It was a mean assignment, sitting around drinking beer and trying to figure out why I liked it. Or why I didn’t like it, a spurious notion itself. I would need help and plenty of it. Especially since I wouldn’t be able to participate. My jaw was still wired from my last case, the Case of the Female Weight-lifter. Raymond Chandler was out-of-commission, since he was dead. I went for the best men still available, men with real gusto. I rounded up seven pros. Men like Norm Hitzges, John Anders, Alex Burton. Men like Jim Schutze, Carl LaFong, Skip Hollandsworth, Tom Stephenson. Men like Susan Stewart. Yeah, I know, but she’s capital-T tough. I found a cooperative saloon owner by the name of Andy Clendennon, who agreed to allow us use of his place, Andrew’s. A time was set, and rules were drawn. Each beer would get a score from 1 to 10, 10 being the highest.
I don’t like surprises so I got there early. Andy was ready with a dozen brews. He had several good patriotic American brands – stuff like Coors and Lone Star and Schlitz and Budweiser. Also on the list were some of those sissy foreign beers. Murky liquids with unpronounceable names like Augusteiner and Urquell and Heineken. Others had silly names like Moosehead, Cheshire (I thought that was a cheese) and Anchor Steam. Somebody named Foster had sent along his beer, too. One brewer had jumped the gun, calling his product Superior. We would be the judge of that, buddy.
Schutze drifted in, disguised as an executive in a pin-striped suit. I recognized him immediately, though. He had the lean and hungry look of a columnist with a fast-approaching deadline and no ideas. Then Hitzges blew in with tales of the radio wars. So far, so good. LaFong, pompous as always, made a grand entrance, announcing that the tasting could begin now that he was there.
But it started going sour. I hadn’t realized how tough the assignment was. Starting time came and went. No Anders, no Burton, no Stephenson, no Hollands-worth. Stewart showed up, fashionably late. Maybe the others had been waylaid. In this business you don’t like to think about that, but sometimes it happens. I couldn’t think about it. There was a job to be done.
Quickly I rounded up three substitutes. Lisa Broadwater, another hard-boiled broad. Phil Wolff and P.J. Olsen, two veterans of the saloon business. We were set.
Clint Crawford, the barkeep, sent our waitress, Betty Ahem, out with the first beer. Hitzges, quick as a shortstop, beat everyone else to the glasses and got down the first quaffing. “Not bad, but I had no craving for nachos or peanuts after drinking it.”
Schutze was not to be outdone. “This is a dusty beer, possibly brewed in Laredo during bad weather. I might drink it if my air-conditioner compressor was not working. Otherwise, I hate it.”
Stewart was her usual saccharine self. “This has a funny, sweet taste, like erasers.”
“Well,” chimed in LaFong, “I see you’ve still got the habit, Susan Sweet. Can’t leave the erasers alone, eh?”
There had always been bad blood between Stewart and LaFong. I had to keep ’em apart through a dozen glasses of beer. As LaFong says, nothing is ever easy.
The other drinkers made their comments on Number One. LaFong complained about the lack of head. Broad-water didn’t like the aftertaste. Wolff decided it was probably an American brand; Olsen, that it was imported. But there was no time for argument. Betty was there with the second beer.
“Bilge water,” snorted Hitzges after one sip. “Having just returned from the John, I’m unnaturally suspicious of the origin of this dark amber liquid. If it’s beer, it’s barely beer.” He caught Olsen with her back turned and poured his into her glass.
Schutze agreed on the color but on nothing else. “It has an ugly appearance in a glass, sort of like unleaded gasoline. But it’s really delicious, spicy and full of mischief. It has an almost anise edge. I like it.”
“You’re hopelessly ignorant,” answered Broad water without being asked. “This liquid is incredibly hard to drink. One swallow is more than enough. It smells like rotten bananas and doesn’t taste much better.”
