Eventually, I’m going to retire from my current role as a quiet player in backroom diplomatic negotiations that foster world peace, and when I do I’m going to open a shop called “Pat’s Bike and Brew.” I’ve always wanted to open a shop that combines two of the things I most love in this crazy, mixed-up world of ours. This will be a place where you can get your bike serviced, purchase tools and parts, and get maintenance advice. Or just shoot the breeze over a couple of Belgian golden ales, brewed right there on site. Needless to say, I’ll brew the beer. It’s not like I don’t have significant experience with it.
It’s just occurring to me, and probably already occurred to you, that authorities may not be so pleased with a bike shop serving beer. Can you imagine a car dealership serving beer to patrons while they wait for their alternator to be replaced? I’m sure you can, and so can lawyers who have made a career out of suing car dealers.
So I have a better idea: “Pat’s Watch and Clock. And Beer.” As a person with many watches and clocks, several of which don’t work, I’m just the right person to show enthusiasm for your love of old mechanical timepieces, which are easily outperformed by cheap plastic devices with Disney characters on their faces. As we talk about the beauty of grandpa’s old Illinois Regulator watch and all its little gears and springs and jewels, we can uncork a couple of Abbey Ales. Just don’t spill any droplets into the movement, because my Abbey Ales have a fair bit of unfermentable sugars in them and will make a sticky mess of grandpa’s precious pocket watch.
With this in mind, it may be best to go with “Pat’s Radio Repair, and Good Beer.” I like old radios, especially when you can find a baseball game on them. And I like good beer when I’m listening to baseball. In my radio repair shop, you can bring in an old Telefunken tube radio that used to play The Shadow in the 1940s. I will find the offending dead tube and get a replacement from an online supplier that has purchased the whole world’s remaining supply of radio tubes. And then you and I toast me with a glass or two of my dry-hopped Hefeweizen while listening to the staticy a.m. signal, until you, as a lightweight, get drunk on my beer and pissed off that the radio only plays “traffic on the 3s” and foreign language radio programs instead of The Lone Ranger. And then you throw the radio across the room, smashing it to bits.
Maybe I’ll just open a beer tasting room instead.