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.
When we lived in Florida, I was bereft of palatable beer choices. Spoiled by an abundance of inexpensive, delicious beers in Wisconsin (bolstered by a couple stellar early entrants in the craft beer craze), I often stared down relentlessly unpromising refrigerated cases, knowing I was probably going to be unsatisfied with whatever I selected. In that void, I could at least always count on Red Stripe. Jamaica’s famed export isn’t a beer I chase, but it’s at least one I can rely upon. And I do have to admit that it was well-suited to the bludgeoning that regularly battered all of us in the peninsula-shaped state. I can say with any certainty that I’ve had a Red Stripe since moving away from F-L-A to my little mountain beer city. It’s out there if I need it, though. There needs to be something I can turn to in an airport bar.