Two men, brothers perhaps, both at least 60-years-old, approach the craft beer bar hesitantly.
“This is it.”
“He said it was good, did he?”
“Yeah, he’s in here all the time with his university mates. Hold up, before we go in, look, there’s a beer menu.”
“A beer menu?”
He picks up the binder and turns it in his hands, bewildered, as if the very form is alien to him. He opens it and begins to scan the pages with a fingertip.
“These are all beers, are they? Passion fruit… Cherry… They can’t be beers.”
“Give us a look. Yeah, look, it says here: fruit beers.”
“They’ve actually got fruit in them? Bloody hell. I don’t… What’s this… Two-thirds? Is that two-thirds of a litre or what?”
“I don’t know, mate. I don’t… I’ll just go in and get something. I’ll work it out.”
“Just get me whatever, I don’t mind, whatever’s easiest.”
When the forager returns it is with two half-pint stem glasses, one full of red beer, the other pink.
“I just got two small ones to start with. Er… I might have made a huge tactical error.”
“How d’you mean?”
“They’re both sour beers. she says.”
“I think so.”
They both sip.
“I wasn’t expecting…”
“No, I didn’t think…”
“It’s clever, innit? The way they… How it…”
“It’s like the sourness makes it taste more fruity.”
“And it’s sort of… balanced out, is it? If you know what I mean. By the sweetness.”
They just barely clink their glasses in a quiet display of triumph before conversation turns to football.