Otherwise, they could have an accident.
Holding the glass up to the light and peering through the amber liquid, Cynthia thought she saw dust swirling in the bottom and said as much to her friend seated on the barstool next her.
“Unfiltered,” Cheryl replied. The crowded, noisy room nearly drowned out the terse response. “Trendy.” She swallowed a mouthful, “Believe it or not, supposed to be that way.”
Cynthia sniffed the rim, did not find the yeasty odor offensive. She tilted the drink toward her lips but paused before sipping and took one more close squint at the liquid’s surface. Where draught met glass was a thin thread of white foam.
Cynthia at last tasted the ale and a cold tingle of effervescence trilled down her throat with the reminiscence of champagne. A different kind of bubbly, she thought. Beer isn’t just for red-necks any more.
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At the same time, Cheryl set her half-full pint on the counter and leaned back to take in the other patrons and their mutual surroundings. She watched fascinated as Cynthia went through her sniffing and squinting motions and smiled at the thought that her friend had never been in a brew pub.
In Southern California where Cynthia grew up there were bars and restaurants but nobody concocted their own beverages on the premises from scratch. Except maybe root beer stands. Would that be the same thing? She’d have to think about that.
