Red, White And Beer

I was born in a small town. And I lived in a small town. I’ll probably die in a small town. But it wasn’t good enough for me. I packed up and got the hell out of Lancaster, Pennsylvania almost six years ago, and have absolutely no desire to ever move back.

I visit about a half dozen times a year. The big holidays, a birthday or two, Labor and Memorial Day, maybe a few other times. Those trips are always fraught with jumbled emotions (even aside from the mix of feelings that aging parents bring about): A sense of knee-jerk superiority that derives from my current surroundings, depression stemming from the ever-diminishing lack of culture and increasing poverty there, a hint of nostalgia for the good times that were had and awe that I spent so many of my adult years trapped in a town that’s a "D" movie market and where going to Border’s Books is a hoppin’ night out.

Such was the feeling one Sunday night some weeks back as my family descended upon The Outback Steakhouse just off of Route 30 in Lancaster. My brother and I were home for the week-premature celebration of our father’s 73rd birthday. Dad’s a meat-n-potatoes guy, and when my parents come to visit here, it’s always a task to think of the blandest possible (yet still good) restaurants to take them. If he tastes anything spicier than salt, my Dad goes into shock.

So, here we were, waiting in the enormous throng (honest) at Outback, where I’ve always wondered about that "No Rules, Just Right" slogan. Like, if a steak falls on the floor, do they just throw it back on the grill? No rules, right? Does that include no health guidelines?

My brother Ken and I decided to wait at the bar and drown our bemusement in Beer, that most grand and glorious of all God’s liquids. The bar was likewise packed, and I squeezed between two firmly-packed locals as they amply filled the barstools. I asked the bartender what they had on tap.

"Coors Lite, Miller Lite, Budweiser, Molson, Yuengling Lager, Yuengling Black & Tan and Fosters."

I made a face and said, "Eww, that’s a terrible selection." The bartender smiled weakly, yet commiserately, and apologized. She knew. I said it wasn’t her fault and ordered two Yuengling Lagers. As the bartender pulled the beer, the 40-ish woman to my right looked up at me and asked, rather pointedly, "Well, what would you PREFER?"

I did a tiny double take, not expecting anyone to be offended by my disdain for the weak beer selection at the chain steakhouse in Lancaster PA. But I answered, very politely, "It’d be nice if there were a stout on tap, maybe a few ales and some more imports... it’s almost all light beers and lagers, and some bad ones, too."

Now, as a bartender who happily works at a place that does NOT carry Coors Lite (in my opinion, the absolute bottom of the beer barrel, in every aspect from taste to image to what it says about its drinker), I’m used to people getting defensive about their taste in beer (and all alcohol, but that’s another column). Two times in my bartending career I’ve given the option to staunch Coors drinkers of taking any other beer we have, pouring half out and pissing into into it so they could have something closer to their favorite libation. Both times, they passed.

But I wasn’t prepared for what came out of this woman’s mouth in response.

"Well, I guess we’re just concentrating on AMERICA right now!!!"

It took a second or two for me to figure out what she meant: Then I just laughed and said I didn’t know that applied to beer and reminded her it was an Australian themed joint. Soon our table was ready and the tale was repeated for everyone who missed the encounter and all laughed.

But it was one of those situations where the more I thought about it, the more great comebacks I had.....

"I know, I was really hoping they’d have some good Afghani Beer, like Taliban Lite"
"Is that why you’re working on developing that big fat ass you got going there?"
"Better call the FBI!"

But what I really wish I would’ve said is something along the lines of "Look, I LIVE in New York City, don’t fucking talk to ME about your notion of symbolic PATRIOTISM!"

I think I held back on that one for two reasons. First of all, I technically DON’T live in New York City. I’m in Hoboken, and explaining the "Sixth Borough" concept to people is hard enough HERE (and I don’t even fully buy it myself). And secondly, I’m wary of saying anything that paints myself as more of a victim of September 11th than any other American.

But that small town mentality... it’s enough to drive you to drink. Anything but Coors.