There’s some things that drive me crazy.

People ending sentences with prepositions. My dog taking a shit on my nice white basement carpet. And loads of people ordering rum and Cokes or Mojitos at a bar that’s in the midst of a Belgian Beer Festival.

Such was the case at the Muddy Pig in St. Paul. Do these people not understand they’re in the presence of Beer Perfection? Or do they really think that their Jack and Coke with a lime can somehow compete with the likes of Furthermore Fatty Boombalatty? Or Popperings Hommel Bier? I don’t think so.

Aside from the local morons who clearly weren’t at the Muddy Pig to honor some of Belgium’s finest ales, it was a good night. And you know it was a good night when someone else drives you home, which was the case in my situation. I was even able to convince my driver to make a Run For the Border so I could get my fix of beef and potato burritos and hard shell tacos to sop up the Belgian goodness. Thanks hon.

So on to the beer…I can’t even begin to tell you what I had. It was like a fugue state of being…I nearly forgot who I was as my brain was catapulted into sensory overload of fantastic Belgian yeasts, hops and malt. It was an absolute epitome of what I wish my every weekend evening entailed. I can safely say I had nearly eveything on the Muddy Pig’s list of more than 40 Belgians on draught. The list included Saisons, Dubbels, Tripels, Quads, Abbeys, and Wits. And I can remember almost none of it, other than the vague sense that the comprehensive list of ales I imbibed made me feel very happy to be alive and in St. Paul at that very moment. It was one fantastic beer after another. My hats off to the individual who organized this celebration of high quality craft beers. And even greater thanks to the bartender who walked away from me as I attempted to offer him money for my round of beers. It just made my night that much sweeter.

The only downside to the evening was that every beer was served in 4 ounce sampler glasses. So instead of truly enjoying the nose of a nice Two Brothers Oh Brother! Triple, St. Bernardus Abt 12, or Ommegang Rare Vos, I was forced to take it from the equivalent of a baby’s sippy cup. What was this crap? I want to experience my beers for what they are truly worth, not tipple with training wheels. Maybe they were afraid folks like me would drink their imperial pints or chalices of 9% ABV beer too quickly. And well they should. Because instead of whining about the vessel these Belgians were presented in, my friends and I set forth to knock back as many as we possibly could in as little time as possible.

Even after enjoying a nice meal of mushroom gnocci with pine nuts to create that all-important base for alcohol consumption, I was feeling it after only a few. But I pressed on…for how could a collective 16 ounces of beer give me a buzz like that? It was the equivalent of ordering a sack of sliders from White Castle…they’re too small to fill me up, keep ’em coming!

As the evening came to an end, and friends slowly made their way out of the bar, I sat and pondered what a great night we’d all had. Because man this was good stuff. And what made it better was enjoying it with people that truly appreciated it for what it was…a fantastic menagerie of beers most of us wouldn’t see again the rest of our lives living here in the Twin Cities.

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