Hoppily Ever After: Converting Your Gal Into A Beer Snob

One Sunday evening a couple months ago, Wendi and I were knocking the little white ball around our neighborhood golf course when, on the second tee, we decided to open the cooler and crack into the highlight of any round of golf.  The pro shop, however, carried nothing but the standard booze options: the two watered-down pilsners ending with “-ght” and the other one with the catchier “-ite” moniker.  Feeling “snobby” we dismissed those choices and opted for the only alternative the course offered: the other light beer sold in that uselessly slender can (the one where I have to borrow one of Wendi’s hair-bands so my coozie doesn’t fall off).  After a swig each, we turned to each other said the same thing:

“Bleeeccch!”

It was that moment, on that second tee where Wendi outdrove me (her tee box was 48-yards in front of mine, and the hole’s layout forced me to play a hybrid while she could bomb it with the big stick, yet apparently  I’m a sexist if I point that out), we experienced the same abrupt epiphany: we were both true beer snobs.  Given that my journey to hops-arrogance was longer than Wendi’s, I sometimes wonder how I managed to transform a former Michelob addict into the woman who shares my tastes.  I’m sure a great deal of her conversion was osmosis as much as anything.  I simply saturated her dining experience with one crafty brew after another to the point she decided, “What the hell.”  But I’d like to think that, on a subconscious level at least, I had pulled off the great master plan: I had converted an unwilling test subject into my beer clone.

The number one rule of any decision in a relationship (be it your gal’s beer selection or your determination to wear those green plaid shorts with your favorite neon orange running shoes) is that you must let your idea become her idea.  Telling her she’s making a bad decision by sticking to her Bud Light is like telling your great aunt that those bright purple Crocs have got to go. Worse yet, it might backfire and reinforce her notion that her bottle of Bud is somehow actually much better than Miller or Coors…those people.  Instead, you have to commit to this with the understanding that it’s a long term process.  Get it through your head that, somewhere out there, professional psychologists are going to get farther along curing OCD sufferers and hoarders before you’re going to hit pay-dirt with your lady’s resistance to good beer.  All you can do is take her out to good bars and restaurants which offer a decent crossover selection, order your preferences, and let her stick to her training-wheels.

Since you’re both sitting at your barstools or intimately settled in your booth (Which is where I’d take her if you’re like me and you’re still crazy about her enough to actually think that you’ll get lucky later that night…even after dating for four years…and living together…in a house full of kids…with a dog…Wait! Where was I going with this?)

…oh yeah, the booth.  Once your beers have arrived, make sure to emphasize how delicious each draught is.  You’re not just drinking a beer in front of her, no; you’ve just crossed the desert wearing your grandma’s sheets and quilt hallucinating the entire way that a frosty IPA, a cheeseburger, and that classic Playboy pinball machine you used to play in the bowling alley has been three feet in front of you for the last 100 miles.  This isn’t just a casual swig of beer.  This is a sacramental moment.

“Ahhhhhhhh….!” Let it out softly with some breathiness to it.  “That’s sooooo good.”

This is a critical point, and I can’t emphasize this next tip enough: Don’t, in any way-shape-or-form, tell her she should try it, God no.  If you haven’t figured out after discussing optimum tire-pressure and motor oil viscosity with her that being a patronizing jackass only leads to a long night on the couch with your iPad then you’re never going to learn.  But, if you have learned that lesson, then by all means don’t suggest she try it.  Hopefully, she’ll sneak a glance at her Bud and try to muster up the zest you’ve just displayed, but odds are that if she actually tries to throw her own “Ahhhhh…” back at you, everyone in the joint will know in an instant that she’s totally bull—-ing.

Step Three: The Calculated Sip

If you’ve played the Patience-Card effectively the day will come when your most recent, “Man! That’s soooo good!” will trigger the fateful response:

“Let me have a sip of that,” she’ll say.  Granted, the Cubs may have won a couple pennants by time this day arrives, but both of these glorious events will come.  I swear!  No…I really mean it!

