When I started this column back in the heady days of September 2014, my intention was make the subject of craft beer as approachable as possible, and to avoid the trappings of snobbery that so many other food and drink writers fall in to.
I was naïve back then. I didn’t take in to account the fact that my palate(not to sound pretentious or anything) would evolve (there I go again) at an accelerated rate compared to the average craft beer consumer.
But it has, and over the past few months I’ve found myself judging literally anyone with macro beer in stock in their homes: my neighbours, loose acquaintances, my parents. I’ve become a beer snob and I need to be stopped.
Check it: I was chatting with the lady cutting my hair. This was the first time using this barber and we found that we got along well enough and she snipped away at my hair. The conversation shifted to the subject of my employment.
“Oh, I’m a beer writer.”
“Oh, that’s fun!” Snip snip snip. “What do you think of Kronenburg Blanc?”
I should have seen this coming. It seems that any time the subject of beer comes up with a cute Caucasian female in her 20s or 30s, the words “Kronenberg Blanc” are usually uttered. It’s one of the few beers my wife will drink, because of all the macro beer available in this province, it tastes the least like goat piss. I’m not too familiar with it, but because mainstream beer drinker has embraced it, I’ve judged it – and those that drink it – accordingly.
None of this I could say to my friendly barber, of course, without completely alienating her and ruining the conversation (and possibly my hair cut). So I said: “It’s the only beer my wife will drink. It’s not bad!”
“It’s my favourite.” Snip snip snip. “I like Shock Top too. Do you like Shock Top?”
To which my eyes sort of rolled around in my head like I’ve just be Tasered, and, without even thinking, I mutter in a very low register: “Uh, I’m not a Philistine.”
She stopped snipping for a moment and looked at me through the mirror. Either I had offended her or she hadn’t heard me and was waiting for me to answer. In her eyes, I was either very mean or sort of crazy. And I’m staring down at my lap, ashamed and embarrassed, partly because I have divulged to a complete stranger the extent of my pretentiousness. Only my wife knows the extent of that, and I had preferred to keep it that way.
But mostly I was ashamed because it was made abundantly clear, whether the barber heard me or not, then that the subject of my pretension (i.e., beer) isn’t worth being pretentious over. Snobbery is generally a pitiful attitude, although it makes a sort of sense when people are snobs about politics or literature or similar subjects that elevate our culture.
But beer? I mean, no one should be snooty about beer. It’s beer! If there’s a subject that should breed a spirit of modesty and sincerity, I’d think it would be beer (despite what Budweiser thinks).
Then again, the focus should be on quality beer – quality everything – and not mass-produced syrup-flavoured Shock Top with it’s embarrassing marketing campaign. What a tragic waste of money, spending it on Shock Top!
I doubt my barber would care to hear me wax on about this sort of thing. She probably wanted get on with her shift without facing a barrage of relatively trivial opinions regarding the state of the beer industry. So I say: “It’s really best that we don’t talk about this. I’ll just end up sounding like a jerk.”
Her look says, Too late for that. Then she shrugs and says, “It’s OK. You’re just really opinionated.”
So she did hear me. The conversation was stilted after that. I’d go back to her though. She cuts decent hair. I went to the bar after, ordered and drank a Jerkface 9000, Parallel 49’s latest – excellent beer for the snobby and the non-snobby alike – and resolved to be more accepting. This was a week ago. I still have a lot of work to do.
