Monday, July 13, 2015

Not Your Father's Root Beer, or a tale of panic

Well this stuff has caused quite a stir around here.

And I should know. I'm the owner of twenty-two six packs of the brew - that's five and half cases.

The Man thinks I've gone off the deep end.


It started innocently enough. I stopped in the local liquor store one day and saw a poster on the front door advertising Not Your Father's Root Beer. I like root beer so I inquired about it. The shopkeeper told me he has having a hard time keeping it in stock - it was selling like hotcakes. He had a few six packs left so I bought one for a party we were having the following weekend.

Party day rolled around. We had lots of beverages to offer that day so I didn't advertise the root beer ales. I tossed them in the metal tub full of ice with all the other beverages and forgot about them. Later in the afternoon, as the party was winding down, I was looking through the tub and found one. 

Sitting down, feet propped up, I opened it and took a taste.

Holy moly, me oh my. Smooth and creamy. I might never drink anything else. 



So I was sharing this story with some friends the following day and one of them went out and promptly bought two six packs.

She now has one every night.

A few days later she went to buy some more and couldn't find any in stock. Anywhere. Nowhere.
She texted me all day as she was traipsing here, there, and everywhere trying to find more - keeping me apprised of where she had been and when their next delivery was expected.

She finally found some, quite a ways away, and bought a case of it. However, I did not get to the liquor store so I was out of it for a little while.


About a week later, I stopped in to check out a new liquor store that had opened a few weeks earlier. There were a couple sales guys standing around so I asked one of them if they had any Not Your Father's Root Beer in stock. The younger fellow knew exactly where it was displayed and brought me over to it. 

I decided to get a couple six packs. He offered to carry one for me so we set off for the registers. As we were walking, he casually mentioned how popular this stuff was and how quickly it was selling. He also said something about it being a seasonal brew.

What? Seasonal?

I stopped and asked him what that meant, a seasonal brew? He said, "Well, our distributor told us this might be our last shipment since they only make it for the summer."


I did a one-eighty and said, "In that case, I"m going to get a case of it." I took a handful of steps, did another one-eighty and said, "Nope, I'm going to get two cases. I need a carriage." And headed back to the front of the store to get a cart.

I wheeled over to the display and the sales guy helped me put two cases in the carriage. But the words "seasonal brew" and "last shipment" kept running through my head so I talked myself into a third case. I turned the cart around and headed toward the registers.

I got about five feet before I turned around, again, and got a fourth case.

The sales guy looked at me with a rather odd expression on his face. "I wish I liked root beer," he said. "This stuff must be good."

"Oh, it is!" I said, rather enthusiastically so he wouldn't think I had a problem. "It's delicious! And we have a lot of parties this summer! And I am really buying it for the parties!"

I left that store with four cases of Not Your Father's Root Beer and a bottle of wine which had been added last minute so that the cashier wouldn't think I had a problem with root beer ale. 


I loaded all four cases into the back seat and headed for home. I got about a mile and saw a sign for another liquor store. The words "seasonal brew" and "last shipment" were still rattling around in my head so I made a snap decision and turned the car into the parking lot.

This store had a much smaller display and the sales people told me just about the same story as the first store. I bought another case and two single six packs.

I wanted to bring some to knitting that night but didn't want to delve into my stash of cases, hence the two single six packs.

The young guy who waited on me offered to carry the case out to my car. Remembering the FOUR cases I already had in the car, I said, "Oh, that's okay. I can carry it."

"No, that's my job!" he said, all friendly like.

"No, really, I can carry it. I wouldn't want to take you away from the register," I said, knowing what it would look to see four cases of the stuff already in the car.

He insisted. Drat.

So I walked alongside him, blocking his view into the back seat and brought him to the rear of the car. I opened the trunk quickly.

"Just put it anywhere," I said breezily, waving my hand toward the trunk, hoping he wasn't looking around too closely. He put it in the trunk, I thanked him, and he walked back into the store none the wiser. I think.


So that's how I came to be the owner of twenty-two six packs of root beer ale. 

And I am sharing, by the way. Just a little selectively.

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