I ask a man with a perfect wave in his hair and a blue suitcoat what he’s got in his glass: “The Helles,” he replies. I look at the board. “The number 16,” he helpfully adds.
Got it: 54 40’s Hellish Helles.
But he and his friend-who also has a perfect hair wave and blue suitcoat (they have also adopted skinny leg jeans, too, and at this point I’m starting to think pod people) are having a conversation so I leave them be. Maybe something creepy is doing on there, maybe it’s a work uniform.
I don’t know that I want to know that badly, for once.
The Helles is solid; there’s the barest frisk of malt in the nose to give the beer some body and the finish is properly crisp. I wish it was drinking it in July, or at least with a hot dog, but for the first honest to god day in Portland where one could consider drinking outside, it feels appropriate enough.
Today’s second pint is for the Electronic Frontier Foundation.