Returning to the office a few months ago, I found a large package sitting on my chair.
Always excited to get mail, I dropped whatever I had in my hands, turned the carton over to see who it was from, and found the colorful, smartly designed artwork of Magic Hat Brewing on the label. Inside were three 12-ounce bottles of beer wrapped in tissue paper, along with a festively decorated bottle cozy and a heap of literature published on glossy paper.
I’d recently written a few stories about local beers, brewers and beer halls, and the Vermont-based company wanted to call themselves to my attention. They clued me into their plans to hold a summer-long India Pale Ale (IPA) tour, featuring several variations of this beer style.
I still don’t really understand how a bottled beverage goes on tour, and while I love both beer and Vermont with a passion true, my relationship with Magic Hat’s beers has never been more than murky. In the package store, I’ve been sucked in by their enchanting packaging a number of times (I love the slogans under their beer caps), and when the selection has been dismal at the bar, I’ve been glad to see one of the Magic Hat’s whacky beer pulls standing out above the others.
But I don’t recall ever finding much more than basic satisfaction in drinking their beer.
Like a roll of candy Life Savers, they seem to have a wide spectrum of flavors—ales, a couple stouts, a Hefeweizen, seasonals, rarities, “odd notions” and “humdingers,” all with crazy, imaginative names and labels to match. I’ve tried varieties at random, but never heard any Hallelujah choir or felt God’s light shining upon me as I quaffed.
Still, my fridge at home was empty, and free beer is meant to be enjoyed, not sniffed at. I bragged to my colleagues about my score, and looked forward to unwrapping the tissue paper when I got home
*
Weeks passed, and I’d almost forgotten about the package when I got an email from a brewer at Magic Hat wondering what I’d thought of the shipment and offering to answer any questions I had.
Flushed with embarrassment—not having expected anyone to follow up—I hit the reply button immediately and began by thanking them for the box. I then paused and tried to remember what had happened when I finally undressed the bottles and laid lip to their brews.
One beer was flavored with ginger, I recalled, and I’d thought it okay. A ginger-accented ale from another brewer had ended abruptly, heading straight down the drain. The ginger in Magic Hats’ attempt was more than an annoying aftertaste; it was more infused with the flavor and had a better balance.
Downing the last sip, I thought I’d best write that observation down, but instead I moved on to the second bottle. It might have been Blind Faith, one of the IPAs currently “on tour.” But maybe it was something else.
I had no idea what the third beer was, although I had a vague recollection of the strange font choice on its label. I would have remembered if I’d dumped it, so it must have gone down easy enough.
I deleted the half-written email, realizing my chief question for the Magic Hat brewer was to be reminded of which beers he’d sent. I continue to get an email every few weeks asking how I liked the beer, and I still feel tongue-tied and embarrassed.
I simply can’t think of a tactful way to say to the kindly brewer: “While I appreciated the interest Magic Hat has in my opinion, and I did enjoy the beer you sent, whatever it was, I’m ready for a clean break. I’m bewildered with your array of flavors, names and graphics. I find it difficult to remember whether it was Circus Boy, Whacko, or HI.P.A. that I enjoyed. I’ll continue to seek your beer out when there’s only football beer on tap, but otherwise your marketing intimidates me.
Oh, and I continue to use the cozy.”
