Under Grumpa's Hat

I’ve been a beer drinker for the better part of 45 years. That doesn’t make me a connoisseur. It makes me… well, someone who’s been drinking beer for 45 years. My entire rating system is simple: I either like a beer or I don’t. That’s it. No charts, no tasting wheels, and certainly no swirling a pint glass in the air while murmuring, “Ah yes, citrus notes with a hint of toasted pinecone.”

You see, for most of my life beer drinkers weren’t supposed to be sophisticated. We were the “salt of the earth” types. Blue jeans. Ball caps. Maybe a belt buckle that could pick up AM radio signals. I’m not necessarily proud of it, but I remember a cold beer between my legs driving my pickup truck on a country road.

Wine was for the cultured elite, the folks who swirl and sniff and debate whether the merlot pairs better with roasted duck or the tears of their vineyard staff.

But now, there’s a strange phenomenon taking over: beer connoisseurs trying to act like wine critics. You know the ones I’m talking about. They stand in microbreweries with their beards waxed and their flannel shirts pressed, swirling their IPAs like they’re sampling a vintage Bordeaux. They say things like, “It’s a bold hop-forward profile with subtle earthy undertones and a delicate hint of gooseberry.”

Hoppy, to me, is a bunny rabbit.
A lager? That’s just a logger with bad spelling or without an axe.
And IPA? Sounds more like a government agency than a beverage.

The other day I heard a guy argue that his microbrew had “a crisp mouthfeel.” Mouthfeel? It’s beer, not dental floss! Then there was another chap insisting that his stout carried “notes of dark chocolate and leather.” Leather? Buddy, if I wanted a taste of leather, I’d chew on my belt.

I can’t help but grin when I hear these conversations. It’s like watching a couple of guys in overalls discussing Monet’s brushstrokes down at the tractor pull. There’s something charmingly absurd about it.

For anyone hoping to join the ranks of these sudsy sophisticates, here’s my quick guide to becoming a certified beer snob:

Step 1: Grow a beard. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Even a patchy “I forgot to shave” look will do. If you can’t grow one, stroke your chin thoughtfully anyway. It adds credibility.

Step 2: Learn a few key words like “malty” and “hoppy,” then sprinkle them into conversations at random. Example: “This weather feels… very hoppy today, doesn’t it?”

Step 3: When you sip a beer, squint like you’re trying to read fine print and say, “Hmm. Interesting mouthfeel.” No one knows what mouthfeel is, but they’ll nod in respect.

Step 4: Pretend you’re a world traveler by casually dropping phrases like “Ah yes, this reminds me of a small brewery I visited in rural Belgium… or was it Saskatchewan?”

Step 5: Never admit you just want something cold and refreshing. Always claim you’re exploring “complex flavour profiles.” Bonus points if you say this while eating nachos.

Costa Rica Vibe

Meanwhile in Costa Rica, I’ve rediscovered my love of beer thanks to the local legend: Imperial. (You can read my love letter to it here). Imperial doesn’t try to be anything but beer. No pretensions, no “subtle hints of volcanic ash with mango overtones,” just a cold, refreshing drink that goes down perfectly on a hot afternoon.

Could you imagine Ticos in Costa Rica gathering around a cooler of Imperial and pretending to be beer sommeliers? One sniff, and they’d say: “It smells like beer. It tastes like beer. Pura vida, pass me another.”

Meanwhile, back in North America, someone’s probably swirling a $14 pint of triple dry-hopped mango sour ale, explaining how it pairs well with free-range kale chips.

Maybe I’m just old-school, but I think beer should stay beer. Cold. Simple. Uncomplicated. Because at the end of the day, no one ever wrote a country song about a man crying into his craft pineapple saison.