Copenhagen: In which I attempt a solo pub crawl (and revel in a spectacular failure)

Okay, I confess.

I am a lush.

A sot. A tippler. An inebriate. A drunk. Somewhere in the 3-year gap between college and mid-twenties, alcohol became my indisputable drug of choice.

And boy, we've had some good times.

But there's no point in equivocating. For reasons both obvious and personal, my fondness for drink has evolved from entertaining to increasingly problematic. And while I don't much feel like sharing the gory details in a public forum, I will say this: the drinking has gotten old. And it doesn't seem worth the stress on my health anymore.

Now I've had my fair share of last hurrahs, particularly since the New Year, after it became painfully clear to me that something had to change (word to the wise: Parisian youth are really not partial to Reggaeton music, especially when it's forced on them by a belligerently drunk and overly touchy Uruguayan). But I only had twenty-four hours to explore Copenhagen. Before heading back to St.E. after eighteen days of traveling. Before returning to work after eighteen days free from undersexed adolescent french schoolboys.

I spent the day walking the crap out of Copenhagen. I went all over. The city center. Cristianshavn. Christiania. Nørrebro. Vesterbro. Fredicksburg. At dusk, the soles of my feet were on fire. And I was thirsty.

So I hit the pubs. Armed with my Top 5 bars list and a mission: drink a pint per bar, every hour on the hour.

First on the list: The Moose

GET HAMMEREDE IN CHEAP BEER
[Svaertegade 5] "THE MOOSE is the place to go if you're up for a crazy night out. Especially on Tue, Thu Sat and on the 13th of each month no one is left sober for very long. Then a large draught beer is only DKK16 until 21:00. After that the price rises to DKK23. Occasional live music. Open every day."
("Copenhagen for Young Traveler's" map and guide)

Of course, I strolled into the Moose on a Saturday. What luck. The entire bar was covered in graffiti: not an inch of wall spared, not even in the bathroom. I quickly surveyed the available tables and opted for a stool at the bar. Sitting at the bar always seems appropriate when you're drinking alone.

Denmark banned smoking indoors in 2007, with one exception:
"The only exception from the ban is for establishments with an area less than 40 sq. mtrs., which don't serve fresh food - so you can still enjoy a cigarette in some smaller pubs if you're lucky - some places have installed special smoking rooms but most refer smokers to the streets."
(Copenhagen Office of Tourism)

The Moose is an establishment with an area less than 40 square meters. It is also an establishment that doesn't serve fresh food.

I took in my surroundings, my eyes smarting from billows of pungent tobacco smoke. And I observed the following:
Above one table, a Moose's head stuck out prominently from the wall.

Above the bar, a series of inane pictures. A freeze frame from "Frankenstein," the movie. A photo of the National Olympic Curling Team of Denmark from the Nagano 1998 Olympics. Elvis.

Also, bills of various international currencies papered a wooden panel over the bar's mirror. I was only slightly horrified at my reaction upon seeing George Washington's familiar portrait sternly gazing down at me. (Like seeing the picture of someone you love up in some random bar. Since when do I love American money? Or George Washington?)

Musical highlights from the Moose included:
The White Stripes, "Seven Nation Army"
Nirvana, "Smells Like Teen Spirit"
Lou Reed, "Walk on the Wild Side"
Depeche Mode, "Everything Counts"

The drink:
Jacobsen's Brown Ale

The reading material:
Jan/Feb 2009 Foreign Affairs
(No comments, please. I realize it's not Rilke or Kerouac or Auden or whatever the hell you're supposed to read when you're sitting alone at a bar. But it was interesting enough.)

I sipped my pint of Jacobsen's and tried to read through the article on peace in the Middle East ("Change They Can Believe In: To Make Israel Safe, Give Palestinians Their Due," Walter Russell Mead). But I kept getting distracted by increasingly intoxicated and spectacularly attractive groups of Danes. One of whom came up to the bar about every 15 minutes to order another round for his table.