Wolff decided it was fair for a dark beer, “not too heavy, smooth aftertaste, color like apple cider.”
Stewart smugly waited for them to finish. “All beer is bad, but this is ridiculous. Sour, approaching rancid. Ugly color. Lingers, too. Stay away.”
LaFong, deep in thought, had no comment.
Schutze, obviously on LaFong’s side in the war against Stewart, decided everyone else could leave. “I’m giving you such good quotes, you might as well send everyone else home,” he said to me. He pointedly glared at Stewart. LaFong cut lose with a menacing chortle. Things were getting out of hand. I quickly shut up LaFong, breaking two of his ribs with a little trick I learned in Katmandu.
Betty materialized with Number Three, and Broadwater took the lead. “Yechh. No taste. Easy to drink in massive quantities, but boring.”
LaFong, quickly recovering, piped in. “Perfect beer for SMU students. A big Zero.”
“I wouldn’t drink it again even if it was free,” said Wolff.
“It tastes like a cheap beer and even looks watered down,” added Olsen.
Stewart had only one comment: “Boring.”
Even Hitzges agreed. “Thin, very thin. I imagine I could drink lots of this. But I’m sure I wouldn’t want to. I probably would rate it lower, but Number Two remains fresh on my palate -and elsewhere.”
Schutze was laying back, waiting. “This is a cynical beer, a commercial beer, a bland beer brewed for the vast American amalgam. This beer makes me mad. It has less taste than LaFong does.”
The infighting was slowing us down. I was losing control. And I had left my roscoe in my other trenchcoat. I told Betty to speed it up.
Olsen took a liking to Number Four. “Hardy, but smooth. Very good.”
“Good, but no cigars,” corrected Wolff.
“You all don’t know beer from bimbos,” said Broadwater. “This stuff tastes like it’s been sitting in an aluminum can too long.”
“Gad, Broadwater, you’re a perfect example of why women don’t belong at a beer tasting,” said LaFong. “Unlike you, my dear, this amber refreshment has real body. Notice the perfect bead in the glass, the edge as it strikes the palate. A drink for the gods.”
LaFong was warming to his subject, and the deeper he got into his cups, the more pompous he became. A threatening glance, a quick motion with my hand and he shut up.
“This one is very light,” said Schutze. “I think it may just be very clear, like a cool breeze. Do we get paid for this?”
“Always the mercenary, eh Schutze?” Stewart asked. “Still charging your mom for the time you spend with her? This beer is watery, but beer being what it is, diluting it can do nothing but help. I could handle this.”
It was Hitzges’ turn. “This one has a funny, musty taste. Maybe aged in an old wooden silo. 1 don’t want to know what was in the silo immediately preceding this brew.”
Betty was already there with Number Five. Stewart frowned as she looked at it and took a sip. She carefully set down her glass and looked at Schutze. “I’m getting worried about our friend Jim,” she said to me. “He’s getting that Rasputin look. While I take polite little sips, Schutze is tossing down every glass and not grimacing. Soon he will be in some never-never land of Germanic insight, while 1 sit staring at these glasses and wishing for a Tab.”
Schutze, busy drinking, paid no attention. He emptied his glass and looked at me. “Look, when I was in college 1 had to earn money by making myself a guinea pig in those psychological experiments. You can’t fool an old subject. This is water. Nice try. And let’s get serious, okay?”
LaFong chimed in. “In spite of my longstanding policy of never agreeing with you, Jim, I must admit that you’re correct. This beer raises mediocrity to new levels. This is the perfect beer for Mesquite – non-threatening. Don’t you agree, Norm?”
Hitzges didn’t. “I think it’s pretty good. I find myself obviously desirous of a nacho -even a Texas Ranger semi-cool nacho. It’s the best yet.. .or is it that I’m beginning to care less and less?”
“It’s smooth, all right,” answered Olsen, “but watery. There’s no flavor to savor. I could pump down 12 of these without feeling any effects.”
