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I hope, and expect, with every beer I drink, that it’ll be the best beer I’ve ever tasted.
Every new bottle cap flicked off, every new pint poured, every new ring pull crunched through with the thumb, there’s a deep-down desire that I’ll have never tasted anything as good as this, whatever it is, wherever I drink it.
The thrill of the chase, the hope and the expectation, is what I love about beer. And food. And books and films and places. I want to be amazed, to be filled with wonder and excitement and joy over things. It keeps me interested, it keeps me moving forward and stops me getting stuck or complacent or, even worse, bored. What if it’s the best thing ever? What if I have an unforgettable experience?
I don’t care that almost no beer hits the high hopes that I have. It doesn’t matter because there’s always something else, an old favourite or something new in the fridge. And there’s always something to love in a beer. A story, an ingredient, the way it looks or the story I attach as I drink it – where I am, who I’m with, what we’re doing. And then there’s the next beer.
The next beer. What will it be? Where will it be? How will it taste? It’s the thought of that one perfect moment and a perfect pint. Or even the imperfect moment with the unexpected pint. It’s the moment you lift the glass to your lips and you stop and say wow. When a gulp has you excited, surprised, amazed; makes you want to never drink anything else ever again, makes you want to tell anyone and everyone who’ll listen; makes you see that sometimes beer is more than just liquid in a glass and reminds you why you spend so much time and money chasing it, thinking about it, drinking it.
I always have hope. It’s the continual search for the best beer I’ve ever tasted. And I hope I never find it because I love the expectation. I love the thrill of the chase.