Back in the Fifties, Bob Clark, Seattle folksinger and co-proprietor of The Chalet, brewed his own beer. It gained much currency at hoots and songfests, possibly because he usually brought substantial quantities of it in quart bottles, and it was free. People raved about how great it tasted, but to be honest I can't say that I was very fond of it. I thought the flavor was just passable. It struck me as very yeasty.

Someone who knew something about brewing beer told me that he didn't like it much, either. He said that Bob's beer was still green when he bottled it. He should have left it in the crock and let it "work" longer. This gave it two outstanding characteristics. For a number of people, including me, one characteristic in particular – its aftereffect – was a major drawback.

Now, some people escaped this, but many others did not, and I was among the latter. If you drank very much of the stuff – but still not enough to get a buzz on – you would wake up the following morning with The Mother of All Hangovers. It was a real throbbing, gut-wrenching, nuclear powered, hundred-megaton head-banger. Victims of a religious bent would be convinced that they were finally being visited by the retribution of an angry, Old Testament God. Those who were medically oriented would be certain that the level of agony they were suffering had to be symptomatic of severe brain damage. It was the kind of hangover where every pulse-beat felt as if a hammer were being vigorously applied to the base of your skull. At first, you would be afraid you were going to die; after awhile, you would be afraid you were not going to die. Those who were susceptible to this aftereffect would drink a thimbleful for the sake of conviviality, then move on to the store-bought stuff.

And the second characteristic: the instant you popped the cap, the contents erupted in a foamy geyser that surged to an impressive altitude. It then returned to earth in a mighty deluge, drenched the carpet and many of the assembled celebrants, and filled the room with odor of hops and yeast.

It was quite a ceremony when Bob opened a bottle. He would usually set the bottle into a dishpan or washtub, apply a bottle opener to the cap, then cover his hand and the bottle with a large towel. Apprehensively, he would begin to manipulate the bottle opener until the cap was ready to go ballistic. As he made these preparations, the assembled company would gather in a circle, then carefully back up several paces to a safe distance.

It was like watching somebody blast a stump.

These days, I rather fond of some of the products that come from Seattle's microbreweries. Red Hook produces some fairly good stuff. One of theirs is Ballard Bitter. Lot's of people don't especially like it, but I do. It lets you know it's there.

Don Firth