When I was but a wee lad in my teens, I found that the stuf my friends were using to break the drinking age laws was unpalatable to me. Weak, watery, unlovable.
Then, in college, after I had found I preferred harder drink, a lass with the unforgettable name of Beth Ellen O’Mullen dragged my underage hiney to an authentic Boston area Irish Pub, and introduced me to Guinness. Ah, now here was a drink! From there, I developed a taste for porter, bock, even finely crafted ambers.
Flash forward to the mid-1990s, when I played music accompaniment for one of the many local improv comedy groups. A new member, a transplant to Boston, had found he needed to drop out because he couldn’t squeeze us in with the responsibilities of the job that had brought him to town: a brewmaster for the Samuel Adams company.
But he kindly remembered us, and within a year recommended us to his higher ups as part of the entertainment for the Sam Adams corporate Christmas party in Jamaica Plain.
Now, folks, I’m here to tell you there are no more festive people at a party than those who know that if they run out, they can just make more. We performed in a rather mediocre fashion compared to our usual standards for ourselves, but that mattered not one whit to our hosts, who, having sampled our craft and enjoyed themselves thoroughly, embraced us as family and insisted we sample theirs.
Stout with a shot of vanilla
Woodpecker Cider
The thick, syrupy Triple Bock with nary a bubble but plenty of alcohol to be found in it
The cask ale, oh, friends, the cask ale, a finer brew than which is not to be had on this earth
Glass after delicious glass. Then, the lady who actually had done the hiring gave young Andy a come-hither glance, and led him to the loading dock. Only slightly to Andy’s disappointment, she gestured to the stacks of cases on the platform awaiting distribution and said, “Pick four. Any four.” And so he did, and we split them betwixt the six of us the next day.
Although how we had managed to get ourselves home alive the previous night, driving drunkenly through Boston’s winter midnight streets, I’ll never know.