When we got back to Otto's, Thomas -- you remember him, the kid who had a big smoked turkey sangich about two hours ago? -- sez, "I'm hungry." Me, I haven't had lunch yet, and it's 4:30. And I owed Sam lunch. So we sat, and Leah (have you met Leah? Sam says she's a goddess, and I'm going to build a temple to her in the backyard) takes our beer orders: I got a cask Arthur's IPA (have you met Arthur? He's Charlie's other cat) and Sam got the pilsner. At first, I think the pilsner has a sweet, plastic smell to it, but as I clear things out, I realize it's just a lot of noble hop aroma. I might have kept it, but my IPA is wicked good. Then Charlie sends some Tripel D over, and Sam and I are soon acting like cats in the 'nip. If we'd had bigger glasses, I might have moussed some into my beard so I could keep smelling it all the way home, but I didn't want to waste any. We got mussels and frites and I want you to know: not one mussel wasn't open. Not one, dammit! Then Sam got a Mt. Nittany Pale Ale on cask, and it was just about unbearably good, drink-drink good, and if it hadn't been for the Tripel D it would have been the best beer on the table. Leah approached with food: a half-pound rare burger ground out of local spent-grain-fed cow, with frizzled onion straws, barbecue sauce, and lumpy strong gorgonzola. I didn't want to put it down, and I kept stopping to lick the gorgonzola off the plate, and Doc had one too with bleu cheese, and Sam had some crazy good damn thing and it was all nom nom nom and drink drink drink.
And it was all good. When can we go back to Otto's? And Thomas drove home, and did a good job at it, too.