The worst thing that happened to me over the pandemic was I got ‘really into beer’. I was already into it in the most straightforward way: I liked drinking it and I liked getting drunk. I liked the ceremony of it: walking into the pub, ideally at noon on a balmy Saturday, inhaling that rich carpeted smell, ordering a simple fizzing lager and taking that first perfect big sip. Ah!
But then I got into buying expensive boxes of IPAs and NEIPAs, things that self-describe as ‘hazy’, and huge heavy stouts with double-digit ABVs. I’d prowl the length of the taps, head low like a predator, asking: ‘Sorry could I just – yeah sorry could I just get a little taste of that?’ Then I’d just order the first one I tried. This started to affect my friendships. The pub order is now: ‘Three Guinness, and Joel can sort himself out. I don’t want to be seen with him while he’s doing that.’ I am starting to think they might have started an offshoot WhatsApp chat without me.
The slouch from April to May is its own season: not quite spring, definitely not summer, but we’re far enough away from winter that you can feel reasonably safe putting your heavy coats in storage. There is not really much to do – you can’t comfortably have a picnic, can you? What some people do to sidestep this state of limbo is to erect a marquee, generate the worst logo you have seen and hold a craft beer festival. And when they are there, they drink out of ⅓-pint glasses.
The logic behind the ⅓-pint glass is threefold: the first is, once you start drinking craft beer, you have a strange compulsion to try as much of it as possible, to say yes to the ‘Whirly Whippet’ and the ‘Captain’s Hand’. Secondly, these beers are often very strong and a pint of the stuff would have much the same effect as a clumsily done lobotomy, so a smaller serving is preferred. Thirdly – and the most important reason: craft beer is occasionally very nice, but more often tastes like an art school sink, and if you don’t like your ⅓-pint, then you can swill it on to the floor without feeling too heartbroken.
I recently ordered a paddle – a large wooden board drilled with four holes, each holding a ⅓-pint – and yes, the barman did hate me for doing it, and yes, all four of the beers were sour and horrible and thrushy. A beer that can only be contained in a ⅓-pint glass often has a threatening, potion-like energy, and it should be feared.
The serving has potential, though. An Australian friend of mine tells me the ⅓ is colloquially known there as a ‘pony’, which I think has legs. Europeans are fond of serving beer in schooners, so they don’t become too warm as you drink them in the sun, while smoking. As summer looms, perhaps we need to think outside of the confines of the good old-fashioned pint – still a perfect thing, fizzy or hazy or otherwise – and look for the varied uses of different portions.
Obviously, one of the finest things you can do in London is go to The French House and sink a swift half. But ordering a ⅓, just after you finish your last full pint and before you sprint for the train, could be an elegant move. We could call it ‘a Hometimer’, and people wanting one would be given priority serving at the bar.
Joel Golby’s Four Stars: A Life. Reviewed is out now. Listen to Joel on the latest episode of Table Talk here.
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