The brewmaster poured beer from a steel pitcher into a tulip glass, swirling it to release fresh aromas of malt, figs, and toast. He cheerily explained the complexity of the beer, the process in which he had brewed it, and the food pairings that would best accompany each sip. He handed glasses to several attendees, to a few waiters, to the coworkers who were with me and, finally, he offered a delicate glass of fresh amber beer to me. I gave it a long stare as light danced across the surface.
“No thank you,” I said. “I’m fine with water.”
Sadly and heartbreakingly, the team outing that had brought me to the brewery opening at Bon Marche — a restaurant in San Francisco’s financial district — was scheduled during a period in which I’d sworn off drinking.
“You’re really not going to drink?” a coworker, Mark, asked for the second time, eyeing the ice water in my hand as he finished his first beer.
I explained myself, again, as the brewmaster generously refilled Mark’s glass. He swished the beer in his glass, inhaled deeply, and drank.
“Tastes like beer,” he said.
The first beer of the night was called L’Ouvrier, an amber, French-style farmhouse ale often referenced as Biere de Garde. This robust and refreshing beer is popular among farmhands on grain fields in the North of France. It’s capped with a smooth, dry finish and brewed with French Barley, wheat, and strisselspalt hops.
But, of course, I wasn’t drinking it.
“It tastes sour,” said Mark. “It’s a little more carbonated than I’m used to, and the bubbles feel tiny.” He gargled a small sip and swallowed.
I wheeled away from Mark, asking the others what they thought of L’Ouvrier. Aaron enjoyed the dark color, the aroma, the “mouthfeel.” He said that the beer was fruit forward, that it lingered on the tongue, that the aftertaste was pleasant and bitter. He had been drinking before the outing and, as far as I could tell, was already drunk. James commented on the tastiness of the beer, that it was light, that it was the kind of beer you could drink all day.
Mark asked me again why I wasn’t drinking. I imagined what he’d look like with a broken nose.
“It’s earthy and dry. There’s a lot of caramel flavor in it,” said Steven, my boss.
I explained that the caramel flavor comes from the excessive malt used in brewing. The malt-to-hop ratio is what gives most beers their distinctive flavor somewhere between sweet and bitter, so more malt means a beer will brew with a sweet, caramel taste.
“So… you’re saying you really like beer?”
I love beer. Especially French beer. “Beer compliments food better than wine,” I said. I drank my ice water and shivered.
Bon Marche had prepared a selection of foods specifically to compliment L’Ouvrier, including veal sweetbreads, foie gras, and mushroom beignets. While I had taken a week-long break from drinking, I had not taken a break from gluttony. The sweetbreads were fine and delicate, the foie gras was hearty and savory, but the beignets—my god, the beignets—were singularly delicious.
The hostess brought out a fresh plate and I accepted it happily.
“Those are for everyone,” she said.
“It’s okay, I’m not drinking.”
The brewmaster presented the next beer, a light pilsner brewed with barley malt and aramis hops. He called it Sur Lie. Originally a Czech style of beer, this pilsner became the most brewed beer in France. Bon Marche’s version is unfiltered, an homage to the rustic countryside. The brewmaster filled my coworker’s glasses as I looked on, eating beignets by the fistful.
I asked Mark what he thought of Sur Lie. He took a drink and stared into the middle distance with a furrowed brow. “I think I got the wrong beer.” He took another sip. “Yep, this is the first beer.” He swayed a bit, his equilibrium slightly off, and chugged the rest of his glass. “It tastes like beer.”
Steven said the Sur Lie was funky and malty. James said it was crisp and clean. Aaron described it as bready and refreshing. “It’s clean and light. It would go great with a brie.” He plugged his nose and took a sip and then exhaled long and slow. “That’s how you’re supposed to drink fine beer,” he said with a wink. “That’s how the pros do it.”
