The 25-Year-Old Teetotaler

A sobering account of my very first beer.

by Nick Norlen

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Published: Mar 4, 2009

Lindsay Snyder BOTTLENECKING: Norlen gave multiple beers a try for his first time. He didn't like any of them. (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

cherry poppin'

It could have been a sip of Budweiser, slipped to me by an uncle on a family vacation.

It could have been Nati Ice, nervously pumped into a red cup to impress some redhead.

It could have been a microbrew, chosen, probably for its name, from a gastropub’s chalkboard on my 21st birthday.

It was none of those.

Until two weeks ago, I had never tried beer. The main reasons for my abstention, apart from my reservations about its taste, were a disinterest in being drunk and a healthy resentment toward beer’s role as a “social lubricant.”

For better or worse, I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy. So up until the days preceding the second annual Philly Beer Week, it hadn’t occurred to me that I could investigate beer’s other, equally lauded characteristic — its reportedly complex and delicious flavor — without the aforementioned downsides.

At 25, I found myself in the unique position of being able to deliberately choose my first beer — a position I assumed would be simultaneously reviled and envied by serious beer drinkers.
In their realm, I’m the exchange student who’s never had a cheeseburger. After the initial disbelief, there’s a crucial question: fast food or kobe beef?

I had some decisions to make. One beer, or a tasting menu? Paired with a meal, or by itself? Something accessible? Advanced? Or Goldilocks?

After gauging beer geeks’ input, I visited the Foodery at 10th and Pine to gather a representative sample of the beer spectrum.

The chosen: Allagash White, Boddingtons Pub Ale, Budweiser, Corona Extra, Guinness Extra Stout, Heineken, Hitachino Nest New Year, Hoegaarden, Miller Lite, Victory Hop Devil IPA, Yards Philadelphia Pale Ale and Yuengling Lager.

With the field assembled, I decided to resort to the selection method trusted by the innocent and inexperienced: Spin the Bottle.

The glass Stonehenge was ceremoniously arranged, with desired winners placed between the beers prejudicially deemed the Bankrupts of the circle.

Finally, crouched on all fours, I took a Coke bottle — symbolically passing the torch — and spun it.
After careening into the Miller, it stopped, abruptly, and pointed directly, unambiguously, at the Guinness Extra Stout. The beer described by a friend as the “closest to a milkshake that beer has to offer.”

For better or worse, I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.

It’s dark, syrupy and smells liberally of alcohol. I manage a perfect pour, get situated and take a mouthful. At first, I taste nothing. Then, suddenly, my mouth is filled with an overwhelming taste far, far worse than anything I had anticipated. I imagine this is what yeast tastes like. If so, yeast tastes about like it sounds.

Cowardly, I decide I can’t choke down the whole glass. Instead, I arrange the remaining beers into a tasting menu, with hopes that the lineup will yield something drinkable.

I begin with Bud. It’s less “yeasty” than the Guinness, but no less undrinkable. Miller Lite is less painful on impact, but packs a fetid aftertaste. Hop Devil is so unbearable I can’t help but assume the people who like it are the same people who like the Saw movies. I wish I could say it got better after that. Corona, with the perfunctory lime, was the best in a torturous succession of the same horrid flavor — punctuated by gagging, deep, beer-flavored belches, palate-cleansing sips of water and welcome bites of pizza.

People peddling beer to me have always played to my love of food by telling me that it is amazingly enhanced by drinking. Ironically, they were right — that microwaved, leftover pizza was among the most comforting things I’ve ever eaten.

The ordeal ended with the great white hope — Allagash White, the only beer recommended by more than one person — disappointing with its unpleasant carbonation.

The feeling that followed was not one of at-least-I-tried-it contentment or I-told-you-so catharsis. I tried beer because I thought I might like it. The discovery that I can barely tolerate it was quickly converted by my all-or-nothing mentality into a lonely sense of distance from the rest of the human race, who, I was reminded, has not only been tolerating beer for thousands of years, but appreciating it on a level comparable to that of art.

That’s probably why, a day later, I was already doubting my recollection of how bad it was, and thinking another try might reveal some buried, brilliant hint of flavor. It was decided: I would try one more beer, and, no matter what, drink the whole thing.

I chose Sam Adams Light, hoping — contrary, I’m sure, to the brewer’s intentions — for something hollow-bodied and watered down.

I chose wisely. It still tasted filthy, but it was drinkable.

Over a span of 90 minutes, I alternated sips with chips and salsa con queso, until the bottle was empty, and I was free. It was a task devoid of pleasure. Like finishing your peas by burying them in spoonfuls of mashed potatoes.

Of course, there will be a chorus of those who say that my first beer was bound to be disgusting; that further samplings will yield exponential progress; that beer is that most pretentious of phenomena, an “acquired taste.”

In my case, it’ll have to be unrequited.

(runningnumbers@gmail.com)

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