My car smells. It has that type of odor where you can’t completely put your finger on it, but you sit down and your like “man this is unpleasant.” When people try to brand it you get descriptions of smells that no one has ever really smelt but everyone knows what they mean like…”ostridge breath”, or “cough syrup throw up with a hint of yogurt.” The smell also seems to have seasons, like an orbiting ball of shit one day you only catch the sweet scent of dehumidified air and the next your ears can even smell the funk of molding five hour energy. The unfortunate thing was on the morning five of us piled in for our drive to San Diego it was overcast, humid and 87 degrees. Traveling from Los Angeles valentines weekend at 4pm we knew we were in for the long haul. After around 2 hours, the olfactory dispute was staved off only by the distraction of good company and the promise of home brewed goodness. Our crew was staffed with four gents (including me) and a fine piece of ass sitting shotgun and going by the name of Veronica. Filling the back row from left to right was an Armenian icemaker (he acquired this title because he is Armenian and makes ice…) we will call him Mike. Middle sat our token hipster Matt (necessary for any beer tasting trip), rounding out his image with purple Ray Bans and a pocket tee one size too small. Lastly, provocatively window sexing with every Jetta that passed, Bobby, the “I’ll never shave my back because it part of my heritage but I’m damm sexy” guy. After five hours chat grew sour, summoning the scent of our forgotten foe, which strangely reminding us of our hunger. Mike suggested pizza, which seemed a solid. Drifting slightly north we came upon local spot cleverly titled Pizza Port for is prime location and extensive selection of home cooked ale. Finding parking for this teeming pizzaria/brewpub was not difficult but finding a table was… well not difficult either. Squatting ourselves on their somewhat sticky, yet well-equipped park like wooden tables was inviting. I decided to pick up the first round and found their potpourri of beers to be well suited for the coastal environment. Their roughly fifteen Belgian style ales, which are colorfully chalked onto a green board, vary from Sharkbite Red, Rivermouth Raspberry, Seaside Stout, to Ale Nino. Opting for The Road IPA and One Down Brown I decided these alcohol rich beers would start us off forcefully on the appropriate trajectory of abandoned slochyness. The Road hit the standard marks of a quality IPA, Floral citrus hints with a hard aftershock of bitterness. While not my favorite in the field, this cloudy bodied sud is well worth the swallow. One Brown down pours like English ale with an ice cream consistency head that seems to stack together like a ceiling lined with white balloons. It gives off a nice carmelly aroma with a satisfying smooth clean malty sweetness.
Once our thick crust crowded topping pizzas showed up we were back in the swing. Scanning the crowd it was filled with salt encrusted, tank wearing locals with their toehead board balancing offspring. While not the typical place to find microbrew snobs we enjoyed the change. But instead of hanging with the brahhs, our company consisted of three flat screens broadcasting the Winter Olympics opening ceremony, a racist Canadian and his lovely wife Susan (One of the biggest misconceptions about Canadians is that they are high minded liberals with their plain clothes and friendly flavored voices. But when you live your whole life only seeing white people and a white landscape its impossible for colored people to seem modest.) Polishing off a fourth pitcher we were beginning to get quite titillated by our new friends. The parade of countries in unknown alphabetical order proved to be a fun guessing game until our Canadian friend decided to shout, “Terrorits!” when Iraq was presented. I initially cringed but it seemed to catch on as similar cries began to emerge. Israel…”Terrirists!”… Somalia…”Fat Lipped Pirates!”… Turkey… “Two-faced Butchers!” After the ten-minute precession of the USA and two more pitchers of California Honey Ale and Carlsbad Chronic (while not the best of the night, defiantly worth the taste) it was time to depart. With a friendly “salut” and a handful of candied souvenirs we were off to the next leg of our journey, to a string of bars which I have since forgotten their names.
