The Haze

I got a hazy IPA at the brewery. It's the color of orange juice that somebody's been arguing with.

First thing I did was hold it up to the window, because that's what you do with a beer. You look through it. For what, I couldn't tell you. I've done it with every beer I've ever had, and I've never found anything in there. But it's something to do with your hands that looks like expertise.

With a hazy, there's nothing to look through. You hold it up and you're looking at a wall of beer. That's not information.

My buddy said, "Well?"

I said, "Hm."

And I'll tell you, "Hm" is the most respected word we have. Nobody asks a follow-up. You say it, you nod slowly, and the whole room assumes you've noticed something. What I'd noticed was that it was cloudy, and everyone had already noticed that.

I've said "Hm" over a lot of beers now. Nobody has ever asked what I meant. I'm starting to think nobody knows what they mean, which isn't a comfort.

The beer is excellent, though. I held it up one more time, to be safe.

"Hm."