Friday Night Pints

Big Al's Harvest Ale and a light cider

Finally, the work week ended. Rena and I attempted to race home to catch as much Porterhouse happy hour as possible. Of course everyone else on the road had similar designs. We got to the neighborhood with just 15 minutes to spare, which meant—bastards!—only one beer at the super $3 HH rate. Figures. It was par for the course for the  crappy week.

Porterhouse pub is easily the coolest place outside of the West Seattle Junction, and cooler than most places there, too. And that’s just for its fine, 28-tap beer selection. The cheap happy hour pints are gravy. The fantastic food and friendly staff? Gravier gravy. It’s no wonder the place has been packed every night we’ve visited.

First pint: Big Al’s Harvest Ale. Rena opts for a cider. Ahh. The weight of the last five stressful days begins to slip with the first taste. The Harvest isn’t as hoppy as I’d expected; it’s a little sweet for my taste. But who’s complaining?

The plan was to stick to beer and have dinner at home—the eggplant we’d picked up at Sunday’s farmers market wasn’t getting any fresher—but halfway through the Big Al’s offering, hunger prevailed and I ordered the House Fries. I cap them because they aren’t your average French fries. These are barely-crispy, tossed-in-parmesan-and-truffle-salt wonders. Served with curry ketchup. And of course I ask for a side of their cheddar ranch.

As we trade parting remarks for the week that was, Porterhouse fills up. With couples our age, families of six, and parents (our age) with their small children. “Our booth,” as we like to call it, is really a half-booth just inside the door at the front window, so we see everyone filing in. As I sip pint two, a wondrous, citrusy/bitter Lagunitas concoction, Little Sumpin Xtra, a baby girl perched on her father’s shoulder looks down at us with what seem like incredibly perceptive baby eyes. She stares and blinks at us; we stare and smile at her. Strangely enough, she’s wearing a knit eggplant cap, its little green stem sticking straight up from her crown.

“What if our kid didn’t like what we like?” Rena asks, apropos of our frequently chatted-about plans to get into a house and then get into a family way. It’s a great question, one our pregnant friends may contemplate often. “Wouldn’t that be strange?”

It would be. We wonder about that, in sweeping terms—movies, art, food, clothes, beer—for a couple of minutes, between meeting eyes with the eggplant-head baby. It’s about that time that we start to feel guilty for not ordering dinner. We’re odd.

“Like music,” Rena says, looking to me from the baby retreating with her parents toward a table. “What if it liked that one guy?”

“Michael Buble?” I have no idea what the guy sings, but I do know I don’t like it.

It’s exactly who she meant. “Yes!” We get a good laugh out of that.

“And that other guy,” she adds.

“Josh Groban?”

It’s another match.

The mental serendipity, laughter, and now full-freedom feeling of Friday night eclipses our guilt. I order a Boundary Bay Double Dry-hopped IPA and we stick around a while longer.

Two Beers’ Inspirational IPA

The wife and I went to our favorite place in West Seattle today: Beveridge Place Pub. We’re there once a week, usually. It’s a take-out and dog-friendly place with 25 local-leaning taps and a very low hipster quotient. Can’t say enough about BPP, really, but that’s enough for now.

We ordered beers—they now know me by name and know Rena’s beer, Whistling Pig with a lemon—grabbed the latest Stranger and took up at a window table. Five minutes later, we realized how out of touch we’d grown with Seattle’s articultural goings-on.

Alien and Aliens are playing at SIFF Cinema? Holy crap!

A Magnolia BBQ-ish place named Fightin’ Cock Roaster? Let’s go.

The better of the two sushi joints at the Junction, Mashiko, now serves “sustainable” sushi? Whoopy-freaking-doo. (Sustainability seems a fad to me, even amongst microbrewers. Call me a cynic.)

As I enjoyed a bright and bitter Fresh Hop IPA from local outfit Two Beers Brewing, Rena nursed her unfiltered wheat and we pointed out all the things we should put on our calendar (assuming we had the necessary time, money, and motivation). We then got to talking about my wife’s web obsessions—interests that have waxed and waned along with our life: before we were wed, wedding sites and blogs; now that we’re seemingly futilely looking to buy a home, redfin.com and assorted mortgage and real estate sites. She predicts hgtv.com will be next, if and when we become homeowners.

Before I’ve drained my glass, I start to contemplate what beer I’ll have next. The Fresh Hop was great, but I rarely follow my first brew with another of the same. (I know what I like, but I also like to mix it up.) With only an inch of the Two Beers brew remaining, I ask Rena if she’ll have a second beer with me. Her glass is half-empty. As usual, she chides me for getting a second beer. It’s a joke that always brings smiles to our faces, but I know she’s more than half-serious; she’s more keen on saving money and brain cells than I. She shakes her head; one beer will do. As I stand to head back up to the bar, I say, “Maybe I should write about having two pints all the time. Write about the beer and the conversation. The excuse for the beer.” We both laugh dismissively.

I come back to our table with the old standard: Boundary Bay IPA. It’s consistently fantastic—a bitter beer that doesn’t leave your mouth dry. When I sit, Rena says, “Let’s brainstorm about your “two pints” idea. I think it’s great!”

As we hash out what I might write about, I think about the proprietor of my first beer of the evening. Two Beers Brewing. It worked for them. Two pints is my pub standard. It could work for me. But would anybody really care about what I had to say about drinking and talking?

“It’s a blog,” Rena says with a shrug. Which means, Probably not, but people do it. I agree.

I pull out my pocket notebook and pen and jot down some of the ideas we’ve discussed. I’m not convinced any of them would make for a compelling blog, but the exercise seems worthwhile.

By the time we decide to head home for dinner—and I decide I’ll try putting some of my chicken-scratch online—I’ve finished a third pint.

Another Fresh Hop.