The Porter Incident

We all have that one childhood memory we wish our parents would forget.

For me, it was at a brewery restaurant when I was seven. I ordered a refill of my made in-house root beer... and got a little more than I bargained for.

I was suspicious when it came, there were less than half as many bubbles as there should have been, and the foam was lasting a lot longer than it should have, but I knew my family would start asking questions if I just kept eyeing it suspiciously, so I leaned up to the glass (I was a bit short for the combination of tall table and big glass) and took one tiny little sip.

Not root beer.

My mother, being a woman of boundless sympathy, took one look at my contorted little face and cracked up so badly she almost fell out of the booth.

My dad looked at her in confusion, saw me forcing myself to swallow instead of spitting beer all over the table, and joined her in laughter.

My sister, who was nine at the time, was confused, but also thought my face looked funny.

"That was not root beer!" exclaimed overdramatic little seven-year-old me, bursting into tears as she unnecessarily decided that the 'trauma' of this day would haunt her for years to come.

Still laughing heartily at my pain, my mother passed the glass to my father for inspection, my father took a sip and determined it to be porter.

By this point I had stopped crying, but I was still horribly upset- that stuff tasted dang awful. Even thirteen-year-old me would still insist that about half my taste buds died a gruesome death that day.

It was then that our server came over and was horrified to learn of her mistake, she was certain that she was about to lose her job and possibly go to jail for serving alcohol to a seven-year-old, but once she explained that some of the taps at the bar weren't working properly and the bartender hadn't labeled the pitchers my parents were more than willing to laugh it off as an amusing accident.

I only wish that they would let me live it down, something tells me it's going to come up again -like it does at most Christmas parties and family gatherings- when I turn 21 this fall. Still, I have come to terms with the story's place in the family lore (I wouldn't post it here otherwise), I'm sure there are worse childhood horror stories to have your parents recount to everyone they incorporate into their friend groups before you've even met them...