After working last night, a group of five of us sports writer types go to dinner in South Bend, IN. We allowed the youngest of us to find a place with decent food and good beer. He is a wings freak and finds a wing joint that supposedly has great wings and more than 50 beers.
Wrong on both counts. Wings were slathered in sauce, like they were fried up and then the sauce poured over them. They sucked in a large way. Best beer available was Sam lager. Fine, but not what I was hoping for. So by the time we leave at 11 pm, I'm still hungry and in a foul, foul mood.
So my beer snob buddy and I depart for Fiddler's Hearth, an Irish pub. Salvaged the night in a big way. Each of us partook in a Bells Hopslam, served beautifully in a snifter. I then went with Chimay Triple, again in a snifter, and my buddy moved on to New Holland Mad Hatter IPA.
Long story, but with a moral: thanks to this discovery, I will not have to verbally abuse the youngun about his epic fail. I went to bed very, very happy.
Beer can save.
Wrong on both counts. Wings were slathered in sauce, like they were fried up and then the sauce poured over them. They sucked in a large way. Best beer available was Sam lager. Fine, but not what I was hoping for. So by the time we leave at 11 pm, I'm still hungry and in a foul, foul mood.
So my beer snob buddy and I depart for Fiddler's Hearth, an Irish pub. Salvaged the night in a big way. Each of us partook in a Bells Hopslam, served beautifully in a snifter. I then went with Chimay Triple, again in a snifter, and my buddy moved on to New Holland Mad Hatter IPA.
Long story, but with a moral: thanks to this discovery, I will not have to verbally abuse the youngun about his epic fail. I went to bed very, very happy.
Beer can save.
