Tuesday March 19th, 2024
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Beer’s Lament

This week, Nathan Anderith takes a break from economics and drowns his sorrows in the world’s favourite beverage…

Staff Writer

Last week, the world observed a significant holiday; a great festival in my honor. The day was technically named after some mewling, snake-hating saint, but everyone knew that it was really a day to celebrate one thing – me. Glasses of me were raised in toast to me. I was green, I was gold, I was cold, I was frothy – a million hands lifted me to a million thirsty lips. I flowed in great joyful streams into glasses and mugs as countless voices joined together in god-awful Irish accents, stumbling through slurred ballads in praise of me.

But where was I in Cairo? The 24-hour city? The city that, more than any other, desperately needs a stiff drink? A few clubs offered two-for-one specials, some Zamalek bar put up desultory shamrock decorations, but where was the joy, the homage, the intoxicated worship of my brain-numbing brew?

Could it be that you’ve forgotten me?

After everything I’ve done for you...

I’ve been with you since the beginning, Egypt. I was a gift from Osiris. He taught you to plant, he taught you to bake, but most importantly, he taught you to brew. I was a mandatory part of any offering to the gods, and worshippers of Bast and Hathor would get absolutely trashed at their services – a lot like the Irish, come to think of it. When Sekhmet, the lion goddesss, was about to devour all of humanity, you know who saved you? Me. She drank so much she passed out for three days, and when she woke up, her hangover was so bad she gave up killing forever and slunk back into bed, growling at loud noises.

I built the pyramids, yabny. They used me to pay their workers, a gallon a day of a thick, oat-y brew that was food and drink in one. It was the first form of easily exchangeable currency, and shortages caused riots. You put pots of me with your fallen rulers so they could get trashed in the afterlife. Living pharaohs would keep me in golden jars by their thrones and guzzle me through long straws like a milkshake. Everybody drank me, from kings to paupers – although in fairness, the alternative was drinking from the Nile, which would have killed you then just as fast as it will today. Nubians used to add bacteria to me to make tetracycline, an antibiotic that prevented a wide range of bacterial infections and was only re-discovered in 1948. I’m a goddamn health drink.

The true god of Ancient Egypt.
Don’t think that Egypt had any kind of monopoly on me, though. In the first days of civilization, you grunting apes finally stopped wandering aimlessly about and came together in permanent groups. This wasn’t easy because people, as a rule, are terrible. Having to rub shoulders with the same terrible people every day, to follow rules and cooperate without stabbing each other – none of this came naturally to you vicious bastards. I was the oil in the gears, the social lubricant that kept you from going all Hunger Games the first time someone belched in public.
"If I weren’t hammered out of my gourde I’d smash your face like a… like a… gourde.”

It goes back before that, even. They’ve looked at the very first kind of grain humans cultivated, and it’s too thick to be much good for bread. It’s perfect, though, for malting, mashing, and making me. That’s right – I came before bread. Some archaeologists even think that early communities organized specifically for the purpose of brewing me, which would mean that I am the reason for civilization.

Think about that for a second, as you sip your precious shay.

And now look at us, Egypt. Where did it all go wrong? I’m haram, I suppose, so devout Muslims won’t touch me. That’s fair enough; as a religious artifact myself, I can respect principles of faith. But plenty of you are willing to risk hellfire to feel my sweet buzz – I see you in thebalady bars, forests of green Stella bottles spreading across your tables like the morbid march of Birnam Wood. You drink without joy, without savor, without knowing you are participating in a sacred tradition as old as man himself. I’m used but not appreciated, a tool of blunt escape like a watery sharmoota.

So today I issue a call: cease your base swilling! Put down your Stellas and order a real drink. Savor the complex play of hops and grains, let me linger on your tongue.  My bubbles will dance across your taste buds as my alcohol helps you forget that your country’s falling apart. Toast me with friends, pair me with food (I’m fucking amazing with spiced koshary). Just appreciate me, and raise a glass in remembrance of all I’ve done for you.