The Last American Beer
A few of the Boyz were gathered at the South End Brewery’s Tasting Lounge this week, what Hophead, the brewmaster, refers to as the Test Lab. Try out some of his 10 gallon experiments on us layabouts and see if our finely attenuated palates approve before going into full bore production. Heavy Nettle IPA, Habanero Hefeweizen, Sinsemilla Stout — they all made it through our rigorous if hazy sampling regimen before hitting the consumer market with our rave review seals of approval.
Gary the Growler was opining over his Honey Nettle Lager how Pabst Blue Ribbon had just been sold to the Russians. “This is what it’s come to,” he lamented, peering into his glass with its frothy head as if consulting a liquid oracle. “Budweiser sells out to the foreigners and keeps a red white and blue can like we’re too stupid to see patriotism as an advertising ploy and now Pabst is bought up by the communists while they’re annexing pieces of Ukraine.”
“Business as usual, Gary,” Randy sniffs cynically. Randy’s van sits outside the taproom front window. DON’T ROTO-ROOT IT LET RANDY DO IT
Randy fell on hard times as a plumbing sub contractor when the housing bubble burst. He makes ends meet with pick-up jobs, clogged drains, kitchen remodels, toilet repair, but most afternoons he’s down at the Tasting Lounge licking wounds and foam. “The people who run this country would sell their grandmother for a buck fifty.”
“But Pabst Blue Ribbon, man,” Gary is saying. “That’s as American as apple pie. Maybe more American. My first beer was a PBR.”
“The beer that made Moscow famous,” Randy says, shaking his head and sipping his pint knowingly, a man who knows the game is rigged and not in his favor.
Hophead pours me a dark Heavy Nettle. “Don’t worry, boys,” he announces cheerfully. “This brewery is staying right here on the South End. I guess since we’re at the end of the island at the far edge of the continent, we’re the last beer in America.”
Randy shrugs. “If you think the South End is still in America, I guess. Some folks don’t. Me, I don’t know what America is anymore.” I raise my glass. “Drink up, Randy and cheer up. This isn’t the last beer. Not in a long shot. Next one’s on me and my capitalist cronies.”
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