Apparently in one of trips to the bar, he sneaked a peak at my reading. And decided I needed saving.

"Hello!"

I felt someone tap my shoulder, and I spun around on my stool. Behind me stood a tall, blonde woman with bloodshot blue eyes.

"Would you like to come have a drink with us?"

She posed the question in perfect, if slightly accented, English, waving over at her table, where I spotted the Dane who had been at my side refilling on drinks just a few minutes before. And by his side, another man, older, taller, with brown hair and equally bloodshot blue eyes.

I smiled and replied, "Of course!"

As it turns out, Synne (pronounced like Sonne with an umlaut over the "o") and her crew had discussed my situation at length before asking me to join them. Brian, the younger man, had tried to read a bit of my article and reported back to his friends about it.

"It's soooo booooooooooring," he exclaimed, drawing out his words. I laughed and told him I found it interesting, but much preferred to be in the company of talkative locals.

Now, if you'll recall, I was on a mission. I still had four bars to visit.

Bars like VINSTUE 90:
[Gammel Kongevej 90] "An authentic bar with original 1916-decor. The famous serving of Carlsberg from a special tap takes 10-15 minutes. Because that just makes the best glass of beer! When ordering your slow beer, order a vente-øl (while-you-wait-beer) as well. There's no music, in order to preserve the fine art of conversations. Open every day."

Or MASKEN BAR:
"Gay time all day! At MASKEN BAR it's Happy Hour all day every day! The mixed crowd of gay, hetero and bi, combined with a friendly staff, make everybody feel welcome."

But Brian bought a round of Jacobsen's. Followed by a second. Followed by a third.

As I lost my sobriety, I lost all sense of time as well. Conversation flowed as freely as the pints of beer Brian kept bringing back from the bar. And then I told Synne, Brian, and Frank about my grand plans to explore the Copenhagen nightlife solo.

"Where do you want to go? We will take you!"

But not before dinner, as, apparently, the men had not eaten. I was treated to dinner and more drinks at a crêperie nearby. Then we moved on to Masken Bar, where Frank was felt up by more than a couple of scantily clad men. Frank and Synne are actually a couple. Synne doesn't have a problem with Frank's natural attractiveness to other men. Nor does Frank, for that matter.

At this point, a "snowy mix" was beating down mercilessly on the streets of Copenhagen, and we slipped and slid our way a club where a live band was rocked out to Guns 'n Roses and other Guitar Hero tunes. Frank and I head banged our hair dry while Synne and Brian continued to throw back the beers. I made it back to my hostel, by some miracle, soaked but safe, at approximately 5 am. And was kicked out of my bed at 10.

I'm happy to say that I think this was truly the last hurrah to end all last hurrahs. Not to mention the fact that I now have three wonderful people to visit next time I'm in Copenhagen.

Tromsø: The Northernmost Brewery in the World

The Mack Bryggeri is located on the Storgata in Tromsø. It is 130 years old and, coincidentally enough, employs 130 workers. Ernie, a Tromsø native in her late thirties, proudly counts her place among the Mack workforce.

"I've been doing the tour for seven years," she boasted, as we all gathered around her at the Ølhallen, the "brew hall" or brew pub across from the brewery where Tromsø natives indulge in freshly pumped Mack beer (Mack pumps its beer through pipes into the Ølhallen storeroom) and lapskaus, a traditional Norwegian stew of beef and potatoes. Clad in knee-high black boots, she led us up a series of steps to the brewery's pub-side entrance.

Ernie looked like what you would expect someone from this part of the world to look like: she had blue eyes like a glaciar, and her permed blond hair spilled out from under a black Ølhallen pub cap. Before letting us into the brewery, she briefed us on Mack brews and the Norwegian people's drinking preferences.

