Stout Snob, or Searching for the Perfect Pint

I went to dinner at Angelo & Maxie's last Tuesday night with a co-worker and a vendor -- totally spur of the moment. I ran into my coworker as we were both leaving the office and he invited me along. Figuring I'd go for a drink at A&M, hop back on the L train and be home in time for Rachel Maddow, I tagged along.

We met the Vendor at the bar, and I ordered a Guinness, my new favorite (fewer calories in a pint of Guinness than a pint of Stella, no hangover, plus it just tastes yummy). My co-worker ordered a Bass.

Fifteen seconds later the bartender placed both pints in front of us simultaneously.

Now, anyone who drinks Guinness knows that a perfect pint takes time -- a good bartender will create a pint of Guinness in two pours, pulling half and turning off the tap to let the stout settle while he quickly pours and serves other beers. The good bartender will then return to the settling Guinness and top it off. Properly poured, a pint of Guinness will reach you about 3 to 5 minutes after you’ve ordered it, and well after your fellow drinkers have already enjoyed their first sips. Properly finished, the perfect Guinness pint will have a gorgeous creamy head about 3/4” deep. It will look like this (shamrock in the foam optional; I don't need the frippery):



What landed in front of me moments after I ordered it was just pathetic – it was in the wrong glass (a straight-sided pint glass instead of tulip-shaped), and floating on top of it was a sad layer of white scum. It looked like he scooped it out of the Hudson River.

I eyed it askance and looked at my companions. My eyebrows were near my hairline. I’m a generally no-fuss person, but in some cases, I know what I like, and in others, I know what is right. Having spent a great many nights in Irish pubs on the West Side (Lansdowne Road, Hibernia, and once upon a time, the late, great Scruffy Duffy’s), I knew this pint was just wrong.

“What is this?” I asked them. The bartender had already sped off.

“Wow,” said the Vendor, “Shouldn’t that have taken like five minutes?”

“Uh – yeah,” I replied. Then I decided to give the blameless pint the benefit of the doubt and I took a sip. Just as I expected, dead stout.

I know, I know, who sends back beer? Hate to tell you this folks, but Jane does. I am not paying (or in this case, having a Vendor pay) seven or eight dollars for a pint of flat and tasteless crap (and neither should you, frankly). I flagged down the bartender, and in my sweetest voice, said, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but the Guinness appears to be flat.”

The bartender eyeballed my pint with a shrug.

“Yeah, I thought it looked a little dead when I was pouring it. I think it may be the end of the keg.” He took my pint, dumped it, and I ordered (not without resentment, I admit), a Blue Moon. Blue Moon's a good beer, but when your mouth wants a Guinness, your mouth wants a Guinness, and any other beer will leave you dissatisfied. The perfectly serviceable Blue Moon that I ended up with may as well have been Iron City in a can.

You know, there are bartenders and there are great bartenders. A great bartender would not pour a Guinness in 10 seconds. A great bartender can have people standing 4-deep at his bar and still complete a successful double-pour on a perfect Guinness pint. A great bartender can look at the beer coming out of the tap and know when something’s up. A great bartender, one who is paying attention to his craft, wouldn’t even have bothered serving me that pint. This bartender may be perfectly pleasant (though just barely able to conceal his impatience while I pondered my Plan B, despite the fact that there was no crowd at the bar), but he is definitely not great.

The Pittsburgh Penguins are playing the Carolina Hurricanes (aka the late, great Hartford Whalers, this has been a big week for me to mourn late, great things) in the conference finals this week, looking for their second simultaneous Stanley Cup shot (I'm hoping for a Pens-Wings redemption match), and I fancy a few well-pulled Guinness pints while I watch with my friend Ed. So on Thursday night, you’ll find me at Lansdowne Road, sipping at a Guinness that’s done right.

I’ll be the one in the Crosby 87 t-shirt.