Pint Size Me

By Dick Cantwell

Keeping in mind the periodic approval by the Surgeon General of the United States that a daily moderate amount of beer, wine or spirits can lessen the risk of heart attack and other potentially stress-related maladies, I decided to run a personal experiment. Considering as well that even more of the population of Europe would have perished than did during the medieval glory days of the Bubonic Plague had there been no drink of pathogenic moderation (i.e. beer, as opposed to water) to see them through thirsty times (and remembering microcosmic triumphs of personal survival on my own travels to Latin America and Southeast Asia), I decided to limit my experiment to the consumption of beer. For one month I would ingest nothing but beer. Given that I’m a brewer and have many friends who are brewers in a beer-rich region, it would almost certainly be good beer (but it wouldn’t have to be); I would attempt to make nutritional decisions based on mealtime appropriateness related both to style and adjunct; and I would continue my exercise regimen of a mile swim as close to daily as I could manage (and speaking of managing, could I fill my poolside Nalgene with beer and get away with it?).

Naturally, and in the interest of risk reduction and objectivity I would have to set up a monitoring structure. I see my kids and a few trusted bartenders nearly daily; they’re used to seeing me with beer and wouldn’t be likely to judge me, and none of them is particularly shy about expressing their opinions. I would weigh myself daily and give myself a characteristically critical once-over from time to time throughout each day. Was there anyone else I should consider as an objective observer--my mom, or maybe a doctor? I didn’t think so.

The following excerpts from my diary--reasonably well-kept, considering—are taken indeterminately periodically and are selected on the strength of style more than substance. What am I, a scientist? I still need my friends to explain to me how electricity works.

Day 1—I Pop the Top on the Whole Thing
7:00 a.m.--In a celebratory mood, I begin the day (and my experiment) with a Belgian ale of lively effervescence and a sugary and satisfying mouthfeel—the Sugar Pops of beer, with which I have accompanied more than one 7:20 a.m. arrival to Amsterdam. I drop the kids at school and head in to work. I don’t even miss coffee.
10:30 a.m.—While the other guys in the brewery smoke cigarettes and discuss the Sonics, I feel somewhat superior—downright Continental--with a tall pilsner. What a beautiful beverage beer is!
1:00 p.m.—Back from the pool (forgot my Nalgene, and my goggles!), I head down to Big Time, where I am borrowing some malt from Bill, and enjoy a revitalizing porter—so glad I added rye to the recipe back when I worked here, and that they continue to use it. So glad in general.
4:30 p.m.—Following a late specialty malt delivery I find I am slumping a bit—all those 55 lb. sacks up the ladder. I answer with an ESB, well-balanced and hoppy. If I am to continue working this physically, I must resolve to drink heavier beers earlier.
7:00 p.m.—Home on the couch now, trying to make sense of the newspaper. Bed not far off. Had a couple of Loki lagers—sustaining but not heavy—before the maddening irrelevance of food smell drove me away. Jason and Lucas—two of my bartending control group—offer me thumbs up as I climb aboard my cab. I forget my house keys and have to catch another cab back. Thank God for cell phones.

Day 9—I’m Doing Just Fine, Thanks
8:30 a.m.—It’s been wheat beer mornings for me these past few days. I find my sleep has been somewhat thinner (but no less satisfying). I have dropped eight pounds in as many days. My hair looks great.
12:00 noon—Napped on some malt sacks mid-morning and missed the break, so a Valkyrie strong ale to round it all out. Why are all these people eating food? They don’t need it the way they think they do, not as much, not every day. A bit slow at the pool, flip turns a bit challenging. Still, I find myself a bit more loquacious with my lane mates, and the lifeguard.
5:30 p.m.—With the necessary imposition of moderation I end my day’s intake with a dry-hopped IPA (there are sure to be vitamins in all that green). Was it my imagination or was that cute bartender being extra-attentive earlier when I was tasting through the beers? Certain that her hand touched mine more than necessary.
9:00 p.m.—Had one last beer to truly send me off—oatmeal stout. Who can blame me?

Day 22—Bottoms Up!
9:00 a.m.—Following a couple of resolutions involving strong beer early (a sort of de-crescendo idea resulting in theoretical late-day clarity and serenity), and no driving, I start my day with a five-year-old Rochefort 10 while I wait for my ride. Or is it a 10-year-old Rochefort 5? I crack myself up.
10:30 a.m.—A Westmalle Tripel to keep me moving and bright. Still, everyone else seems to be buzzing past me at high speed, like that old Star Trek episode the name of which I might be able to remember if I hadn’t had any beer to drink.
12:00 noon—A theme is developing here, so I go ahead and have a Chimay red—the Trappist beer of moderation, bready and sustaining.
4:00 p.m.—Orval is so gorgeous in the afternoon, with a bit of rare Seattle sunlight shining through, not unlike that café down the road from the brewery. I find these things easier to imagine and recreate these days.
5:00 p.m.—The bartenders are talking among themselves, but I decide not to take it personally. They serve me a Westvleteren , at any rate.
7:00 p.m.—Well, what’s left? The Aachel holiday ale—pretty good for an upstart trappist, but I’ll remember its name once it’s been around for a couple of decades. Where will I be then? This thought sobers me, figuratively.

Day 30—What’s So Funny About Peace, Love and Understanding?
8:00 a.m.—Got my girlfriend to drop the kids off and take me back to the shoe repair to punch another hole in my belt. I am the Incredible Shrinking Man! She is the bartender of some entries previous! Everything to me seems an exclamation these days! She makes sure I take lemon in my morning wheat beer—Bavarian-style anti-scurvy remedy.
12:00 noon—A no-nonsense industrial lager while I ponder it all. Not sure what I come up with, but I am on the verge of accomplishing what many may have done before but no one has bothered to write down in non-fiction form. Much literature, of course, has been born thus.
5:00 p.m.—Napping has been my salvation. What better way to pass the time as I come down to it? I sip idly at whatever.
9:00 p.m.—I drift, I wander, I ponder. I feel beatific, shamanic. Sentences seem too complete; snatches of overheard barroom conversation more apt to my consciousness. Does my staff fear me?

Conclusions
There’s little doubt that the experiment has been a success. I have experienced spans of lucidity and lost close to fifteen pounds. The kids and the bartenders at times seemed wary, but I tried always to maintain my perspective and not presume on anyone’s indulgence. Still, this is not something one not as seasoned as myself should probably attempt. Thank God for the astonishing range of styles we have available in this area and in this country—in the world for that matter. This experiment would not have been so interesting thirty years ago. It boggles the mind how beneficial adding a little food to the quotient might be. Are the policymakers listening?