MobCraft Beer’s Señor Bob, a tequila barrel aged Imperial Ale with Agave, is the stuff relationships are made of.

One of the things I love most about beer is the way it creates moments that connect us and bring us together. This happens in many different, subtle ways. Here’s one.

Between work and the constant battle with entropy that is keeping house with two kids under four, by bedtime there’s a good chance that neither my wife or I feel like doing much except finishing season two of Poldark or catching up on social media as we trade stories from our day. We still have nights when we talk and laugh and never look at a screen, though those kind of moments can’t be forced into being, no matter how much we yearn for the early days of our relationship when everything was easy and light-hearted.

But drinking Senor Bob, I had just such a moment.

It had been a while since I’d written about anything from the good folks over at MobCraft, so I stopped by to grab a few bottles of something in hopes of writing about each beer. After the kids went down, I grabbed two glasses, the bottle of Senor Bob, a bottle opener, a notebook, and my fountain pen. I headed into the living room, cracked the bottle and filled our glasses with two small pours of the richly golden beer, and asked my wife to help me with some tasting notes.

Without even looking at the bottle, we raised our glasses and began a kind of informal tasting session. What followed began as a set of tasting notes and ended as the beer faded to the background and our conversation turned towards each other.

“Smells a little malty,” she said”

“Tastes of strawberries and nectar,” I replied.

“Oh yeah, it reminds me of honey.”

“Definitely. It’s super malty. And a little boozy.”

“It does remind me of Tequila and now all I can think about is Mexico. It’s got a nice creamy mouthfeel though.”

“Totally. Are you getting anything like green wood? Kind of like when you nibble on a green twig?” I said as I scribbled a note.

“I’ve never eaten a twig. It reminds me more of Trix”

“It totally reminds me of Trix! And I really like how the flavors open up as the beer warms, kind of like wine.”

“I would really love to go back to wine country.”

And with that turn, the beer faded from the foreground of our conversation. We talked for another hour and a half, staying up late just because we loved being together.

What strikes me about this is that what began as a beer moment ended as a moment about two people. And that’s one of the things I love most about beer. Do we have similar moments that don’t start with beer? Yes. Of Course. All the time. But those moments can feel scarce, and they’re the kind of thing that has to happen on it’s own. But by starting with beer, we found ourselves somewhere else. Beer is a door to other things. This is the same ordinary magic that happens in bars and taprooms across the country when one person asks the other what they’re drinking or what they think is good, and then ten minutes later they clink glasses and part as friends.

See, even for someone like me who loves beer and who’s made writing about beer into a job, beer isn’t always about beer, it’s about people. I suspect that has something to do with why it’s been around for so long. You can get a buzz from anything, but beer has a way of slowly taking you from one place to another, of encouraging you to get lost along the way, of taking you back where you started, and then dropping you off somewhere entirely different, somewhere that’s itself more of a beginning than an end.

Those kind of conversational journeys are what great relationships are made of. Aren’t they what we’re all after anyway? Human connection? Someone to stick it out with us on our journey to who knows where?

That’s something I don’t totally know the answer to, but I do know this: sometimes happiness is as simple as two good friends, a bottle of beer, and conversation that starts with, “It kind of tastes like…”


— Nathan