Sunshine in a bag

I thought about deleting the previous post. It was written while I was in the grip of an odd mood but then again, it was Sunday evening and if that doesn't put you in a strange state of mind, you just haven't been conditioned to it. Still, it's no excuse for what was a sour lemon of a piece. Yet, I did not deal it a merciful 'delete button' blow. I wanted the bitterness flowing through that disjointed bit of writing to be a reminder. Life isn't all gajar ka halwa and vanilla ice cream so why should this blog be?

Now that we've got that little confessional out of the way, let me tell you that this post is also about bitterness. Of the good kind, or so I think at least because this is a paean to beer.

I have absolutely no recollection of the first time I tasted any alcohol except beer. I like whisky as much as the next guy. Rum and I get along like cousins who haven't seen each other in years; an awkward, uneasy relationship, more indebted to formality than genuine feelings. Gin was a friend in college and like many college friends, we have lost touch, which isn't exactly heartbreaking because my gut can't stand it any more. Vodka is the last resort and even then, a kokam sarbat would be preferable. At least it has personality.

I've drunk tequila, absinthe, sake, soju, schnapps, cognac and champagne. An interesting arrack in Sri Lanka and even cachaça from Brazil. But the only one I remember is the beer. A Saturday night dinner at Sarjaa, back when it was a perfectly acceptable dining option on a weekend. Now, the food is still good but you hesitate when someone suggests the place and that my friend says that you have become older. In any case, it was a dinner at one of the outside tables because the place was packed to the gills indoors, something they haven't boasted about in years. In passing, I wonder when and why it began a slow dance of death; this restaurant serving perfectly acceptable food and being reasonably free of the kind of customer whose sole aim is to drink and make trouble.

The fatherland had ordered a 650ml of Kingfisher Strong and I asked to try it. He hesitated, perhaps in surprise, perhaps in resignation, and slid his glass over. There was no dramatic music. I just had one sip. I'll always remember it. How numbingly cold it was, how I couldn't taste a thing except the fizz, before the beer flexed its fingers and began a sonata all the way down my tongue, striking a particularly sharp key down my throat and finishing it off with a nice crescendo further down the hatch. It was bitter. It was sweet. Just like love, at first sip.

What is so great about beer? It really is bitter for heck's sake. That there is the appeal for me. Every other drink needs a crutch. You can call it a mixer but we all know what the reality is. Whisky with water, soda, ginger ale or angostura bitters, gin and tonic or ginger ale, vodka with orange juice or 7Up, rum with cola, why even absinthe with sugar and water. Let's leave all the shots out of this and excuse sake because it really is something else. But beer needs nothing. Not even a pitiful drop of water or a cube of ice to let the "flavour be released"... yes, I am looking at you, single malt. Truth be told, my unsophisticated palate can only tell between smoky or non-smoky. Chalo, let's not cast too many aspersions on the whisky family. Still, the first sip of one doesn't hold a candle to the first sip of beer. The first sip of the first beer is always a meditative moment.

I believe it is the oldest bit of hooch. The Egyptians started brewing it first and who can blame them. Between the temperature, sand, incestuous rulers, stone-for-pyramid hauling and dudes in bandages walking around, something had to give. Beer it was. I mean, the Mayans were drinking chocolate, for fuck's sake.

Anyway, it's acerbic and needs no accompaniment. A bit like humanity, if we look long and hard enough into the mirror. It comes in all kinds of shades and flavours, can be heavy or light and more importantly, puking beer or nursing its hangover isn't as bad as the rest. It's even used to shampoo hair. What have the rest  of you got to say for yourselves?

Coors is not beer.

Beer makes me fat and drowsy. I can't chug it worth a damn and have never wanted to. It has an odour no amount of Halls or cigarettes will completely dispel. There's only a certain volume of beer to be enjoyed before your taste buds step out to lunch. Though I will say that the Germans in Köln have got it absolutely correct with their brilliant 200ml Kölsch version. Beer also turns those English twats more unbearable than they already are. What an unfortunate association, no?

Rum reminds me of the Windies, Calypso and fast bowling. Gin brings a hot, humid breeze and plantation life to the table. Vodka suggests the Russians, Ukrainians, Poles (or whoever claims they invented it) will burst in through the door any minute. Wine's got too much la-di-da going on, rather like the French. Single malts are indubitably Scottish, intelligent and intimidating. Guinness absolves the Irish of any sins. Strangely, I've never wondered what the Welsh drink. Though Belgians may shriek in outrage, beer, poor thing, has been claimed by the English. Which makes sense because that lot are champs at claiming stuff that does not belong to them. Sad though. 

But you know what. I live in a hot country. The current day temperature is around 40 deg C. We've been caged away at home all of this summer while the goons in power twiddle their thumbs and people die, some of them just trying to get home. Ironically, I can't remember the last time I had a cold one. I don't have to. Because I finally got to have one today. Cheers.

Song for the moment: Feel - Robbie Williams