11.7% ABV on tap
No matter their ethnicity, race, intelligence, classiness, drunkenness, wealth, politics, ideals, or odor, I’m always willing to listen to an older man tell me a thing or too about love and sex. The rare topics that advanced age always gives advanced wisdom too. Usually.
I was drinking alone on an early evening at the Ginger Man, pre-barring at a bar if that’s possible, before meeting up with some macro-loving friends. I had nearly fallen out of my chair the previous night when I had seen the rare Night Stalker first appear on Beer Menus and needed to score some before it got tapped. (For the record NYC folks, I do believe Night Stalker should be around for at least a few more weeks, but I’d still advise hitting up the GM post-haste.)
One of the most buzzed-about beers in America right now, the Goose Island offering has had a meteoric rise up to the #33 beer in the world slot on Beer Advocate’s top 100. (Then again, we are in the era of super-hyped (and sometimes over-hyped) beers that go straight from released to the top 100 list in a matter of days it seems.) But, being that Goose Island Bourbon County Stout is one of my absolute favorite brews around, I was fiending to try this one. You see, Night Stalker is essentially Bourbon County sans bourbon barreling. Jet black and rich, so chocolaty and full of bold espresso goodness, this sucker makes Brooklyn’s awesome Intensified Coffee Stout taste like motherfucking decaf. It’s easy to just think that Bourbon County Stout minus the boozy bourbon would make it far less complex and tasty, but truth be told, eliminating that bourbon actually allows many new flavors to shine through creating a just as complex stout. Certainly not a “lesser” one by any means. Night Stalker is more bitter than Bourbon County, “dry hop(ped) like madmen” says Goose Island, more chewy, and more spicy. Alas, I will not go so far to call it as legendary as Bourbon County Stout but it is fantastic nonetheless. And it may very well now be my favorite unbarreled stout. Is that possible?! Brooklyn Black Chocolate, Avery Mephistopheles’, Dark Horizon, Lost Abbey Serpent’s, Kate the Great…yeah, I think it is very well amongst that esteemed class.
Lost in my own world, my nose inhaling the Night Stalker like I was a Hebrew anteater, slurping it down greedily, my romance was ruined by those few denizens in my vicinity. Behind me, two yahoos in cheap Red Wings sweaters with thick yet ambiguous and unlocateable accents swigged Bud Light bottles and shouted at the screen as Marc-Andre Fluery let another cheap goal trickle in. They were scaring, to my right, two Asian skanks seemingly having a pow-wow about whether becoming hookers during a recession was a savvy economic strategy. And to my left, a wasted mustachioed harlequin in a sleeveless T harangued the bartender.
“Eh cutie. ‘ow can youse possibly be oldanuff to bah-tend?! Youse mustbe like…I dunno, justa kid…hey, when can I kiss yer palm? Naw, not the palm, dat’s not what I meant. Whatevah’s on da udder side of da palm, dat’s what I want to kiss, like a real gentleman. While yer attit, couldja gimme a’nudder rum ‘n coke? Dubba.”
The bartender put on her best face, working for no doubt a tip that would be culled from the lint covered coins in his Dickies. “What rum would you like, sir?”
“Eh, howzabout Cap’n Morgan? Naw, wait. Make’it Bacaw-dee. Naw, naw, Cap’n’s good. Bacaw-dee. Eh, Cap’n'll work.”
“Is that your final answer?”
I was getting annoyed with this edition of “Scumbag Millionaire” as I made some more nasal love to my snifter of splendid stout wondering why the great Ginger Man always attracts such non-craft-beer-loving miscreants.
“It ain’t ‘er palm I’s really wantta kiss. Heh, heh, heh. Eh guy, ain’t dey got duh hottest liddle numbahs in here?”
A forearm with a tattoo of Popeye with a tattoo on his own forearm needled me in my tenth rib.
“Uh, I suppose.”
There was really not a women in the joint worth getting in a tizzy over.
