In all the vast complexity of the beer world, there’s nothing like Guinness. Plenty of other beers may have more flavour, plenty may be more refreshing, and plenty may attract fiercer loyalties, but when it comes to recognition and global reach, no other beer comes close to the dark stuff.
It’s big in Jamaica, big in Malaysia, huge in West Africa, the liquid equivalent of bread and butter in Ireland and an unremarkable staple of any British pub. On St Patrick’s Day half the hostelries on the planet seem to become great Guinness dispensaries, and from Brighton and Bondi to Cape Town and Phuket the memory of the holy man said to have driven the snakes out of Ireland comes a very distant second to the opportunity to down as many pints as possible, preferably in a Guinness-shaped hat.
The myths are just as pervasive. Guinness is good for you, they say. It’s even better for you if you’re pregnant or a nursing mother. It’s brewed from the twinkling, poetry-inducing, leprechaun-infested waters of the Liffey itself. It responds to the gentle touch or rough handling of each particular landlord like a delicate filly. It needs to settle for an hour and a half before you drink it. It is, as Shanahan famously says of a pint of porter in Flann O’Brien’s At Swim-Two-Birds, “your only man.”
February 7, 2009
