BlueState: A potable triumph.

Those of you bouncing around our little gritty city know that for the best in refined entertainment nothing beats an evening of balletic inebriation at one of DC's finest cultural establishments.

Last Saturday (1) was Bluestate at the Black Cat backstage bar. Four hours, four DJs, four dollar rail. (And three-fifty beers but that doesn't square with my quartenary fetish. Get it? "Square" with...).

So break out your church-keys and swizzle sticks--we're going to review the drinks, learn about beer, and maybe learn a little about life (2).

Part 1
or: Righfully ashamed of your heritage.

The choices at the bar (3) were Domestic, Furrin, and Rail.
Now there seems to be some sort of mental block about American beer amongst the mildly educated. It's ok for British beer to taste like watered down weasel piss because "It's Supposed To". It's all right for Irish beer to taste like rotting coffee grounds because "I.S.T.". Similarly, no one notices the German removal of all whimsy from their beer and the Belgian beers crafty substitution of fruit for flavor because (say it with me) "They're Supposed To".

Normal American beer taste likes the alchohol-reduced proceeds of a dialysis session because it's supposed to (4). But please keep in mind that its signature "flavor" developed in an era (5) when people were pretty much blitzed 24/7. They'd have hard cider for breakfast, whiskey at dinner and spend all day in the sun. Picture this: your wagon wheel just snapped again, you're hot, tired, and that 5am eyeopener is starting to turn on you. You may choose one of the following: warm mucousy milk, raw throat-peeling whiskey, cloudy cholera-ridden water, or a cool refreshing barely alcholic, lightly-flavored beer. If you have to think about this you've been insufficiently exposed to the elements. I recommend being duct-taped to the hood of an LA-bound Greyhound in August.

That being said, I'm also not going to defend American beer's flavor. Proctoscopy and root canals have their place but they aren't something to be proud of.

Part 2
or: Yer eether with us or agin' us!

Import beers as commonly stocked are a cruel joke. Instead of taking the opportunity to provide a balanced bar and serve some novel flavors, most bars serve whatever tastes the most like the domestics they already provide (6). It means that you can be guaranteed a Mexican beer with a piece of fruit jammed in the neck to disguise its flavor, an imported lite beer that no one's heard of in the old country, or a German beer that you couldn't give away to a homeless alchoholic in Berlin. If they won't drink 'em back where they came from why would you? It's like dating foreigners; don't drop your standards just because of the cute accent. (7)

Part 3
or: Where am I and who are you?

Rail drinks are the barometer of bartending. Broke? Poor? Just plain beat-down? If you can walk up to your bartender and ask him for a vodka tonic sure in the knowledge that you'll be getting enough off-brand nail polish remover to lift off the top of your head, then you're at the right bar. The Black Cat is a huge winner here. The bartenders are fast, generous, and happy to provide the drink-appropriate fruit accompaniment. My lovely assistant had a turpentine and cranberry that was just slightly pink and my other colleague was given a drain cleaner and tonic that betrayed the presence of tonic only by the barest hint of carbonation. These guys know that when you're ordering rail you don't need the comfort of not-tasting-the-booze.

So three cheers for the Black Cat bartenders, long may their heavy hands slosh paint thinner!
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(1) Some of us need multiple editorial revisions before we can so much as sign our name. Please bear with the delay.
(2) You won't learn anything about life, I promise.
(3) As far as those of us on an age-appropriate income are concerned, call drinks aren't a viable option.
(4) As opposed to Sam Adams style microbrews which taste like that because they were brewed by guys with a PHD in marketing and no taste buds.
(5) The era when people who dressed like the Amish were called hipsters.
(6) Not to mention that by the time a big shipment of beer makes it across the ocean and is distributed, a disturbing number of the bottles have become skunked.*
(7) Unless it's that breathy Persian accent. You can totally drop your standards for that.
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*Would you drink wine that had become corked? Of course not! Spew that mouthful of stale brew right back at them and don't take any of the bartender's "Imports are supposed to taste like that" crap.