"Norwegian people don't drink bitter beer," she told us quite matter-of-factly. As a result, Mack brews mostly Pilsners and Lagers, tempered to Norwegian tastes (there is no market for wheat beer or ales, apparently). They brew German beers and follow the German purity law: their beers are restricted to malt, hops, and water (nearby arctic water is exceptionally pure). You won't find any cloudberry beers at Mack; no crazy Lambics or Krieks or Belgian-inspired beers either. Mack's brews can be divided into three categories: alcohol-free, normal (3.5-4.5 % alcohol), and strong (6.5 %). Surprise of surprises: the alcohol-free beer is one of Mack's biggest sellers!

Mack also makes an Aquavit, an 80-proof Norwegian liquor that typically accompanies fish during meals (it helps break down the fat). One of the Norwegian's on our tour, an older, white-bearded man with no mustache (lending him an Amish look), had served on the Mack's Aquavit taste-testing team and brought it up. (Lucky him, what a dream job! Here's hoping, Dogfish Head, or Allagash, or Brooklyn brewery.) Ernie bobbed her head in agreement and added, "in Norway, we have this ridiculous alcohol law."

Ridiculous how?

You're not allowed to advertise alcohol in Norway. At all. You won't ever see an alcoholic beverage sponsoir a sports team in Norway. Nor will you be assaulted by Mack or Hansa or even Heineken (a.k.a. international Pilsner king) commercials on Norwegian television (man, I would miss the dancing techno robot).

Even on Mack's website, Ernie explained, they can show pictures of their beers, but they can't discuss them directly; which is to say they can't describe each different beer, how it's made, what dish it's meant to accompany, etc.

"People don't know we have over thirty flavors!" Ernie was livid. "It is a way of cheating us of our culture!" As a mother, she accepted that it was a law meant to "protect the children," but "we have to behave ourselves." Ernie also bartends at the Ølhallen and has seen her fair share of drinking.

"Of course people get drunk. But we can't be blamed for that. People must be responsible."

I wholeheartedly agreed, as, I think, did the entire group; we all grunted and snorted in outrage throughout her diatribe.

Ernie was quick to point out another risk to drinking, besides winding up drunk:

"You know if you don't exercise and you drink too much beer, you get this thing that is called 'love handles.'"

Mack considers itself a very traditional brewery and doesn't export outside of Norway. It is a local operation; they mostly serve the northern regions of the country. In addition to brewing beer, and, you know, for more moneys, their factory also recycles glass and plastic bottles. No cans.

They collect the bottles, send them through a gauntlet of cleaning stages, and then, off to the ultimate test: the "sniffers." These machines "sniff" whether the bottles have anything toxic in them. The "sniffers" can handle anything but diesel: if they catch a whiff of diesel, they shut down, as does production (sometimes for a whole day). My question is, how does diesel end up in a coke bottle in the first place?

We donned smurf-esque blue slippers over our shoes before entering the filtering area, where filtering sleeves and rods with tightly packed metal washers work in conjunction to remove impurities from the beer. Ernie emphasized the importance of removing our protective gear before venturing outside again, as our new smurf feet would likely make us slip and fall:

"You forget, and you go out, and you do the split on the ice. I don't like to do the split."

The filtering room also doubles as the pasteurization room: after the filtering process, Mack pasteurizes its beer at 72 degrees Celsius. As if they didn't do enough before all this! The vats of beer are actually brought down to near freezing level right after fermentation. Ernie explained it's on account of "some soldiers" that just don't want to quit fermenting! (Now every time I drink a particularly fermented beer, I'll envision yeasty soldiers making their way to my tummy.)

Nobody suffered any splits, thankfully, and we all headed back to the Ølhallen for the tasting portion of the tour. We were invited to two different pints of beer on the house: on Ernie's recommendation, I tried the Afterski and the Christmas beer. I can't say I tasted much through my cold; pity, I can't relate the flavors. But both beers went down cold and smooth. And I had a pretty damn good time.

Happy Birthday...over, and over, and over, and over again...