“Ya’ think that bah-tender’d fucka guy like me? Naw, course’not. Dat’s whatyer thinkin’ right? Some ugly mook like me?”
He stared right at my face, dramatically pausing as if he was about to blow my mind.
“Well youse wrong. Lemme tell you sumpin’ bout women. D’ere all sluts. Every last one of dem. Even my ma’, god rest her soul. My old man walked in on her suckin’ off da’ plumber. Nudder story for anudder day my friend…”
I hoped that “nudder” day would never come for me as I listened to Popeye Guy’s romance tips.
1. Get her wasted
“Foist of all, ya gotta get da chicks loaded. Make’em match youse drink fer drink. Look’at me. Been drinkin’ since nine ay-em and you’d t’ink I’d just been sippin’ cola, right? And if a girl’s wit me, she’d be messed up big time b’now. D’ese gals wanna be sluts but when dey’re sober dey’s just fuckin’ bitches. Getta cocktail or two in’dem and soon you’ll have your cock in’dem too. Heh, poetic right? Like champagne for my real pain…sham friends…how’da fuck dat clevah line go?”
2. Be old and wise
“D’ese girls respeck a guy with age, wiz-dum. I’m fiddy-two. I know, I know, shocked’ya agin. Prolly thought I was yer age. Naw, when I was yer age, hant-some, vig-er-rus, I didn’t even need ta’go’ta bahs to pick up chicks. Dey was just bangin’ down my door so dey could bang down wit me. Ha, look at dat, I was poetic again. I’m a real…uh…name a poet or something. I’m a real Dr. Soooze. What ‘as I sayin’? Oh, yeah, young girls want to be with an old guy who knows what ‘e’s doin’ like me.”
3. Act manly
“Butcha’ also gotta act like’a real man. Ladies wanna feel like ladies and dey want a man dat’s a man. I see all deese little sissies walkin’ around Man’at-ten nowadays. I dunno whether dey’re gay’re straight but dey’re all fag’its if you ax me. That ain’t no slur, and I ain’t na’ ‘omophobic or nuttin’. I juss calls ‘em like I sees ‘em and dey’s a buncha fag’its. Dey don’t make guys like me no more. Real men. Now you look alright. Not tough or anyt’ing but not a fuckin’ pussy or nuttin’. But compared ta’ these udder guys your age you’re fuckin’ John Wayne. Even wit dat fag’it fancy beer in yer hand.”
4. Pretend your rich
“But manliness ain’t enuff. These sluts also like a guy with a little coin if ya’ know what I’m sayin’. I’ma classy guy, ya’ know, and I like to treat my ladies well so I’ll take’em ta nice places, chop’ouses, planning on pickin’ up da’ bill. But da’ second a girl ack-shully axes me to buy ‘er sumpin’, I’m like, ‘Buy youse sumpin’?!, why don’tchoo suck on my cock?’ Naw, that doesn’t always work but it has before a few times. I still had to buy dinner though.”
5. Be great in bed
“Now dis is da most impor-ent point, my friend. More important den any udder nugget’a wiz-dum I’s given you tonight: Fuck’er like she ain’t done nevah been fucked before. You make’a bitch cum and she’ll never leave ya’ side. Believe me. Truth be told, I can’t fuck deese bitches one-hundert percent because I’m so good that they’ll stalk me and my pecker forevah. So I usually just fuck’em at like…say…sixty percent first few times. Let her know I have da’ tools, but I choose to use them at my discretion. Dat way, she’s in my control forevah.”
By now I was done with my slow-sipping Night Stalker and had to get going to meet up with my friends. I thanked the man for his swell advice and he thanked me for listening by picking up my pint. As I left he winked at me and nodded at the cute bartender with her back to us–it was time for the “expert” to go in for the solo kill.
Unfortunately, I didn’t follow any of Popeye Guy’s advice that night and I went to bed alone at 5 AM.
I think not!