I MAY BE SWEET, BUT I DO LOVE SOUR

 The Summer of 2020 will probably go down as one of the worst best, or best worst, summers of all time. While I am unable to do my usual excursions, I have been doing a crap-load of reading (30 books since April) and writing (blogs, work-related, and some manuscripts) and socially-distant mini-gatherings with friends and relatives.

I have also been taking random day trips. Some of these trips have specific destinations in mind (freshest seafood in Boston, seeing the grand-nieces, kayaking somewhere new). Some have zero destinations, and turn into themed excursions. Some of these trips are quick and restful, some are long and recharging, but all are fun and exhausting because my brain gets to stop its constant wheel-turning about COVID-19.

After a wonderfully roundabout day that includes everything from grist mills to candy stores to visiting my first-ever neighborhood to a famous Cambridge cemetery, we settle into gazing over the Mystic River. Of course, my mind goes to the “How many bodies have been floating in the Mystic and how many more are anchored to never surface?” (These are the things we consider around here between the Mystic and the Neponset Rivers and the crime era of the 70’s.) Finally, we decide that if we don’t go to dinner, we are going to doze off because our adventures are, more than anything else, mentally relaxing.

We get to the restaurant/bar, and I debate between two beers I’ve never tried: one citrus, one sour. When the waiter arrives, I order the sour. From behind the taps about ten feet away I hear someone suck in a huge breathe and yell, “Ohhhhhhh, sweetie, you’re gonna wanna try that one first.” He shakes his head.

Listen, I grew up on sour gum: sour orange, sour strawberry, and sour apple. I used to drink Canada Dry bitter lemon straight from the bottle. I’ve had lemon-eating contests with friends. I used to drink whiskey sours (before whiskey and I had a falling out).

I know what I’m doing.

But, I allow the bartender to bring me a sample. He plunks it down on the bar, his huge, military tatted arms pushing it across to me. His face has a tight-lipped grin off to one side and his eyebrows are raised in a “here goes another sucker” expression.

Before I even try it, I know this: The beer comes in smaller size, and it’s listed as “tart.” I inhale before I try. Not going to lie, even the scent has a bite to it. I try it. It’s sour, all right, but what I don’t expect is the kick at the end. Maybe the bartender is right. I try some more, then the last of it. Huh. It’s not half bad. As a matter of fact, I’m kind of into it. I don’t think I could down a six-pack of it, but it’s more of a sour cocktail than a beer.

The bartender comes back. “Whaddaya think?” He is totally expecting me to change my order to a Michelob Ultra. I can see it in his face.

“I’m man enough for it. Let’s do this.”

There’s nothing better, nothing at all, than topping a sweet day with something refreshingly sour. Plus, it complements the Kentucky BBQ wings and German pretzel that we order. My drink definitely cost more than my friend’s, so I owe her the next time we go out. If there’s anyone out there who either wants more hair on his chest or more kick in her step, order the Petrus Passionfruit Ale.

Of course, it goes a lot better with a random mystery tour day finished with a world-class view from atop a hill where a bunch of famous dead people are buried, but that’s totally a story for another day.