For the record, I don’t like beer. Well, one – Bill found one beer that I would drink. It was some raspberry flavored Belgian ale, I think. I liked it because it didn’t taste like beer, so I really don’t think that counts.
But I can appreciate the fact that not all beers are alike, and some are of a higher quality than others, and if you aren’t a poor college student or on a strict budget, then spending a bit extra and getting something good is better than forcing yourself to drink garbage. And since some of the worst morning afters I’ve had were caused by cheap wine, I assume beer is much the same way.
When we moved here in July, I stopped at the Class VI to pick up some beer for Bill, because I love him very much and knew a good beer would make him happy. A quick glance around and I knew it was going to be a tough year for him. Finally, he has the leisure to enjoy beer on a regular basis, and the store has NOTHING. Well, if you like American beer, you’ve got a huge selection, but the imported section was, I think, two shelves inside one refrigerated cabinet. I went home and reported on this sad state of affairs. He’s been a trooper, but is not so desperate that he’s been drinking typical American beer. Mainly, he’s been trying the locally brewed stuff.
But it’s Oktoberfest time, and what is a German party without German beer, right? He went to the Class VI to see if he could order our usual brand: Spaten Oktoberfest. Swing and a miss: strike one. He came home and called a few local liquor stores. Nope, strike out.
Today’s mission for me has been to find some German beer. I’ve been trying to find Spaten, but I’ve gotten so desperate that I’m just looking for something German. I’m calling as far away as Kansas City, but I think I’d even drive farther than that. It’s almost become an obsession, and I have a pretty wild look in my eyes aided by the dilated pupils caused by the concussion I’ve given myself from banging my head on the desk.
At last place I called, I asked if they sold imported beer. “Sure”, she said. “German?” I asked. “Heinekin,” she offered. I shrieked and nearly dropped the phone.
Kansas was beginning to grow on me. But I just don’t think I can deal with this.