“Basic,” added Broadwater. “Reminiscent of college keg beer -real hard to drink once lukewarm.”
Beer Number Six was on the table, and in Hitzges’ mouth. “Ugh. Very carbonated. Is this Champale? I’d sooner drink MD 20-20. Wait-maybe it’s a mixed drink – Budweiser and club soda?”
“Nah, it’s gotta be a Mexican beer,” said Wolff. “It’s got a definite aftertaste. I don’t like it.”
“So it bites a little bit,” added Olsen. “It’s hardy, nothing smooth about it. I couldn’t drink too many of these. It has a weird aftertaste. Either that or too many beers have passed through my mouth at this point.”
LaFong rolled his eyes heavenward like a corpse. “Why do I subject myself to the company of such simpletons, Lord? This nectar is very interesting, as complex as good wine, subtle and malty. Strange, even; but nicely so.”
Schutze leaned over and whispered to me. “I’m concerned about Stewart. She seems to be swilling her beer and then telling a lot of stories about her childhood.” What about the beer, Schutze? “Oh, 1 like it a lot.”
“Why are you whispering, Schutze?” asked the always-observant Stewart. “And why are you holding the glass to your forehead? Trying to determine the condensation rate? Or hungover already?”
1 nodded to Betty and she served Number Seven, along with some of Andrew’s justifiably famous nachos. Broad-water grabbed a nacho and then her beer. “This beer’s too sweet, with a spicy – maybe nutmeggy -taste. Or maybe that’s the nacho.”
“It does have a strange aftertaste,” said Stewart, “almost as if somebody added room deodorizer. I think it’s the best yet.”
“You’re nuts,” said Schutze with his usual tact. “This is so-what beer. You could drink it at somebody’s house and ask, ’Yeah? What else did you get for Christmas?’ It tastes like typing paper. Stewart, you must be a bitter disappointment to your parents.”
LaFong chortled. His appearance once again was menacing. “Schutze is correct again. Pure rainwater, straight from a slate roof.”
“Sweet and bland, if that makes sense,” added Olsen. “Just a bad taste.”
“Well, it is a tad sweet,” said Hitzges, “but not offensive. Were I heading out to drink a lot, this wouldn’t be bad. Not that I ever head out to drink a lot -it just happens.”
Stewart started to argue, but I shut her up with a Mandarin kick I mastered during The Case of Suits. Betty served up Number Eight.
Hitzges took a gulp and smiled. “Not bad at all. Decent flavor. No bite, not musty. Damn, Margaret, I think we’ve discovered beer. Why are the nachos all gone right now?”
“I think we should change this to a nacho-tasting,” said Stewart. “They’re great, though Jim didn’t touch them. Look at him; he looks so reverent.” What about the beer, Stewart? “Who cares.”
“I care” retorted Schutze. “This is a great beer. It has a nice high, light, fine edge -beer at its most intelligent. Of course, I feel that I, too, am getting more intelligent by the minute.”
“Who cares,” Stewart said again.
The argument continued. “I think it’s good,” said Wolff. “It’s a definite commercial seller, or should be.”
LaFong waited for the last word. “I’m amused by its impudence. It’s robust, if not downright rambunctious. A real man’s brew.”
I waved for Betty and Number Nine.
“Middle of the road,” said Wolff.
“Is this the same beer we just tasted?” asked Broadwater.
“A little bit heavy,” said Olsen. “Definitely starting to make my stomach flip-flop.”
“These are cute little glasses,” said Stewart.
“This beer is shallow,” said Hitzges. “Faceless. Nameless. Nothing to recommend it, nothing to damn it. Blase. Take it away and bring me a Chablis, a bourbon and soda.”
