My Third Entry - Southern Star Buried Hatchet Stout

Before discussing this week's beer, let's talk about something that happened to me last week at the Rockets game.

It was a Wednesday night game, Rockets against the Phoenix Suns. My wife and I were at the game with our friends, Sean and Danica M. We were not able to get four seats next to each other, so Sean and I were in one set of two seats, while Lisa and Danica were about ten seats away on the same row. I'm ashamed to say that Sean and I took the better seats, closer to center court, but you will soon see that our hubris was punished by the Beer Gods.

I had met my wife and friends at China Garden before the game, coming there directly from work. I was wearing a nice navy blue pinstripe and my favorite red tie. I like attending the games in my work uniform - it gives me a feeling of confidence to look dapper and sleek, or at least as dapper and sleek as a kinda fat guy can look at age 50.

After a nice, quick dinner (and I can't say enough about how much I enjoy eating at China Garden), we went to Toyota Center and took our respective seats. Sean and I are old friends and we chatted in the way that old friends do.

"How's work?"

"Fine.  You?"

"Yep.  Fine.  Did you empty your sprinkler before the freeze?"

"Uh-huh."

We settled into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the crowd in Toyota Center a low hum in the background.

Then . . . I don't know when I first became aware of the commotion behind us, but I think the reptilian part of my brain - that part that senses danger before the conscious brain can process it - heard the approach of predators from behind.  I don't mean that I thought I was going to be killed and eaten at the Toyota Center, but there was definitely a current of alpha male testosterone flowing towards us.  

I didn't look back because when predators approach, you don't want to show weakness, but I could hear them coming - loud, drunk, affluent, frat guy semi-executive or sales types, doing well enough to be sitting in the lower bowl, displaying high-grade douchery in the firm belief from a lifetime's experience that making a loud entrance would make them noticeable and attractive to the low-cut dress types in the nearby club section.  

I tried to ignore these guys and get back into my cool sitting-quietly-with-my-friend vibe.  It wasn't to be.

The beer hit my head pretty much all at once.  Some of it ran down the back of my neck and on to my suit jacket, and the rest of it hit my tie and pants.  I figure it was about six ounces, which doesn't sound like a lot unless it is poured on your head.

At this point, I stood up and, well, squeaked, "What the hell?"  I say "squeaked" because the pitch of my voice went one octave higher as I complained, indicating that my testicles were withdrawing defensively into my body instead of flooding me with adrenaline and good ol' High-Test.  I think this was not impressive to anyone - the guy who had spilled the beer, my friend Sean, or any of the low-cut types in the nearby club section.  Thus:

RULE ONE FOR WHEN BEER IS POURED ON YOU AT A GAME:  Don't squeak. If you want to be the alpha, lower the pitch of your voice or don't say anything at all.  It probably would have been way more intimidating for me - at 6-4 and 250 - to slowly stand up without speaking and turn to the guy with beer dripping down my face, than for me to squeak, "What the hell?"

But I had to live with that first reaction.  

I half-turned to the guy behind me and continued to sputter.  At first glance, he looked pretty much like what I thought he would look - doughy face with an expensive haircut, dress shirt hanging out of his dress slacks, boots, mouth slightly hanging open and on the edge of laughing at me, but not quite there yet.

I complained again.  The guy kind of apologized in a douchey way.

"Hey, sorry, but it fell out of my tray.  See?"  He gestured with his tray, as if it was something animate and independent, like a small dog that he was holding but not controlling.  Don't blame me, he was implying, because this tray was badly designed, dumb-ass.

RULE TWO FOR WHEN BEER IS POURED ON YOU AT A GAME:  If you're going to get aggressively pissed-off, your window to act is very short, so seize the moment.  Or not.

I said again, still sounding like someone was gripping my nether regions, "What the hell?"  I turned away from him and waved to one of the ushers for some towels.  As I mopped myself semi-dry, the douche offered me a beer, or dinner, or whatever I wanted, but not sincerely, more because it was expected.  I waved him off.

RULE THREE FOR WHEN BEER IS POURED ON YOU AT A GAME:  When the pourer offers you compensation and you haven't already decided to kick his ass, but you're still pissed, turn to his friend and say, "The only thing I want from your friend is to get away from me.  He can leave, he can trade seats down the row, but I don't want this f-up sitting behind me."  Or not.

I sat back down, stewing.  Sean was cool, even though he had gotten some of the beer shrapnel on him, and we waited for things to settle down.

The guy proceeded to jokingly complain about having lost his beer.  And about the beer having spilled into his popcorn.  And about having to get his boots reshined because they had gotten beer on them.  He also acted like an ass for the next quarter-and-a-half, clearly drunk, making racist comments about the number of white guys playing for the Rockets.  He and his entourage then left to get some more to drink, returning midway through the third quarter and then leaving early in the fourth.

RULE FOUR FOR WHEN BEER IS POURED ON YOU AT A GAME:  You have everyone's sympathy in the section, especially after the pourer leaves.  Assume the role of the Victim Shaking His Head and the Nice Guy Wronged by an Idiot, and people will go out of their way to take your side.  You cannot, however, appear disproportionately angry. It's just beer, after all.

Also, I was actually glad it was me catching the beer. Had it been my wife and my friend Danica in those seats, the whole night would have been ruined.  And that guy would have had to deal with the wrath of two beer-soaked middle-aged women who are past the age of caring about what the people around them think.  There's nothing scarier than that.

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This week's beer is the Southern Star Buried Hatchet Stout.  Southern Star is a craft brewery located in nearby Conroe, and will be celebrating their sixth anniversary in March.

This is one of the canned beers that Lisa and Jay got, and I think Josh picked it because of the cool can design.

© jdurfee99

Like the Karbach Hopadillo, there is a nifty description on the side of the can that reads:

You hold in your hand a stout for stout lovers.  Buried Hatchet is brewed with a large quantity of brown malt reminiscent of a traditional Pre-Industrial Revolution malt profile.  The stout is full of robust, roasted flavors which intermingle with a bittersweet creaminess that concludes to a perfect, warming finish.

(By the way, I am a sucker for these descriptions.  It's like the owner is there explaining things to you during a brewery tour.  I don't know why more beers don't come with their own tasting notes.)

I liked this beer.  It opened up in the glass with a molasses scent, plus what tasted like chocolate and raspberry, all of which I have been told is fairly usual for stouts.  Nose-deep into the pint glass, I could definitely smell the roast notes, but not like roasted coffee beans.  More like (and I am sure this is just wish-fulfillment) Yankee pot roast, which I love.  Towards the end, the taste was predominantly fruity and finishes with a coffee note.  Here's what it looks like in the glass:

© jdurfee99

It's a Sunday night as I sit here finishing the last of this drink.  In the championship match, does it beat the Breckinridge 471?  As I said last week, I wanted something different from the two IPAs I started this blog with.  I got it with this beer.  

Accordingly, it PASSES and it also beats the Breckinridge IPA just because I am really enjoying it, because it comes from a local brewery, and because, in light of this week's developments, no one poured it on my head.

This particular beer is for drinking, not wearing.

See you next week.