By now you have no doubt learned that we are in for an economic crisis of untold proportions, a crisis so terrible that it may result in the defaulting of mortgages and tumbleweeds large enough to swallow small children bouncing past vacant storefronts.
And by economic crisis, I am of course referring to the worldwide shortage of hops, a key ingredient in beer production.
Hops give beer flavour, which can range from the slightly bitter finish that excites tweedy types to the moldy-gym-socks aroma favoured by less discriminating drinkers, who, in between enormous burps, rightly argue that, “as long as it’s ice cold, who cares if it tastes like the bottom of my hockey bag?”
The shortage is being blamed on poor weather in areas where hops are grown, such as Europe, Australia and the U.S., and is expected to result in higher beer prices, which, I’m sure you will agree, qualifies as a genuine crisis for millions of thirsty people who already feel the price of beer is unfairly high – the average case costing the equivalent of a night at the opera for a family of 12.
Already the impact is being felt on Canadian soil, as was made evident when a beer rep from a successful brewery arrived at my office recently carrying a gift pack containing one bottle of beer.
Let me repeat: the gift pack contained a single bottle of beer.
Last year the same company generously delivered a four-pack of oversized cans in the hope that I’d write something nice about their product, which I did immediately on a cocktail napkin that even today bears the word “delicious.”
The brewery must go unnamed because professional ethics forbid me from accepting gifts from corporate interests even if my beer fridge is empty and my diet consists entirely of double-salted pretzels.
Inside the padded carrying case was a bottle of pilsner chilled by an ice pack, as well as a drinking glass bearing the company’s logo.
Like a disappointed birthday boy sifting through the wrapping paper for something else at the bottom of a gift box, I looked in vain for more beer, but found none.
Clearly this hops crisis was in full swing.
Even the beer rep had been downsized, the gentleman before me a mere shadow of his sparkling predecessor.
Where the beer rep of my previous experience had the muscular good looks of a professional volleyball player, with washboard abs and teeth so bright that viewing them required sunglasses, the new guy looked like he actually drinks beer.
Like me, there were no television commercials or volleyball championships in his future, such prizes being out of reach for people with flabby tummies and pronounced dental imperfections, such as teeth spaced in such a way that they emit a faint whistle when we breathe.
It was clear both of us were going to be hard hit by the looming crisis in the worst way possible: there would be no regular purchases of the “crisp, hoppy, fire-brewed” beverage produced by his employer, no matter how badly we desired its “smooth drinkability and sweet, malty character.”
It’s enough to make you shed a tear in your beer, and by beer I mean the kind that tastes like the bottom of a hockey bag.
