On Wednesday night, my girlfriend and I went to Barcade for a couple of microbrews and some rousing rounds of Q-bert. I was in the middle of a game of Tetris, and she asked me if I wanted anything. I knew that I could never go wrong at Barcade, so I said, “get me anything. I trust your judgement. Just not anything dark – I don’t like dark beer.”
“Okay,” she says, as she walks over to the bar. She took that request from me to mean that I wanted a light beer – her intentions were good, I’m sure. After all, I’m putting on quite a bit of holiday weight. My girlfriend later told me that she told the bartender, “let me have the lightest beer you have.”
This is just asking for trouble. But the bartender proceeded to give her some non-descript beer from the taps. She brought it back over to me. As I do with most microbrews, I took the glass and tasted it much like people taste wine: inhale the scent, taste a drop, then take a generous sip.
Now, I’ve had skunked beer before. It’s usually the stuff that’s been in the back of a refrigerator for months, or out in the sun on a hot summer day. It pains you to even go near it, but it’s beer, so you really can’t say no. Especially in college, when beggars couldn’t be choosers, we would gladly drink a warm beer that had been sitting on top of the cooler at a beach for several hours.
This beer, however, was cold and skunked. And it wasn’t skunked in the “this-tastes-like-old-beer” sense. It literally was skunked. The results of the tasting process were as follows:
Inhale the scent: smells like skunk.
Taste a drop: tastes like what I imagine skunk tastes like.
Take a generous sip: like going to a restaurant that serves roadkill and ordering the skunk juice.
Lesson learned: don’t let your girlfriend order your beer on a whim. And don’t ever ask for a “light beer” at Barcade.