MANY drinkers here associate American beer with that insipid gnat’s pee of a pint, Budweiser. Much favoured by bottle swigging unsavvy, chavvy, lightweights, its standing among the cognoscenti plummeted to a new low in the 1990s when its Yankee bully boy brewers tried to prevent Czech company Budvar from using the name Budweiser on their own long- established and far superior ale.
The judge apparently agreed with this sentiment because, after tasting both beers officially in court, he dismissed the case by saying that the American company need not fear that anyone would confuse the Czech product with theirs. Miaow!
But, listen here buddy – there’s a darn sight more to American beer than Bud as the Pub Column discovered while on holiday recently.
The destination was Boston, the seat of the American Revolution against us bossy Brits what with its tea party and all.
Appropriately, it’s also the home (despite the likely protestations from Rita and Emily choking on their sherry down the Rovers Return) of probably the world’s most famous TV pub, the Cheers Bar. This is a must for any fan, but apart from the exterior looks nothing like the place that Frasier and Norm used to frequent during its heyday.
We – the Pub Column and faithful pub pup Lady Penelope of Pensby – preferred the alternative provided by Remington’s Bar, on Boylston Street. After nearly half a day of air travel via Manchester, Amsterdam and the Atlantic we were in dire need of a glass or three of grog to ease the jet lag. We found the perfect prescription at Remington’s, in the city’s theatre district, just around the corner from our Radisson Hotel.
Normally, in Blighty, Yours Truly will shy away from pulling up a stool to link the tootsies with the metal rod below and elbows with the oak above. But, in the States, it’s the only way to drink, brother.
Since the Yanks have college degrees in bar stewarding, for God’s sake, the custom is to prop up, plonk change on the counter and rely on their phenomenal ability to precisely add up your tab using memory without resorting to anything so shabby as pen and paper. A foaming, ice cold, five-pint pitcher of the local Sam Adams lager, along with a couple of Jack Daniels doubles chasers on the rocks, did the trick in sending us off to our luxury bed, complete with machine adjustable comfort control (oo-er!).
Next day, the price was paid. A hungover 7am trudge across town in the pouring rain to McGann’s Irish Bar, on Portland Street, to see the derby between the Reds and the Blues on the big screen ended in hair of the dog disaster when Yours Truly found they hadn’t opened up for early doors.
It was, however, the only cloud on the horizon in a break from Castle Greyskull brimming with delights laced with the best of ales that New England/ New Hampshire had to offer. Guided by Lady Penelope’s ex-pat best mate Bernie – whose “all right la’s” are now embellished with a few twangy “have a nice day’s” – and her All-American “get the ales in” friendly hubby Larry, we had one of the times of our lives.
Come the Lottery win – or an enormous voluntary redundancy pay-off (highly unlikely – a beancounter) – then I’ll be over there again faster than Paul Revere’s nag.
