Pints
and Prejudice: Unleashing the Beer Goddess Within
I know it’s wrong to think less of people because
of what kind of beer they drink, but I can’t help
it.
I learned to love beer in Prague, at a pub whose name
I don’t remember but could never pronounce in the
first place, just off of St. Wenceslas Square. A rabbit’s
warren of small low-ceilinged rooms, with aged wide-plank
wooden benches and tables and dimly lit by the few alley-facing
windows. The beer was a half-liter stein of Gambrenis Dark,
hoisted with a firm fist and a boisterous “Nos Stravi!” And
when I returned home, I could no longer bring myself to
order, let alone imbibe, the $5 pitchers of Budwesier at
our weekly sojourn to the East Village. So I ventured further
East at the behest of my literature professor to Avenue
B (before it was hip) where he held forth on W.B. Yeats’ search
for virility through the insertion of a baboon testicle
into his own scrotum over the prettiest pints of Guinness
anywhere in Manhattan.
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