Last week, in anticipation of my 26th birthday, I made a pact with Kim.

"We're gonna celebrate every night that I have left as a 25-year-old."

She put up zero resistance.

After all, me "celebrating" my birthday night after night meant that she, too, would be celebrating. And who doesn't enjoy the occasional week-long bacchanalia?

We began Wednesday night at the Dirty, gulping down Snakebites as we played drinking games with the pack of cards Morgan managed to score from the bartender.

A pack of Tarot cards.

First, I taught them how to play one of my favorite childhood card games, Culo Sucio (Dirty Ass in English). Essentially, I explained with animation as I had, by then, already been topped off for the third time, we leave one Joker in the deck, distribute all the cards, and discard them as we accumulate pairs. One player draws a card from his neighbor, and around and around we go until only the Joker remains - in the hands of the unfortunate player who is henceforth dubbed "el culo sucio." When I used to play this game with my father, he insisted on maintaining a roll of toilet paper at the table in order to give the "dirty ass" his or her due - "Anda a limpiarte el culo," go wipe your ass, he would exclaim to peals of laughter from all players save the poor, mortified "culo sucio."

After my detailed explanation, Kim deadpanned:

"Katie. That game is called Old Maid. It exists in the U.S. too. It's the lamest card game in the world."

Feeling just a bit deflated, I nonetheless insisted that we had to, HAD TO play it.

Which we did. For about three rounds, all of which Kim lost (Kim, as it turns out, has a fierce competitive streak hidden behind that doe-eyed goodness of hers).

After that, the night exists only in bits and pieces.

We played Ride the Bus, a brilliant suggestion of Kim's. Morgan and I squared off while Kim observed, horrified either by our butchering of the game or our extreme consumption of alcohol (likely both).

Then I attempted to teach Morgan a hand-slapping game.

One, two, three

My momma takes care of me

Ooo, ahhh

Wanna piece of pie

Pie too sweet

Wanna piece of meat

Meat too tough

Wanna ride a bus

Bus too full

Wanna ride a bull...

The night led us to la Mine (the Mine), the most happening non-techno club in St. E. It is appropriately named, as you have to climb down a set of dark and vertiginous stairs into a basement to enter (also, St. E. is, or at least was, a mining town).

Dancing ensued. Among the fifteen people out at la Mine at 2 am on a Wednesday. One of whom, quite magically, turned out to be Nico, a bartender at...you guessed it. The Dirty! Nico is a native stéphanois who "knows people," including the resident DJ at la Mine who is actually a Smiths fan and played "This Charming Man" on my request. Nico and I danced like teenagers (awkwardly but furiously), and I managed to avoid the usual embarassing music-related commentary (e.g. "I wanna DJ my own wedding!").

Friday night, we drank in (what else) my birthday at Kim's apartment in what turned out to be the most memorable night of crazy yet.

The company: 3 parts American (me, Kim, and Corinne), 3 parts French (Mathilde, Jean, and Morgan), and 1 part German (Ilka).

The drinking event: a power hour using a Snakebite-inspired concoction, not beer.

The power hour is a treacherous drinking game. Minutes stretch into hours, you lose track of your shot count and wind up drinking double or triple. Neither the Frenchies nor the Germans had ever seen, let alone done, anything like it before (oh, American drinking culture, be still my heart, by strong my liver). But Math, well, Math was the star.

After seven minutes: Yous a slut beach! (her attempt at "slut bitch")

After eleven minutes: Putain! Ça fait combien d'heures qu'on joue ce jeu? (Fuck! How many hours have we been playing this game?)

After twenty-six minutes: (singing and playing the guitar)

Mr. Jones and me tell each other future.

We steer at ze beautiful womens.

She lookin' at you?

Ay, nah nah, I don't fink so, she lookin' at me.

Ladies and gentlement, I give you the Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones," covered by Mathilde Grand.