Beer Total Points
1. Heineken (Holland) 47
2. A ugusteiner (Germany) 42
Superior (Mexico) 42
3. Cheshire (England) 41
4. Moosehead (Canada) 32
Schtitz(U.S.) 32
5. Foster’s (A ustralia) 31
6. Pilsner Urquell(Czechoslovakia) 27
Budweiser(U.S.) 27
Lone Star (U.S.) 27
7. Anchor Steam (U.S.) 24
8. Coors(U.S.) 18
Schutze was finally ready to speak. “This beer is overly carbonated. It tastes almost fuzzy, which is too bad because it doesn’t have a bad little flavor. Took a canoe trip with someone like that once. She talked about her brother’s car trouble.”
“Well,” said LaFong, “this beer reminds me of you, Jim. No sparkle.”
Betty brought out Number Ten.
“This must be ditto beer,” said Hitzges. “I better have another quick sip before I forget what it tastes like. P.J., quit dropping your pen; that’s the second time in four beers. Disregard all my comments for the duration.”
“Look at Jim,” said Susan. “He’s praying, talking about how people throughout history have paced their lives around beer, and about genetic mutations in hops. It takes my breath away.”
“These are cute little glasses,” said Schutze.
We were straying. Schutze was gazing thoughtfully into his glass. “I wonder what would happen if suddenly there was no more beer- if, say, all the hops died…” I had to act fast and forcefully. I ordered more nachos, double jalapenos this time.
“This beer has too much flavor,” Wolff said, finishing his Number Ten. “Boy, am I feeling good.”
“It’s water with a bite,” added Olsen. “But my perceptions might be distorted by this time. Do not pay much attention to these comments of mine.”
“What makes you think we have been?” asked LaFong. “This altogether pleasant beer is almost bitter and almost sweet, a good balance of malt and air.”
“Bull,” said Broadwater. “It’s all air. But then, I never did like Fizzies.”
Numbers Eleven and Twelve showed up at the same time. Hitzges excused himself, murmuring something about a meeting with his lawyer. There was a chorus of scoffs, but he ignored them and left.
Stewart took a not-so-dainty slug of Number Eleven. “Did something die in here?” she asked.
“Disgusting. What’s in this stuff?” asked Broadwater. “Battery acid?”
But there was to be no consensus.
“This is a real smoothie,” said Olsen.
“An intriguing mix,” added Schutze. “I really like it. Why can’t we have more? Are D Magazine’s ad revenues down?”
Again, the last word was LaFong’s. “This one must be good for you. It’s medicinal. You almost need a spoon, it’s so chewy.”
He had more to say, but I shut him up by shoving his nose into Number Twelve. “This one is mediciny, too,” he said. “Heavy, real character. Only the English could drink something like this.”
“Smooth” was all that came from Wolff, who was feeling even better.
Too much like cider,” said Broad-water, still somehow able to make sense.
“I give up,” said Stewart conciliatorily. “Schutze just keeps writing and tossing them down. I surrender.”
Schutze, too, was losing his edge. “My Latin teacher, Mr. Stuckey, used to answer our questions in his own head without speaking. But he was really quite a guy. I think I’m going to cry.”
“Play Melancholy Baby,” said LaFong.
The tasting was over, but the case wasn’tquite closed. I had to reveal which beerwas which. I had to tell the tasters thatNumber One was Moosehead, Two wasAnchor Steam, Three, the object of muchderision, was Coors. That Number Fourwas a foreigner, Augusteiner, NumberFive was Lone Star, the old reliable, andthat Number Six was Superior, from Mexico. They didn’t seem to care that NumberSeven, Schlitz, didn’t do so well, thatNumber Eight, Heineken, finished first,way ahead of Numbers Nine (Foster’s),Ten (Budweiser), Eleven (Pilsner Urquell)and Twelve (Cheshire). I think my associates had reached that beer-drinking statewhere there are no bad beers and the bestbrew is the next brew. The Case of Beerwasn’t scientific, of course, nor was it fair. |At the end it wasn’t even sober. But TheCase of Beer was finished.
