Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Partying Like It's 1994?

Tonight is the night before Thanksgiving. Every year I put up a post on Facebook asking who wants to go to Chuck's tonight. A little background. In my (and many of my friend's) salad days, we went to a bar on the SU campus called Hungry Charley's. We called it Chuck's. Wednesday nights were buy one get one pitchers and we'd go. But the night before Thanksgiving was a special night. People returned from college or visit from out of town and we'd wind up at Chuck's. (I've written about Chuck's before.)

It was a dive, in the basement. It had a horrible ventilation system, only served shitty beers on tap along with a few bottle choices and had assholes for bouncers (I know, I got my ass kicked by one). It also had decent prices, pretty good sangria and a Star Trek: The Next Generation pinball machine that ate almost as much money as the beer. (I also liked their chicken fingers, but maybe that had more to do with the beer than the chicken.) My beverage of choice was either Killian's Red or Honey Brown with Honey Brown being my favorite. I was reminded of that tonight.

Like just about everyone else in the free world, I had to go to Wegmans this afternoon. I had some errands to run, including picking up my dog's ashes (I'll write about that another time...I can't now, I've tried and I just can't) but I was going to try to avoid a trip to Wegmans. But my wife, who works at Wegmans, slipped and fell at work, hurting her surgically repaired knee. I brought her to the doctor and she got a thumbs up to go back to work, so I took her back. And she gave me a list of things I needed to get. No problem. I made good time and, having joked about Chuck's, perused the beer corner at the big W.

Now, something you need to know about me, I am not a big drinker. I put my time in during the early to mid-90s and that was enough. I'll crack open an occasional hard soda or a beer once in an almost literal blue moon. Honestly, in 11 months of 2017, I've had maybe 5 beers. Tonight I decided to make six. I walked by the craft beers, the hard sodas (which I love) and the ciders, finding a sixer of Honey Brown. But I was worried. I was worried about my daughter.

She seems very aware of when I drink and, for some reason, it bothers her. A few weeks back, we went to a family birthday party and I ordered a beer. My daughter was very upset and I have no idea why. I don't drink very often and I don't drink enough to alter my behavior. Okay, there is only one time I can think of where I drank more than usual (limoncello and something called Strega was involved, it was as fun as it sounds) and I don't remember her being upset about it. So I wondered. My daughter and I talk, so I asked her about it during the week and she said she just didn't like me drinking alcohol, though she was still evasive. This is a continuing conversation between us and I'll get to the bottom of it.

I waited until well after dinner was digested and cracked open a Honey Brown. And the first sip transported me back to 1994. No, really. (The good 1994, not the bad one I've blogged about before.) Now, Honey Brown isn't "great" beer. Hell, it's not even "good" beer, but Christ, it was delicious. It has been literally 20-something years since the last time I drank a Honey Brown. It was everything I remembered and more. I've had some good beers over the years. High quality stuff. But they couldn't hold a candle to the Honey Brown I drank tonight. Maybe it's the nostalgia of one too many nights in a dive of a bar filled with too much smoke and floor muck. Maybe it's the memory of having over 30 people show up, unannounced or uninvited, at my house some summer nights back then. Who knows? But it was the best beer I've had in years. And like I said, I was 21 again. And it was glorious.

My daughter noticed the bottle. She was okay with it, but did ask if it was the only one I was going to have. (I haven't had more than one beer in one day in easily over ten years!) When I assured her that it was, she didn't bother me again. But my son on the other hand, was despondent, but not for the reasons you think.

"Daddy, my gosh, why does your breath smell like that? What did you eat?"
"What does my breath smell like?"
"Garbage," he says, "like you're eating garbage."
"I'm drinking a beer, buddy."
"Well, I want you to stop, your breath smells like poop."

So, at least we know why my son doesn't like me nursing a beer.