That night ended, once more, at la Mine. With a brief stop at the Dirty because, well, it's become a compulsion.

Finally, on Monday night, I was surpised with the birthday cake of my dreams. Corinne baked me one of the most magnificent and truly personalized cakes I've had the pleasure of devouring in my adult life. If you want more details on how it was prepared, check out her blog.

Yes, what's that you see on top? Nothing other than Kinder Buenos! The crispy wafer, chocolate-covered, hazelnut-filled candy bar that haunts my thoughts when they turn to chocolate.

And that frosting? Could it be? Well, yes, it's clearly chocolate. But what sort of chocolate, you might inquire. There's chocolate and then there's chocolate. Corinne made her ganache frosting out of Lindt milk chocolate. Only the finest (in my opinion) milk chocolate in the world.

The ganache also served as filling to the cake, yellow cake to be precise, found underneath the blanket of milk chocolate. Moist and dense, the perfect consistency.

Marché de Noël: First Impressions

Today is December 1st.

As of this past weekend, the countdown to Christmas has begun. While Americans raced to the stores on Black Friday to shop for presents (or, you know, trampled an ill-fated Wal-Mart temp), the French celebrated a quainter, more charming tradition.

C'est le Marché de Noël! The Christmas Market!

From what I've gathered, the killer Christmas Markets are in the Alsace region: Strasbourg, Mulhouse, and Haguenau, to name a few towns. Tourism is strong this time of year in the Alsace: to pass by any travel agency or tourism office is to be tempted by glossy photos of snow-frosted pines and half-timbered houses with triangular, red brick roofs.

But, and here's the good news for moi, we have our very own Christmas Market here in Saint-Etienne!

I've already been there twice since the weekend.

So here's what I'm thinking: I need a recreational goal for the month of December. Next Friday I take the GRE in Paris, and I'll be rid of standardized tests forever! Or at least for a good long while, although I said the same thing back when I had to take the FCAT - Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test. And then the PSAT. And then the SAT, and then the SAT IIs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: standardized tests are crap. You can't measure intellect through a tool designed for the sole purpose of testing your ability to produce an outcome, correct or incorrect, with no regards for the process whereby you arrive at your answer.

Goddamnit I've gone off topic again. My recreational goal. I've decided that in the coming weeks, I will sample every food product that is available for purchase at the Christmas Market.

But Katie, isn't the Christmas Market about buying, well, Christmas presents?

Yes. But this doesn't really interest me in the slightest.

Yes, you can find artisan-made crafts like glass mosaic plates, wood carved wine holders, wool knit scarves, gloves, and berets, and ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like a pair of intertwined lovers. And while I appreciate the time and skill (and in most cases, the tradition) that goes into manufacturing these articles, I'm more enticed by products that I can smell and taste.

Like churros.

What you see above is a paper wrapped bouquet of sugary churros, fresh out of the frier. The clown's sentiments echo mine exactly: HUMM...C'EST BON! The last thing I expected to see at a French Christmas Market was churros, but I'm definitely not complaining. They even serve them with a small container of Nutella (for dipping, of course), perhaps in an effort to mimic the Spanish tradition of dipping churros in hot chocolate.

I opted to dip my churros in an authentic French specialty: vin chaud.


Oh, dearest vin chaud lady! By the end of December, you will know my face as well as your own flesh and blood! Vin chaud, or mulled wine, is something I've built up since middle school French class. In it, you'll typically fine red wine, lemon, orange, sugar, and cinamon. Some recipes call for the welcome addition of nutmeg, cloves, and ginger. This concoction is heated up and ladled out on chilly nights. Although I could easily make this myself, I like having an excuse to go to the Christmas Market for a 2 Euro cup of vin chaud. This particular booth also sells marron grillés (roasted chestnuts), crêpes, and homemade preserves and marmelades.

What haven't I tried yet? A lot more than you might assume. I have as of yet to déguster the crêpes at the Market. The waffles, too (these are gauffres of the Belgian persuasion - yes, Boston crew, like the ones at the Belgian Beerfest).

