Well, on a recent trip to Annapolis, Maryland—where mine goodly wife and I attended a very special wedding and had an overall incredible time—all I had to do was ask for it. For my money, IMHO, Moretti La Birra Rossa is the best double-bock on the planet—if double-bock is what you are into, which I am, so it makes perfect sense.
Anyhow, the inn we stayed at—right across from the Maryland State House and, oddly enough, called the State House Inn (what are the odds of that?)—has a lovely Italian restaurant attached to it—literally—with a LOT of friendly people working there. Plus, given the contiguous nature of stuff, they even bring it to your room, served up on fine china, with real cloth napkins, at a 10% discount, because you're staying in the inn. My old man, the cheapskate, would have loved this place!
Anyhow, I splurge the first night and tell the missus to order whatever she wants off the menu, no matter the price—which, I figured, couldn't be TOO bad, if freaking rack of lamb is only thirty bucks—and we have a wonderful time eating, and then—none of your business. The only problem is: it's too much of a good thing. Which means a sumptuous morning knosh the next day, already bought and paid for. Sweet!
So, the next night, we buy the best appetizer on the menu and some seafood fettucine, and we're set! Except for another Moretti. Well, the bill comes to forty-four bucks, and I am feeling so much love that I decide to SHARE the love, American style of course, and flip out a twenty for the tip. Mister Big Shot! For twenty lousy bucks! Well, the manager, Jose, who is a real hep cat, says, “Too much, man!” And I say, “Thank you for noticing,” only he is not saying what I think he is saying. And, to prove it, he pulls ANOTHER TWO Morettis out of the cooler and INSISTS that I take them, ON THE HOUSE. So, what do I do? What do you think? I take them, even though—at 7.2% ABV—three of these babies is like five regular beers, which is just about enough to get me in trouble.
So, forget the gift horse stuff: the one thing I DO NOT look in the mouth is free beer, no matter what, because that's the kinda guy I am. So, with and after dinner, I have two, leave one in the fridge for the next lucky patron—who will consider him or herself fortunate if they just happen to like THIS PARTICULAR kind of beer (God will provide, I figure, and I hope he provides an opener, because the good stuff does NOT have a twist-off cap). And, what happens next when I am feeling frisky, is also TMI. If you catch my drift…
Anyhow…I wish I could make it to TypeCon THIS year but, life being what it is, I have come up with far too many reasons not to the the right thing for a change, and I NEED to take a trip to Dallas in August (oh, the inexpressible joy!) to see my 85-year-old mom before she croaks—which all parties concerned hope is not soon, but you never know, do you?
Speaking of the dearly departed, my cheapskate dad just LOVED Schlitz and, from time to time, I buy a sixer of the stuff—which, for its class (which is low) is pretty decent stuff. Trouble is, you can't always find it where I live—although, since it is THE beer which made Milwaukee famous—I think I know where I CAN go to toast the old man. Except I can't, because of the old lady.
So, fellow travelers, while you're at the Con (and, believe you me, the name alone and its possibilities really intrigue me), if you have a chance—and a strong constitution—hoist a Schlitz and toast my Pop. His name is Jim, but “L’chaim!” will do just fine.
And, if you can't pronounce either, do that dippy Brit thing and say “Cheers!”