You're Sippin' On: Westbrook Brewing's Gose

You wake up, your cat is sleeping on the pillow next to you. You roll over in bed, trying to make out the numbers on the digital alarm clock your parents gave you before your Freshman year of college. You remember that you slept in too late to make it over to that 9:00am service with your parents before work yesterday, so it must be Monday. Then the blinking green digits reveal themselves: it's 11:00am. You panic. "Oh no!" you think, "Oh God, no! I'm late to work!" Then it hits you: you're off today, buddy. You held out through the week, and now it's your turn to blow off some steam. Well, that, or you lost your job weeks ago. Either way, your day is in proper order to get exponentially better. Why? Because you just opened up your fridge to grab some unsalted butter and blackberry jam and... boom. You still have a Gose left. Drop the butter, smash the jam jar, and throw that burnt toast in the garbage.

Just Like Heaven

So, first, a note about the style for those who may be unfamiliar: a gose is a traditional German-style beer (originally from Leipzig), boasting half (or more) of its malt bill to be sweet, sweet wheat. It's then brewed with brackish water, giving it that strangely-welcome salt bite. The can says it best: Sour. Salty. Delicious. Westbrook's Gose is the leading American-made gose-style beer on the market, with its demand exceeding its output in leaps and bounds. In the beer-trading community, having a six-pack of Westbrook's Gose is the type of solid collateral normally reserved for MacArthur Grants and Gold Bars buried in Texas backyards. And for good reason: it's the highest rated (number of ratings/actual score) beer of its style on Beeradvocate. In fact, the only gose-style beers more successful than Westbrook's flagship one are--you guessed it--made by/collaborated with Westbrook. 

So it's a little after noon, now, and you're burning up in the Southern Summer sun. Maybe you're sitting out back, rocking on the wood deck, rolling your own cigarettes; maybe you're a transplant to the south and you're laying fetal in front of your window A/C unit, begging for any kind of god to make this all go away. Regardless of situation, you're drinking this phenomenal beer, and after an hour or so--after making the conscious decision to crack open another (it's after noon, after all)--you need something else. There's something that you're just missing: something more than a significant other or dog. You need a book in your hands. So you're sippin' on a Gose... but what are you reading?

Enter the Great American Post-Modern Stalwart himself: Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Have you been meaning to re-read Cat's Cradle? Contemplating a first-read of Breakfast of Champions? How about that collection of short stories you bought with that obscene amount of book dollars your old university threw at you for signing up so quickly and deliberately? What was it? While Mortals Sleep?

Dave Eggers did the forward, huh?

Yep, that's the one. Whether our hero is writing about sentient robots, the impending decimation of the known world, or maybe a twenty-foot phallus marking a dead woman's eternal resting place, he couldn't be a better match for Westbrook's Gose if he'd made the recipe himself. 

Forever a poster-boy for biting wit and snarling sarcasm, Vonnegut's characteristic voice beats in sublime rhythm to each and every sip of this sour, salty South Carolinian beer. We follow the course of both through their respective palettes--the tongue, the mind--and find that our body's response is strikingly similar: the slightly sweet and salty nose of the Gose go in step with Vonnegut's astringent, apathetic tone--leading up to some sort of shockingly contemptible, morally-deplete climax which is, of course, the Gose's pucker-inducing, eye-rolling sourness. We're knocked, swept off our feet by this, the unexpected and unwarranted. "We didn't ask for this," we say, somehow adding "But thank you," to its end. Then it's vanished. No lingering bitterness, no remnants of a pain we might've endured for any amount of time. We go on, living and breathing, maybe thinking throughout the day, but remembering only the cleansing, purging relief that set on us after, in the waning twilight hours of our day off, a mere twelve hours away from going back to a job that it ultimately unsatisfying and mentally draining: "As stupid and vicious as men are, this is a lovely day." And so it should be.