Then there are the more region-specific delicacies, like the Tartiflette.


Tartiflette combines three of my all time favorite ingredients: potatoes, cheese (reblochon), and ham (or bacon). My friend Rebecca has told me repeatedly that she can't justify eating Tartiflette unless she has been out all day hiking Mont Blanc or skiing or running a marathon (or some comparable activity outdoors). I say, Rebecca, suck it up and put on your eating pants. The saucepan you see above is about as long as me. This particular booth also provides fresh made Raclette, the very simple and delicious combination of boiled potatoes with Gruyère cheese, popular in Switzerland and the French alpine region.

Then there are the bite-sized treats, like candied fruits and Christmas chocolates, featured below.

Candied kiwis, pinneaple, strawberries, figs, apples, pears, bananas, and apricots, to name about half of the fruits represented. Then there's the marzipan (or almond paste). And the artisan-made chocolates filled with gianduja, pistacchio, milk chocolate, chestnut cream, and more, each finely wrapped in shimmering gold, silver, green, pink, purple, and red-colored foil.

Last, but certainly not least, is the Ferris Wheel of Saint-Etienne.


Stay tuned for updates!

How to embarass yourself in a French bar

Saint-Etienne is what some might consider a small town. Population wise, there are close to 200,000 inhabitants in the city proper (300,000 if you include the whole metropolitan area). The stéphanois, as residents of Saint-Etienne are called, are very warm and friendly. They love their football and are respected for their tramway. Saint-Etienne also draws many students, both French and international, to its universities, the largest of which is the Université Jean Monnet.

Which is why I expected that finding somewhere to go out and knock back a few on a Friday night would be a simple matter. Living two blocks from Jean Monnet, I assumed I could walk out my door, stroll down the Grande Rue and find a bar packed with students and other young people looking to blow off some steam and drink in the weekend.

Let me be clear: I didn't come to France to party. As my good friend Gabriel recalled this week over email, "Cocotte, I'll remind you that your idea was to go to a small town to lead a somewhat monastic life, to think, write, get in touch with your inner life, etc." (On an totally unrelated note, Gabi is also abroad this year doing a post-doc in Cologne, Germany. He has alerted me to the fact that each day he is looking more and more like Karl Marx because he cannot shave: his razor is American, that is, it operates on 110 volts, and he doesn't know where to buy an adapter. Gabi, you need to get your shit together.)

Still, though, I hoped to enjoy a night on the town every now and again. I run the risk of driving myself crazy if I don't.

But finding the hot spots in Saint-Etienne has proved a difficult task. All week I've been on the lookout for any bar that has more than 4 or 5 people, and all week I've become more and more concerned that such a bar does not exist. What's more, Fridays appear to herald a max exodus out of Saint-Etienne to Lyon. The train station, Gare Chateaucreux, is packed with students carrying backpacks and small bundles, chatting on cellphones, presumably to their families who await their weekend visits.

I resolved to go out anyway. It was impossible, I reasoned, that the young stéphanois wouldn't be as eager as me to venture out on a Friday night.

It turns out I was right.

I've met a handful of the other American assistants in Saint-Etienne this week, but the only one I could motivate to come out was Rebecca, a master's student in Romance Languages and Literatures at Boston College. Rebecca is originally from New York and spent an undergrad term studying abroad in Grenoble (where she, like any student, enjoyed going out to the pubs during her down time). In short, she was as anxious as I was to find something resembling nightlife in Saint-Etienne.

The night didn't exactly bode well. It was raining, this cold, wet, trickling rain that slowly but inevitably penetrates clothes, skin, and bone. We met at Riv Pizza, a pizza joint by my house, and decided immediately to forego looking for places in the neighborhood. Earlier this week, on our quest for my apartment, Rapha had pointed out a narrow pedestrian street in the Centre Ville where, she claimed, young people tended to congregate. And so, armed with that bit information, and pretty keen to get out of the rain, we walked the 15-20 minutes down the Grande Rue until arriving at our destination.

