Go Away. Please, just go away.

New Holland Brewing Company in Holland, MI

You’re walking down Columbia. It’s not too late yet. We’re just into September. You remember that Septembers signal the beginnings of college football and the smell of drying leaves against a backdrop of cool nights where you can have your car window down almost all the way on your drive home. But it can get chilly late, late at night, at times when you’re out. But September in the East isn’t like that. September is still swampy–thick and sticky, like swimming in a pool of creamed corn that’s been on the oven for way too long. You’re walking, though, anyway, and you notice a man coming towards you. You don’t know him, so you ignore him, and he passes by you on the street. It’s still too hot, and the sun is just barely going to bed on the horizon, but you can’t see it. You only see this man, now right behind you, asking you, “Have you ever been to Mexico?” You say you haven’t been. From there, things go downhill. He invites you to walk with him, and he hands you an El Mole Ocho beer from New Holland Brewing.

This man starts talking incessantly about Mexican food and the flavors that come to mind just from the imagination running its course. He tells you the El Mole Ocho is a beer dedicated to the mole flavors of the South, a unique, dark blend of chilis with a distinctive earthy and smoky flavor. You try the beer, hoping to be transported to a foreign land and swept away by smells and culture that comes from a simple sauce that packs such a punch. The beer, though, disappoints. You’re initially excited. You see a dark burgundy-amber beer that smells of sweet coffee and other complex chili flavors. The initial taste puts your mouth in a blender, with flavors of coffee and sweet malt tickling around everywhere. You’re still excited. But then the ugly side comes out. This man gets angry. You sense a dull and earthy funk now, and you worry about where you are. The man is very angry now and yelling. The beer gets worse. He keeps getting dirtier, just like the beer. You can’t stand either of them, now, and you quickly finish the beer before abruptly leaving, never wanting to return to either again.

You walk home and it’s dark now, with the orange glow of street lamps barely lighting the side streets. You flavor of the beer is still in your mouth, as is the image of the ugly, torturous man. You want to go to Mexico. You want to sample real mole. But you know you will not do either of those soon. And you certainly won’t see the man or the beer again anytime soon. Ever.