Friday, July 11, 2008
I consumed a gigantic bottle of beer at a pub that prides itself on stocking beers of all nations and that has the kind of proud and knowledgeable waitstaff I've come to fear, all wielding the right kind of glass for each beer and serving them at the right temperature and bla bla bla. The menu had six or eight closely printed columns of beers to choose from and I went for a Bock beer from the oldest still-beer-brewing monastery in the world (extant since 1050 and just brewing their hearts out the whole time: I learned all this later, from the label the monks had chiseled into the pre-cambrian stone bottle). I also learned that Bock is the Manwich of beers. You see, it is specifically formulated to provide the calories to fuel all the pre-dawn ablutions, prayer and self-flagellation performed by monks during Lent. Monks who, in that holy season of deliberate deprivation, would otherwise starve to death since they consume nothing but Bock beer the whole time. So fantastic: I chose the sweetest, densest beer on the entire thousand-beer menu. It was good, too, but a little on the Aunt Jemima side. When you get down toward the bottom of the bottle it starts to cloy a little if you haven't just spent a long day a-flaggelatin' of your hindside.