I drank a can of Grolsch at the weekend. We'd been on a long hike (about 30 miles, so refreshment was necessary for the hour or so train trek home) and it seemed the least worst of the uninspiring selection in the petrol station off-licence near the train station.
God, was that foul. And to blame it on God, seems – for once – unfair, I'm sure he'd have nothing to do with it. Tasted of corrosion and chemicals, no malt, no mouthfeel, a bad chemical simulacrum of hoppiness, and a mouth slap of harsh surgical spirit to finish on. Surgical spirit that I suspect had been used to clean out an abscess. I've no idea if proper Grolsch brewed on the continent is any better, vague memory says yes, but this must have been made out of packets and concentrates, probably diluted with urine. Passionless and pointless, and it made my taste buds depressed. The kind of beer that after your first mouthful makes you check the sell-by date.
Fortunately better stuff at home. And Verdant Headband pale ale yesterday, which is what beer ought to taste like.