Texas Tea

Our tinted Suburban pulled into the reputed ghost town of Terlingua, Texas at 4:20 on Super Bowl Sunday, which did not explain why the faded general store offered one long row of shaded, splintered benches occupied by sleeping dogs and old ranchers gripping warm bottles of yellow beer. Not Steelers fans!
A pretty but leather-faced proprietor gabbed with town ladies at the register about remedies for blisters and we buzzed through the Lonestar flags, 3-ounce cowboy shotglasses, and alien abduction souvenirs, for the beer fridge in a back room. A single iced six-pack of Shiner Bohemian Black Lager sat lonely in the the display case. Shiner — boring, trusty Texas trademark. But black lager? Hot Knives rolled the dice.
Hours later in the dead of night a disco dance party boomed over the canyon, from the porch of a ranch inn at the end of town, luring neighbors: bearded construction workers and acid casualty novelists bumped together. Finally, the beer came out.

The Hot Knives Beer Team practiced an old set of skills: opening bottles on rocks. We tipped to 45 degrees, wedged cap under a crevice. Brought our left hands down on the top. With the woofer-bliss nearby, we hardly noticed that the glass lip of the bottle had crushed into a disfiguring, jagged twist. On the first mouth pull, there was a warm trickle: There will be blood! The bottle sliced a stigmata-style hole in our palm. The balmy black lager slipped down mixing with the bloodstream, hitting the lit-up brown dirt with strange, dry plops caking into mud. No sink meant drinking this way, with red blood around the black label and slow, careful sips from the broken glass. Fearful every second that some god damn hippie carpenter wigging out to the band would smash into our drinking arm sending the glass hazard into our gaping maws.
Deep breath… slow sip. Under navy-blue star-heavy sky, tugging on a dark beer felt right, like kicking up dirt by scuffing the tips of a comfy pair of cowboy boots. Slight hint of choco-nutty-toffee, but mostly just a subtle taste of toast. Thick challa slices with hazelnut butter. The end taste was a watery, not-quite-satisfying coffee popsicle. Or like the remnants of an iced coffee, when you drink everything but driplets and the ice melts into a light brown rainwater.
Half done with this beer, we walked into the ranch bathroom and washed with soap and water to get the blood crust and dirty spit (someone swore saliva would close the wound) from our skin. Back in the thunderous night, with people running by with common Shiner Bock, we felt free, slugging hard like real Texas titans.

Dairy Pairy: Qudarello di Bufala, a Taleggio made from the milk of a water Bufalo.
Soundtrack: Yacht’s “I’m in Love With a Ripper”