That’s the situation I found myself in (metaphorically, of course, if you’re reading this honey) as I sipped on a Jolly Pumpkin La Roja, a Flanders-style red ale that’s been aged in oak. It’s exquisite really, a beautifully made beer. It’s tart, spicy, and somehow manages to have a lovely earthiness to it, yet it finishes very clean. If beers were women, this one would be an angular supermodel, a creature of such beauty and grace that one look would turn most men into a fumbling jackass (or more of a fumbling jackass, as the case may be). I’d recommend it to a wine snob any day of the week.
There I was with my glass full of this wonderful beer, three sips in with another 10 ounces left in the bomber, and I was a little miserable. Because while this is a great beer in most measurable senses, there was zero chemistry happening between the two of us. It’s like the time in high school when I briefly dated this really attractive girl. She was nice enough, and she could stop traffic to look at her, but then I kissed her and decided she wasn’t my type. There was simply no spark.
So I’m drinking this amazing beer, and I start dreaming of more common fare. I didn’t want something interesting or something exquisite, I wanted something malty with a nice hop kick to it. I wanted a Sierra Nevada Torpedo. But I wasn’t going to pour out a wonderful beer just because I wasn’t in the mood for it – that’s too wasteful even for me, a guy who LOVES to pour beer down the sink. It makes me feel like Caesar giving the thumbs down at the Coliseum. This one dies!!!
Instead I sat there with the super model, dreaming of the girl next door.
I’ve often said that when it comes to craft beer, the heart wants what the heart wants.
I’ll be picking up a four pack of Torpedo on the way home tonight.