Halloween is kind of a big deal for me. I love getting dressed up and seeing other people’s costumes. Also: binge drinking. No, “binge drinking” is a negative term. How about “unmoderated levels of drinking”? That sounds better.
This year, I decided to do something a little different and drink good beer for Halloween instead of doubling down on some 2-4-1 Coors Light specials served to me by the sexy version of whatever the bartender could get at Party City before her shift started. Enter the Rackhouse Anniversary Bash and Dry Dock Brewing.
This would be double awesome because I haven’t been able to make it to the Dry Dock brewery, and they were basically bringing the whole goddamned brewery to the Rackhouse, so it worked out well.
My friends and I stepped out in our Halloween’s finest (I was dressed as Slutty Bob Ross, though there’s been some contention on the “slutty” part so I think I should modify to Sexy Bob Ross. I was sporting a goatee and a coke pinky though), grabbed a giant table and the drinking began.
Upon entry into the Rackhouse, I had to remind myself that this was technically an anniversary party, not specifically a Halloween party, so the space was filled with a uncanny mixture of street clothes, Day of the Dead costumes and cleavage that I would file under “not everyday exposure levels.” As is usually the case at the Rackhouse, there was an even number of people perched at the bar for faster bartender-to-glass-to-mouth service and groups seated at tables.
The live music kicked off around 10 and the Goat Ropers played some great background music while we chit chatted among ourselves. People got up and danced for a while, but the Rackhouse is definitely more of a chill out and drink amazing drink while seated sort of place.
There was a costume contest at some point, not sure when. I think it might have been after I had the 12% Swabby, in which case, I was barely coherent. But I think a woman dressed as Chuck Testa won first place. I met her dressed as him in the bathroom. It was surreal.
In addition to the Rackhouse’s usual extensive menu of chow, beers, and spirits there was almost an entire page of Dry Dock beer varieties to choose from. Be it a porter or stout, an IPA or sour, or perhaps a simple hefe or blonde ale – my options were aplenty. My, my, whatever was a girl to do? Quite simple, really: drink as many of the beers on the list as I could.
These are my notes – what little remains of my memory – on the beers I consumed Saturday night:
“Why, hello, what appears to be corkboard floating in my beer.”
“So good. Like a Reese’s peanut butter cup, but without the chocolate and with beer instead. I want to swim/drink in this a la Strange Brew.”
Follow up: I wish I had ordered this last since it would have been a good finishing beer, but it was only a firkin and, well, if there’s still beer left in the firkin, you drink that beer first, bitch.
“Session beer! Pretty mild for an amber. This is the kind of beer that you could drink until you fell into an alcohol induced coma and you would never see it coming.”
“Mother. Of. God. 12% ABV?!? This is too delicious for its alcohol content. I would order another one, but I’m afraid my liver would punch its way out of my body.”
“My coke pinky is starting to become an entity unto itself. ‘The coke pinky wants…’”
Note: After the Swabby, I needed basically the opposite of that to balance things out so I slurred some request to our server for “somethinglightplease” and he suggested this. Bless him. Bless him so hard.
“Mmmmm, tastes like fruit. This is the kind of beer I would drink while getting mani/pedis with my lady friends and gossiping about celebutantes or whatever they’re called.”
After this, I had the good sense not to try anything new (read: I kept drinking, it was just the same beer). I was three sheets and I knew it. Evidenced by the fact that every time I stood up, all I could mumble was, “So drunk. Sooooo drunk.”
Further proof of how inebriated I was Saturday night was how long it took me to recover Sunday: all day. While the hangover is gone, I still have this blasted coke nail stuck to my pinky and a desire to try some more Dry Dock beers after their great performance this weekend.
Big thanks to my server, Albert Einstein, who put up with my shenanigans all night. You’re a gentleman and a scholar, sir.
Well played, Dry Dock and well done, Rackhouse.