This is the critical point, the singular juncture where the whole project will move forward, or all those weeks and months of patient work will collapse.  You want to be sure that you have on hand a sweet, low-IBU brew.  If you hand over an IPA or even most pale ales at this point, then forget it.  In the world of beer-wooing, the hoppy brews are the cubic-zirconias of beer proposals: a quick and ugly end to the dream awaits to be sure (those of you who have pulled off a solid 10-15 years of marriage thanks to a CZ ring…Do. Not. Grin!).  The best beer to hand to her at this moment is a sweeter-end stout or a very low IBU porter.  If you have a sweet brown or amber, that can work, but be very aware of the hop numbers.  And if you can throw something at her that has a hint of coffee to it: perfect.  Speaking as someone whose gal has entered the “coffee-is-almost-better-than-sex” stage, you want to go with a hint of java in her beer.  Not only will she love it, but you’ve got at least a 50-50 shot at aphrodisiac side-effects.

If you’ve moved through every step with care and attention, her reaction to that sip should be something along the order of: “Hmmm! That’s actually pretty good!”

You’re almost there, my friend.

Once you know that she can handle at least a smooth stout, you should be safe to take her to your nearby brew pub.  Do not let her know, under any circumstances, that these establishments treat Bud, Miller, and Coors like the radioactive waste that they are.  Allow her to dawdle in the misguided assumption that a “safety” beer will be on hand.  Once you’ve settled in, order a 7 or 10-set flight of samples and break the news to her: the Clydesdales won’t be walking through this parade.

For our trip, Wendi and I visited the then, newly-opened Black Swan Brew Pub, a fantastic little place just off of I-70 in Plainfield.  Black Swan embraces its location at the apex of the Hoosier urban-suburban-rural landscape employing the urban flair of dark beams and walls with a hospitable but equally artistic and approachable Midwestern menu.  As good as the food was, we were there for something else, and we opened with a 10-flight sample set.

Working through a huge board of flights can be an intimidating and daunting process, but you must remember the “sweetness rule” which states that Walter Payton was and is the greatest running back in the history of the NFL…  Hold on, I meant the other “sweetness rule” which is (as you already know from the preceding steps): start with the sweet beers and work to the bitter.  Let her open with the stouts and porters, reinforcing her now-growing interest in divergent beer, then (and this is CRITICAL) move to the pilsners, blondes, and lagers.  If brewed well, most of these beers will carry some similarity to the Bud/Miller/Coors world she’s gradually drifting away from.  If brewed really well, she’ll think, “Wow, I didn’t know that Bud could taste this good.”  And if she’s thinking that, then this show is all but over.

Now that your gal has acclimated her palate to the world of craft beer, the best way to test whether it “stuck” is to place her back in a world filled with temptation.  For us, that was a trip to the downtown Champps.  Wendi ordered a relatively safe “craft-ish” beer: a Fat Tire, and after perusing the list of brands on tap, I opted for Sun King’s Wee Mac.

“What’s that?” Wendi asked looking at my 22-ounce glass.  I couldn’t contain my excitement because I knew I had her.  After one taste, her face lit up as she set the tumbler back on the table.

“That’s really good,” she said, turning her glance to her own New Belgium wearing a mildly forlorn sense of disappointment on her face.  “I wish I had ordered what you have, instead.”

The final step in the process is sort of like buying a Winnebago.  You don’t really need one to enjoy a road trip across the country, but…well; we have this thing now, so I guess we really should spend eleven days driving through Kansas.  The beer equivalent to that Super-8 on tires is the kegorator.  I was a bit fortunate in that Wendi ended up with hers after the divorce, and for the first two years I dated her, there it sat.  When I finally decided to refurbish it, I already had her hooked on the craft brews, but investing in 15.5 gallons…?  Well, let’s go to Kansas, shall we?

The Life of a Convert

Over the course of a long relationship two people are bound to develop common interests, and maybe she’ll fall for craft beer simply because you always have it around, sort of the same way you decided on episode 22 of that Glee marathon she made you watch that the show really wasn’t that bad after all.  Whether she converts to a beer snob out of pressure, manipulation, or resigned supplication all that matters is that the two of you now have one of life’s greatest pleasures to talk about over each dinner out on the town.

Cheers to you both!