I Knew What I Meant. Really.

Many years ago, my indoctrination to beer was on Coors, Heineken -- decent enough -- and Mickey's...that's what we had in the house, and I was allowed a sip or two.  Later it was Henry Weindards, and, whilst in the Air Force, it was Whatever Else Someone Was Buying and/or Was Cheap.  Translation = Miller Lite.

I have, of course, since widened my taste and selection.  I am from Portland, after all.  They say you know you're in Seattle because it's bookstore, coffee shop, bookstore, coffee shop; you know you're in Portland because it's bookstore, coffee shop, micro-/craft brewery...bookstore, coffee shop, micro-/craft brewery....

 (Side story here -- I have two friends from Minnesota who moved out here to Oregon and say those above -- Bud, Miller, Coors -- is all you can really get in wide distribution; but, now, after having lived in Portland for so many years and drinking "real" beer, they now say they "can't drink that other stuff" anymore!)

But I digress.

So, roll back maybe 15 years ago.  My family -- my mother, my brother and me (my parents were divorced by then) -- it's possible my best friend was there, too -- were in a McMenamins restaurant. 

(Now, remember, I was a neophyte to this whole beer-type thing, and I was most definitely over 21 by then, though by only two or three years).  I had the menu, and, on the back, they had their beers/beer types printed.  Given acronyms often have pronunciations (NASA, UNICEF, SYSCO...), I piped up to the server, "What's an 'eepah'?  I've always wanted to know."

He blinked at me, note pad and pen paused in his hands.  "A what?"

"An eepah," I replied.  "You have stout, red and eepah.  I understand what a stout is -- but what's an eepah?"

He burst into laughter.  "It's 'eye pee aye'," he said, when he finally managed to collect his wits back about himself.  "It stands for 'India Pale Ale'."

I felt everything grow still in me as my body threw its entire effort of existence into making every nodule of my skin turn dark red; I could even feel my scalp get tight.  "Oh," I said, grinning -- but somewhere between rather embarrassed and mortified.  "Ha ha."  (I'd noticed the periods between the letters, but it still didn't click).  "I'd like to try that, please."

He took our order and walked away, still laughing, muttering, "Eepah -- !" as he walked away.  As he went back to the kitchen area, I heard him say to his friends, "Oh -- you gotta hear this." (Somewhere, he's probably still telling that story.)

Fast forward several years, to another McMenamis here in Portland.  Picture it -- a beautiful sunny summer day, a lovely vine-sheltered patio, good friends, good ambiance, good humor, good spirits, good food, good beer.  "I really like dark beers," I said to my friend.  "The darker the better." (Not so much now; I'm more of an 'eepah' kind of gal, though reds and dark ales are swell, too).  A server walked by with a tray of drinks.  "Like that one," I said, pointing to a pint glass filled with a dark brown substance and topped with a creamy frothy head.  "What is that?" I asked.

The server (another guy, actually), having heard my comment, blinked, and said, "It's our root beer."

Reinfusing with the same blush as described above I said, "Oh, haha.  I knew that.  I was just testing you...."

"Right," he said, laughing.

(My brother and father and best friend, as the good enemies that they are, have never let me live either of those things down, given I made the mistake of telling them about the root beer, and having them present with the 'eepah' fiasco).

I'm proud to say I'm far better-schooled now (thankfully).

At least I didn't ask what the "ab-vee" content was.