The five of us stood and talked about work, food, and beer. I helped myself to large portions of food: chicken grand-mere, croque monsieur, jambon de bayonne and, of course, an obscene serving size of beignets. It’s rare that I’m surrounded by people drinking without drinking myself. It was interesting to watch everyone hit that special mark between buzzed and drunk — when muscles relax, eyelids grow heavy, and laughter comes easily. I washed my food down with a gulp of ice water, fantasizing about the complimentary taste that beer would have provided.
Despite a lack of drinking I found myself having fun, making jokes with my coworkers, taking notes, and drinking lots of water. Aaron swirled his glass beneath his nose, a light layer of foam clinging to his thin ginger mustache. “By the way,” he said. “If you write about this, make sure to comment on my bitchin’ mustache.”
The brewmaster soon guided us through the tight corridors of Bon Marche’s kitchen and into the small but impressive brewery, tucked away behind the restaurant’s bar. He explained the process in full, which silos were responsible for brewing the beer and which ones aged it. He pointed to the large silos across the way that housed the beer for its final process, and then to the smaller, more compact silos that were used to bottle the beer for later drinking.
The room was warm and damp and smelled strongly of beer. I wanted to rip open the third silo’s door, stick my head in, and drown.
“And now for a special treat,” said the brewmaster. He walked to one of the last silos and placed a bucket underneath it, opening a small spigot that sprayed a piss-tight stream of beer. “I haven’t named this one yet, but it’s a wheat beer. Please, everyone, you’re welcome to try it.”
David Pemberton
My coworkers crowded around the open spigot and took turns filling their glasses. Steve said it was very fruity. James said it tasted of citrus. Aaron said it was flat on the tongue, like iced tea if iced tea were beer.
“Isn’t this your favorite kind of beer?” Mark asked, swirling his glass under my nose. He smiled and took several sips. “As I suspected,” he said, “it tastes like beer.”
I laughed. “You’re taking the piss out of me, aren’t you?” Mark smiled and finished his drink.
Of the three beers presented to us, the L’Ouvrier, the Sur Lie, and this unnamed summer brew, this was the most difficult to resist. A favorite beer of mine is a grapefruit radler. It’s almost not a beer, really, more of a hard soda.
“Radler!” James said. “Yeah, this tastes like a radler.” Aaron filled his glass again and handed it to me. I lifted it to my nose and smelled fresh grapefruit and thyme. I wanted very badly to take a drink.
We shuffled out of the brewery room and returned to the serving area. Pitchers of beer and plates of food covered the counter space before us. My coworkers drank a few more beers and I drank a few more glasses of water. The setting was cozy and flooded with dim lighting — a romantic landscape for enjoying a drink. The hostess made sure that we were all having a good time and I made a detailed list of all the beers I was going to come back and imbibe.
We left the restaurant. My coworkers stumbled in front of me, and we walked across the street to a small beer cafe. They ordered beer: red ales and IPAs and porters, and we laughed and carried on and eventually being sober didn’t seem so bad. With every new round of drinks my coworkers ragged on me for not drinking and pressured me to get drunk with them. The night of beer tasting had loosened them up and it was refreshing to spend time with them out of the office, away from work and responsibility.
My coworkers raised their glasses over the table. “Cheers, everyone!” said Mark. “Everyone except for David.”
Sitting in that small cafe, I realized just how much I love beer. Our evening had centered around it but our time together was greater than the sum of our drinks. We were social, we were intimate, we were blurring the lines between coworker and friend. The beignets I had eaten, the conversations I’d had, even the warm aesthetic of Bon Marche — they would have all been better with a fine glass of beer. Maybe I wouldn’t have fully realized that if I had been drinking.
There’s nothing wrong with drinking your cares away or stepping over the threshold of “buzzed” and diving head first into “over-imbibed” from time to time — but being “drunk” isn’t what makes beer so special. It’s the craftsmanship, the culture, and the company it creates.
Beer isn’t just complementary to food, it’s complementary to life.