Rapha was dead on – the street, lined with bars advertising Guinness, Leffe, Murphy's Stout, and Grimbergen beers, was crawling with stéphanois, most of them in the twenties to thirties age range. With new hope, Rebecca and I wandered around, taking it all in, before settling on Le Petit Soba, a posh little bar packed with a raucous group of drinkers.

From the minute we strolled in and dried off a bit (I shook the wet out of my hair which has grown to a challenging length), Rebecca and I stood out. The crowd was on the better-dressed side, while I sported jeans my five-year old red Adidas sneakers. We took two stools by the bar and ordered a couple of Guinness's – gaffe number two, it seems, since everyone in sight was drinking champagne. That is until the bartenders, young, balding, and sporting hip glasses all around, prepared two things I had never seen before.

The first was test tube shots, something that Rebecca, a former bartender, assured me is quite common. "It's very 'spring break,'" she said. The second was somewhat harder to describe. We watched, with incredulous smiles, as one of the bartenders handed a group of men what Rebecca instantly referred to as a beer bong. I'm not sure that would be the correct term, but it was essentially a glass container with two openings – one that jutted out diagonally and tapered to a very thin spigot, and the other a vertical cylinder through which the bartenders had poured the drink.

The drink was the color of pale honey. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was, or why it was served in such a particular vessel. So I asked. The bartender who brought us our Guinness explained: a blonde Belgian mixed with vodka and citron, this drink is known (if my bar memory serves) as a Peronne. The bartender had one for himself in addition to the one he'd prepared.

"T'en veux?" he asked. Want some?

Like I've already said, I won't be turning down any food or drinks.

"Bien sur!" Of course!

And here we get to my grand christening of French bars. And French men. Peronne is not only served in a particular way, it is also drunk in a particular way. It hit me this morning that it makes perfect sense that a group of men would order it. In a sort of bar-friendly pissing contest, the men last night passed the drink around and, holding it up and at an arms-length from their mouths, proceeded to "drink" the Peronne. Only it takes great skill to aim the spigot correctly and pour the thin stream of liquid straight into your mouth. "Drinking" Peronne is more about theatrics and performance than actual consumption and enjoyment. The greater the distance from which you can pour the libation down you throat without spilling it all over yourself, the cooler you are.

As most of my friends and family can attest, I am neither coordinated, nor am I all that cool.

On my first try with the bartender's Peronne, the spigot was barely an inch away from my mouth. It was a great (if not all that impressive) success, since I managed to aim it properly. A while later, one of the men from the increasingly jovial and boisterous group next to us, offered both Rebecca and I a taste. I went first, already having practiced a bit. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of grabbing the Peronne by the spigot end instead of by the vertical cylinder. The glass, wet from all the liquid splashing out, slipped right out of my hand, nearly smashing on the floor. Mad props go to the French man for his reflexes, since he made the quick save. But not before a good deal of the drink flew out of the vertical cylinder and all over his buddy, Monsieur Leather Jacket, who was none to pleased with me. Turns out, Monsieur Leather Jacket was a champion Peronne drinker, and as if to reinforce what a novice I was, he grabbed it from his buddy and shot a three-foot long stream into his mouth.

Rebecca and I stayed out until midnight, watching the ebb and flow of people at the bar. Aside from one drunken girl who tried to serve herself a Guinness from in front of the bar (the bartender seized the glass, emptied it out, and gave her a withering look that made even me cringe), the crowd behaved well in spite of the quantity of alcohol being served and consumed. Oh, and on our way out, the bartenders, who warmed up to us and turned out to be pretty friendly guys, prepared us a surprise: two test tubes filled with neon blue shots of something minty and fresh.

All in all, a solid first night out in Saint-Etienne.