The Ballad of Liz and James - 7

I like beer. No, let me be honest, that’s probably an
understatement. I really really really like beer. At least that’s
what The Girlfriend would say. But I almost certainly don’t like
beer in the way you think I do Dear Reader. Everything you may have
heard or not heard about English beer and English beer drinkers is
true. I honestly do like my beer to be as flat as a pancake, or maybe
with one solitary bubble nestling against the side of the glass. I
also like to drink it at room temperature, you know, so I can
actually taste it. The first time I was given a koozie in Austin I
didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t even have a word for it.
Believe me, I’ll bet there’s not a dozen koozies in the whole of
the UK!

Consequently when I first started visiting the US in the early
nineties I was appalled by the ice-cold yellow tasteless excuse for
beer I was offered. But since I started visiting Austin last year
it’s clear that the beer scene in the US has undergone a dramatic
revolution, at least if Austin is anything to go by. I regularly go
in bars now where I’m offered a staggering selection of fifty to
sixty ales! And while they are still a little cold for my palate the
taste and quality are vastly improved. And the strength! I wish
someone had warned me. Back in Oxford I call myself a strong beer
drinker, but back in Oxford a strong beer is 5%. Here in Austin I see
6%, 7%, 8%! In one bar I just pointed at a random tap and asked the
barman for a pint. He refused and said I could only have a half-pint.
I asked him why?

“It’s 12%. It would be like drinking a pint of wine.”

Anyway, congratulations and well done to all involved.

While we’re on the subject of beer, a few months ago I went to try
out an “English Pub” on North Lamar. Now, it would be
inappropriate to bring politics into this column, though it is true
that the UK is well to the left of the US, even though Austin and
Oxford are very similar in their liberal outlooks. Nevertheless, I do
describe myself as a Socialist though I hesitate to mention that over
here as I’m unsure of the reception I’ll get. And I hate being
called “Sir” all the time. So I go in the English Pub and there’s
a lovely waiter but all I get for the first fifteen minutes is “Sir
this” and “Sir that” and “Sir everything else Sir”.
Eventually I could stand it no longer.

“Freddie, will you please stop calling me Sir! I’m a Socialist!”

I really was apprehensive of Freddie’s response. But I shouldn’t
have been. His face lit up and he held out his hand.

“Good to meet you comrade!”

Since that moment he’s only ever called me James and I’ve only ever
called him Freddie. Every time I go back, even after weeks, he always
remembers my name and greets
me warmly with a firm handshake.
Blimey, we might even be friends.

James