This series of posts is dedicated to the many, many six packs, pony kegs and pints that have sauntered into my life at one point or another.
Monday nights we went to The Cabin. We went other nights too, but Monday was when The Cabin featured Imports Night, cutting the prices of their imported beer and offering a chance to check them off on a little card until enough had been purchased and consumed to claim the trophy of a little glass mug. In Stevens Point, Wisconsin, in the early nineteen-nineties, this is what passed for high, erudite living, at least for me and my fellow college kid compatriots. There were a lot of beers I sample for the first time on those outings (The Cabin had a surprisingly impressive array, especially considering they were out in the boondocks of an already modest city), but the one I know for sure met my tongue for the first time at that dank tavern was Foster’s. For quite some time after that, Foster’s was one of my default beers, whether or not it was being served in the hefty cylinder we referred to as the Oil Can. I probably thought I seemed a little classier when I drank it. After all, it was an import, all the way from Australia. It’s now been years since I’ve had one, and I’m sorry to say that last bottle tasted as bland as a Budweiser. I’m not sure if something’s changed in the way it’s brewed, at least for an American market, or if my palate simply evolved. Regardless, even if it isn’t part of my repertoire these days, I still have fond memories of it as a formative beer. It’s probably worth noting that when I finally completed my card at The Cabin and was free to drink whatever I wanted instead of completing different entries on the international list, the first beer I ordered was a Foster’s.