Hoppy bubbles

I was 27 and a few months when I lost my beer virginity.


It wasn't great. First times, you know... I do remember it clearly though: a Mexican restaurant in Evanston, an iced cold Corona, a wedge of lime, and a frosty glass. I gathered all my will, squeezed the citrus in the bottle, pushed it deep down the neck, grabbed the culprit and brought it to my anticipating (albeit slightly dreading) lips.
I took a gulp.
Closed my eyes.
Swallowed it.

Wow-wow-wow.
Stop.
I feel like I need to give a few precisions here.
I am no angel. No choir boy (if I could have been one) either. I was no adept of some obscure non-drinking club where I was supposed to save myself for "The One" (Ketel? Hanger? who knows?!?)
Nope.
None of that.
Being a French chick I was allowed to drink pretty much since kindergarten. And I am only slightly exaggerating; you will probably not be allowed to get totally inebriated in a bar or a nightclub when you are 15 (and even this is highly disputable point, and completely up to your garçon's sense of morality) but at the same time no-one will stop a 10-year old from buying beer, wine, vodka or moonshine liquor at the supermarket.
It's just how it is. And frankly it doesn't make things any worse.
No taboo. No thrills of the transgression. Ok, that's a little too simple but you get the gist.

But being a French chick precisely, I was destined to one libation of choice: wine. Cliché? Maybe. Yet true story, at least for me. I started my drinking career with reds, whites and blushes. And champagne. Bien sûr. It was a long education, very unsavory at first. But as years went by I learned to appreciate the grape juice for grown-ups that was being offered to me at family dinners. I started to request a little more than my usual glass-bottom. And then, ask for another glass.
And so on.

But beer?!?!?!?
Hell no!!
Beer in my French world meant two things: Kanterbrau and Kronenbourg. Talk about choosing between two evils. I took a few sips in my time. From my dad's glass as a kid. From my friends' growing up. My requirement to date someone - to kiss someone - was : "No beer drinking". I was serious. One hoppy close encounter had left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Foul play. Never again.

Up until this day in March 2004. To my surprise I discovered that this not half as bad as I remembered. Second sip to confirm the first.
Yeah...
And just like that, the curse was lift.
A new world was opening up to me.

My friend Mary introduced me to the first brew I really liked: Blue Moon. We had gone to her place after class one day only to discover that she was out of wine. We braved the cold and gray Chicago night and walked to the neighboring liquor store to buy a six pack. My first one ever. We shared it. I got almost sick on my train ride back home, but I was hooked.

And then I met Robert. We exchanged - among other things - knowledge: my wine VS his beer. I quickly became a convert, a happy and eager one. I learned all about ales and lagers. The varieties. The malts. The wheats. Ohhhh...the wheat....The colors. The cloudiness. The draft methods. And the rich, infinite and delectable palette of tastes. Orange, cloves, vanilla, banana, leather, chocolate, coffee, tobacco........the whole universe can be contained in a mere 12-ounce vessel.

And how can words give justice to the supreme pleasure one knows after the first gulp (the French gorgée is so much more sensual; not as onomatopoeic as English, it smoothly rolls down in your throat. Beautiful.) of a fresh, iced cold beer on a hot summer day? This very first one; the one you anticipated feverishly during the few minutes it took the waiter (or your wife) to bring your order. You know this one. It's divine. You keep drinking, waiting for the magic to happen all over again, but it's gone. Read Philip Delerme about it - he's magnetic.


Of course the whole 'world in a glass' comment can be made about wine. Which has the distinct advantage of not making your stomach swell like you are expecting a set of triplets. Or a baby keg. Besides wine is refined, elegant, feminine in essence. Crimson, ruby, velvet, burgundy...it screams good-taste and aristocracy. Beer, on the other hand, is definitely working class. A frothy pint cannot compete with the fine crystal of a carafe. But despite its figure-unfriendly characteristics and its popular roots beer has a particular appeal to me that I cannot quite explain. The more I try to pin it down, the more elusive it gets.
A volatile quality.....
Could it be the magic of bubbles?
This light sparkle, the subtle but decisive dance on your tongue, distinct from any other effervescence, specific and unmistakable....allied to the rich and mealy mouthful that only truly belongs to the beer. The ambrosia of the gods, in all its wondrous honey color, was probably nothing else.

Too much talking, huh? you may be right. There is surely no better way to celebrate the marriage of hops and yeast than to wolf down pints after pints, leaving the words to philosophers.
But even thinkers are thirsty.

One last word:
If beer is your thing, two interesting websites for you:
- www.michiganmicrobrews.com - a great website "for Michigan Craft Beer Enthusiasts" (and others). You will find all about festivals, breweries, where to buy beers and homebrewing supplies, as well as employment opportunities.

- www.ratebeer.com - " the largest collection of beer reviews and used as an authoritative buying guide by consumers worldwide".

Cheers!
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