It’s that time of year again: August 6th, National IPA Day is on us. This time last year, I lived in Austin, Texas, and unaware of this new American celebration, I ventured into a pub.
As I sidled up to the bar, a bearded bartender in his twenties approached. “Want to try a beer flight?”
“A beer flight?”
“Yeah, a selection of IPAs.”
Beer flight? Is that what people called it now? When I was younger, we called it Friday night. I knew what a beer flight was. I piloted a 747 every weekend.
“It’s National IPA Day,” he said, as if I needed an explanation.
What? A day to celebrate beer? How had I not heard of it? I thought back to a few of my own alcohol-themed holidays from the past. Let’s see, there were Martini Mondays and Whiskey Wednesdays. Gin-uary could have gone far. Ale-pril was an idea before it’s time. Tequila Tuesday was a dream that died hard. Sake Saturday never took off. Then there were my personal favorites: Stout-tember, Stout-tober, Stout – no, never mind.
How had National IPA Day snuck by me? Could I take the day off from work? Something told me my employers were not going to celebrate my getting shellacked in the local watering hole.
“So do you want one or not?” he asked.
“Sure, sounds good.” It was beer. How could I refuse?
He dropped a stubby pencil and what looked like a scorecard in front of me. Was a round of miniature golf part of the celebration? “Write your ratings down there,” he said and walked away before I could respond.
My ratings? Wait a second. I couldn’t drink my beers in peace? I had to judge them too? I didn’t walk into this bar to be put on trial. This was too much pressure!
He fetched four short glasses and pulled down on a tap handle. The bitter ale flowed downward. I was starting to panic. What should I do? I looked towards the exit. I wanted to sprint for it, but my legs wouldn’t obey.
The bartender returned carrying a rack of four innocent beers. “Here you go,” he said.
“Thanks.”
I admired their frothy heads with affection, their bubbly insouciance. They’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t their fault society wanted to judge them. I felt sorry for them. If I couldn’t have compassion on a poor flight of IPAs, who would? After all, what kind of man was I?
A wellspring of patriotic pride surged within me. I heard the strains of “America the Beautiful” play in my head. This was National IPA Day. It required a sacrificed for the public good. I raised the first glass high in the air. “To America!”
This was my Casablanca “Marseillaise” moment. The entire bar raised their glasses and shouted, “America!” and drank with me, together, in solidarity.
So here’s to National IPA Day and all that it means, to all the men and women who sacrifice their livers in bars throughout this great land, and to all the bartenders and alcoholics who join me in wanting to celebrate our nation’s beer-swilling achievements, I salute you all.
What about you? What sacrifices are you willing to make for National IPA Day?
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