totally out of my element.
I have been to any number of wine tastings, even the old fashioned kind that included spitting instead of swallowing the beverage. I have been to scotch tastings. Orchestrated tastings are not my favorite way to experience either wine or scotch. This was my first time with beer.
I was ill equipped for the experience. To begin with, I’m not a huge drinker and beer is hardly my favorite beverage. I probably have fewer than a dozen beers a year. My daughter and son-in-law, Jen and Matt, are beer aficionados. They have suggested interesting beers while we were having dinner at places like Hiroshi’s Pub. That’s when I will try something new or different.
At these dinners the beer arrives early, sometimes before the appetizer. I take a sip or two as an introduction. It is seldom love at first sight. Over the course of the next half hour or so I get to know the beer, that one glass or mug, through the meal. It is a courting process. Slow and nuanced. And when the meal has ended and the beverage gone, I have had a beer with a meal, a complete experience, and can honestly say whether I really liked it or not.
The beer tasting was not like that.
The food, though perfectly fine, finished a distant second to the beer. Pizza slices were consumed without comment. Sausages were noted for their spiciness. A little dish disappointingly held grapes instead of olives. No worries. The focus was on the beer.
There was a certain promiscuousness to the way we flitted from one beer to the next. No courtship. The beers were introduced, one at a time, in two ounce glasses. There was a pilsner, an amber ale, a Belgium Triple, a porter, an oatmeal stout, and an IPA. We were told about noble hops, golden monkeys, and bears with antlers. Sip it. Drink it. Chug it. It didn’t really matter. The most important thing to remember was to not get too connected, to not get too involved. Another glass was going to be out soon.
And when it was over, the only thing I knew for sure was that I had been to my last beer tasting. It was not for me. And there was this one beer, a Founder’s Porter, that I met briefly, but never got a chance to really know.
I may try, one day, to get that porter alone.