a hobo's song

Last weekend, at the beginning of our epic pub crawl in Manhattan (six bars, many beers), we were in the Pony Bar on the west side. I was up at the bar ordering an elderberry cider for me and Kim (really delicious, I might add), when I overheard this guy talking to the bartender.

Young Annoying West Side Beer Hipster: “I really hate AleWife. I tried this beer that was allegedly one of the great beers, and it was sour. So I told the bartender, who proceeded to pour himself one, take a sip, and tell me, “No, it’s not.” What a bunch of bull-shit. I have a fucking sophisticated palate, and that guy had no fucking clue. So much for supposedly being the best bar in the five boroughs.”

Me, interjecting: “I’m surprised. AleWife is a great bar.”

YAWSBH, noting I’ve said something with which he disagrees: “Oh, then I suppose I shouldn’t say anything that might offend.”

Me: “Why? I have no pony in this race.”

YAWSBH: “That place just sucks. It’s much better here. You all know your beer.”

For the record, I’ve been to AleWife once. Our friends Mark and Kim love the bar, and it’s been rated the best beer bar in New York City. This guy was really just full of himself. The Pony Bar, I must say, was a good bar.