I am sitting here drinking my lunch at a pleasant watering hole on the East Side, called Gourmands. They have a sign on the wall. This sign, a chalkboard, blathers something about "breakfast sands" (?) and then says something enticing, "'Death By Coconut' Irish Porter". Game on!
I think this can art has some kinda sportsball thing going on. It says, "Pass. Dash. Hit." on it. That's sportsball, right? The other side of the can says, "Coconut Chocolate Choconut" so I'm sort of lost there. The art isn't exactly subtle about the coconut thing. I think it may be the big notion they are trying to push. It might also be an Irish Porter.
So I tried drinking it, and I can say a few things for certain: I'm still confused about the sportsball, there probably is some kind of porter thing going on, and, fuck me, that's a lot of coconut (going by the name of this beer, maybe enough to kill me). Oh, also, it's good. Not shit-yourself-with-joy good, but still quite good. I should say that if "flavored" beers wrankle your tits, this won't be your favorite thing ever, but if you just like all kinds of beer, this one is good, and your tits will stay unwrankled.
As you can see, it comes in a can (beer can). I didn't pour it into a glass before I poured it into my face, so I don't know what it looks like or how frothy it is. That's a shame, because it's always a fun bit of trivia. I like a good mystery though. That's why I often don't know what's going on, or who the murderer is.
I have mixed feeling about beer in cans vs beer in bottles vs beer in glasses from taps. As a human, I love the sound and feeling of popping the top on a cold can of beer. It's invigorating. If that could be a ring tone, I would make that the default on every phone ever. And when you;re done with your beer you can crush the can in a manly Quint-like fashion. Wasn't Quint great?
A bottle of beer, though... Opening one of those feels like you just built a table and chairs with your hands. With a church key, a wall mounted opener, your belt buckle, a wine tool, the drunk guy's teeth, or the really drunk guy's eyelid, opening a bottle of beer is an event worthy of song. Then you can bonk a friend's bottle and make it suds over, swirl your beer mindlessly, watch your lime wedge squeeze down the neck and get stuck, put a bunch of empties on your fingers and taunt the Warriors, chuck the bottle for a deeply satisfying breaking sound, or recycle it responsibly. Bottles are the brewers' choice of beer vehicle.
Or is the keg? The keg is instant and fulfilling. The tap might be the ultimate sign that life ain't so bad. No matter how down in the dumps you are. Seeing YOUR beer pouring down into YOUR glass from that tap means that at least one thing is going your way. The beauty. The anticipation. The freshness. The nitro! The keg and tap is a tea ceremony for hope and better things to come. I guess I love them all.
Today gave me a can of strange and unexpected brew joy. Also a grilled cheese sammich and tomato soup. And a Bloody Mary. And a bread bowl that I only ate some of, because bread is bad for my tubby portions, but bread is delicious and I'd rather carry a few extra pounds than live without tasty bread. So far, I like today. I think I'll have something on tap next.
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