There was a time when I hated stout.
Stout, to me at least, was an old man’s drink. I often imagined that if one day, I should lose all my teeth, and possibly motor functions, I would start drinking it. But not a second before.
In other words, it was quite close to something that would qualify as “over my dead body”.
It would be a short story if I didn’t change my mind, but, spoiler alert, I did.
What had stout done to me that caused me to loathe it so?
Was it the ads full of scantily clad women, one strong gust away from a R21 rating? Frankly, that sounds like it would have the reverse effect to younger me. Beer might be cold, but blood runs hot when you’re that young and foolish.
Was it the oh-so-often heard excuse of “I don’t like alcohol”? That’s obvious nonsense. Anyone who reads this blog knows I have quite the opposite problem.
No, the real reason for my irrational fear of the other black gold was the same one that causes many young men to do foolish things. Things like make grandiose (in hindsight) declarations of love or visit some far-flung hell hole on the other side of the Earth.
My friends said so.
Now, these guys were no beer experts, but at that point, I figured that people who regularly clocked ten pints a week knew a little bit about their poison of choice, at least.
Their expert opinion was that stout was for old folks, Irishmen and leprechauns (all three of which, being non-exclusive, would make for a perfect mascot).
The flavour, they claimed, reminded them of a coffee-chicken-essence-expired-chocolate cocktail. (They didn’t use the word cocktail. Here’s a hint, it started with “s”.) One brilliant chap even claimed that it gave him bowel emergencies.
The black colour, they said, never having heard of espresso, was proof of the awful taste. Had anyone ever drank something black and not spat it out (or grit their teeth and gulp it down)?
Case closed. I decided, not having had a drop myself, that stout was not for me.
Sure, it sounds silly now, but back then it made an awful lot of sense. Much like movie reviews, once warned, people tend to stay away from the bad ones. It just happened that I was listening to some really bad critics. A lesson for us all.
Fast forward a decade or so, and I was beginning to change my no-travel stance. I was, again, influenced by my friends in this, proving that while friends can be different, some things never change.
Being something of a landlubber at that point, my appetite for leaping onto a plane, flying three thousand bum- wracking miles. and dragging my meagre belongings up cobbled streets was low, to say the least. Unsurprisingly, I spent most of the planning time going back and forth, hesitating or questioning my life. When work commitments threatened to derail the whole trip, I was quite prepared to pangseh my friends, cancel my trip, and feel only a little sorry for myself.
Knowing the unending chorus of grumbling and more likely, yelling, that would follow such a dastardly act, I decided to pack my bags, wake up early, and get my arse on the plane.
Thankfully, that decision proved to be a good one.
Well, mostly. We had a packed itinerary, so we were off to London (not a fan), most of Scotland (loved it) and finally, Dublin.
Contrary to what the Internet might have you believe, Ireland is not at all full of leprechauns, four leafed clovers and shillelagh-wielding young men. On the contrary, I found both the city and its denizens charming and hospitable. Irish people were friendly, chatty, and almost tripping over themselves to be helpful.
Dublin itself is a pretty city, not as urbanised as London, New York, or Paris, but compact, and with enough of the trappings of modernity that I didn’t feel like I was marooned on some Hibernian island. The pubs are lively affairs, with live bands plying the stage on most nights. They sing some catchy tunes, though since we don’t speak Gaelic, we had to make some of the words up in our head. They were all beautiful lyrics, never fear.
Now, we knew at that point that the Irish love their Guinness, but if it wasn’t plain enough, every pub had it on tap, every bloke in it had one in their hand, and most of the women too.
Older me began to wonder if younger me made a colossal mistake. Perhaps Guinness didn’t taste like a coffee-chicken-essence-expired-chocolate cocktail after all.
Well, probably. The very first result when you google “Things to do in Dublin” is not Trinity College (which stood in for the Hogwarts library), nor the medieval St Patrick’s Cathedral, but the Guinness Storehouse. If one is in Rome, do as the Romans do, and if one is in Dublin…
You can probably see where this is going. Or, at least, where I was going.
The Guinness Storehouse does indeed look like a giant storehouse filled with a world’s supply of beer. From where we were standing, its brobdingnagian proportions were a sight to behold.
I won’t bore you with recounting what goes on inside. Suffice to say, there was a tour, complete with exhibits of barley, hops, and water. Disneyland for stout.
It would be silly to have all that buildup without actually tasting any Guinness. And so, during the tour, I eyed the glass of inky- black beer in front of me with beady, suspicious eyes. Looking the beast in they eye, so to speak. When staring so intently into the depths of doom, one quickly notices that Guinness isn’t actually black, but a deep ruby red so rich that it swallows the very light around it.
After the intense staring contest, which I lost, I finally lifted the glass, took a deep breath, put the glass to my tremulous lips and…paused.
Until, that is, my friends looked at me as if I was quite the idiot. While they obviously did not understand the epic struggle going on in my head, they were clearly right.
I took my first sip of Guinness ever, and it was not quite what I was expecting. Considering what I was expecting was liquid tar, I consider myself rather fortunate.
The first thing that touched my lips was the white froth that rests atop the ruby liquid. Poured properly, it was fluffy and thick, not unlike a creamy meringue that tops a piece of French pastry. Its luxuriant texture gave the impression of silk on skin.
The beer proper was delicious. A delicate roasted aroma preceded an equally delicate flavour. It did taste of coffee, but that of a fine espresso. It did not have the toxic acridity of burnt toast, but the flavour of a muffin fresh from the oven. The beer was not sugary sweet, nor was it excessively bitter. It was rich, but did not bludgeon me over the head.
In short, nothing like what I was led to believe.
It might not seem like an epiphany, but remember that I was led to believe that stout was liquid from the devil’s backside.
Today, stout, and Guinness specifically, has become my favourite beer of all. I drink it whenever I feel the need for a pint.
Moral of the story?
Friends will sometimes set you off in the wrong direction, but they’ll eventually bring you back on the right path again. It’s not too late to try the stout for yourself.
Not satisfied? You can try Guinness for yourself. This March, you can get a 1-for-1 e-voucher that you can use at participating outlets. If you’re particularly sporting, there will be a St. Patrick’s Day Street Festival along Circular Road from 16 to 18 March. If you’re feeling lucky, you and a friend stand a chance to visit the Guinness Storehouse yourselves. Simply get a Guinness Draught 4-pack on Get.Guinness.com.
