Tasting greatness
by Jon Worley

Until yesterday, I counted three beers above all others. Bell's Amber Ale, Sierra Nevada Porter and McEwan's Scotch Ale all knocked me out on the first sip, and my appreciation has never wavered. I've sampled (well, drunk) more than a thousand beers in my time as a legal (and underage) drinker, and I make my own, but I count those three beers as supreme above all others.

Until yesterday.

Barbara and I threw a party for one of her editors, a guy who is moving to Charlotte (a nice step up the ol' newspaper ladder). I stocked the fridge with about a case of my homebrew, but when it comes to beer, too much is never enough and I scored a sampler case from Weyerbacher, a brewer in Easton, Pa. I added half of that to my already swollen fridge.

My main contribution to the party was charred flesh (chicken, burgers and ribs). Guests brought the sides. In the parlance of our circle here in not-quite-Amish Country, "sides" generally means "beer". For the 20 or so people, we ended up with a little more than 4 cases of brew. The party ran from a little before seven in the evening until after four in the morning. The last ice from the last empty cooler was ceremoniously dumped out about 3:30. Not quite an Ann Richards extravaganza, but pretty good for York.

In any case, about 8 p.m. I popped open a Weyerbacher Prime Porter. I thought the name a bit pretentious, but that notion faded after the beer hit my mouth. More carbonated than most porters, this beer skipped and jumped, pricking up the taste buds for the onslaught soon to follow. The complex and swarming taste which hit my brain microseconds later left me reeling. Malt upon malt (three or four is common, I would guess that this beer has between 10 and 15 different malts) cascading upon different spots of my tongue. A beer overload. My brain didn't know quite how to respond. My consciousness had a plan: I must share.

I first passed the glass to Barbara, who said, "That's, um, that's really good." The glass then went to Julie, another reporter from the paper (and more of a beer connoisseur than myself). She took an appropriately large gulp and exclaimed "Ooo!" This confirmed my suspicions. I wasn't insane. Indeed, I was in the presence of greatness. No one else got to sip from my glass.

Two more Prime Porters sat chilling in the fridge. Barbara scored one almost immediately, and the guest of honor rated the other. A few hours down the line, Julie asked if I had any more. I said I did, but it was warm (our fridge can only hold a couple cases of beer at a time). I said I would toss it into an ice-filled cooler outside, and then in half an hour she could claim a chilled, fine brew.

Nearly half an hour later, she rushed to the cooler a step ahead of another partyer who had heard the news of a fine brew. She graciously gave a sip and then retreated, conserving the rest for her demanding palate. I thought a sip was more than generous.

I've detailed the vagaries of Pennsylvania liquor laws, but I'll remind you that the only way to get decent beer at a reasonable price is to buy it by the case at the distributor. Six-pack stores charge more than 10 bucks for six of anything they consider to be "imported". "Native" beers hail solely from Golden, Colo., St. Louis and Milwaukee. Anyway, a case (four six-packs) of this fine brew can be had for 18 bucks or so at the distributor.

And so, with the notion of a run on Weyerbacher's Prime Porter appearing in each of our heads, the conversation in my sector of the party quickly turned to procurement.

"Can you sell beer on Sunday?"

"I think you can, but the distributors aren't open. Only six-pack stores."

"But I don't want a gallon jar of Busch, straight from the tap for only a buck ninety-nine."

"I know what you want. Mt. Rose [the local quality distributor] opens at nine Monday morning."

"I'm at work."

"Me too."

They were bummed. I was a bit happier. For one, I had seen at least four cases of the porter on the shelves. And I didn't have to be at work on Monday morning. Normally, I would be asleep.

But quality beer calls for radical moves. Hard work. Sacrifice, even.

When the sun is shining in the eastern sky, I'll be there, eighteen bucks in hand. And I will once again have greatness in my fridge.

Jon Worley peruses his brew in York, Pa.

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