The Perfect Pint by Brigid Whoriskey

Writing inspired by the following SWC prompts:

119.5 Seconds
According to the brewers of Guinness, it takes 119.5 seconds to pour the perfect
pint. What fun, strange, amazing, life-changing incident happens to your character
during those 119.5 seconds while waiting for their favourite drink to settle?

The Perfect Pint

by Brigid Whoriskey

There are 170 million pints of Guinness poured on St Patrick’s day in pubs and taverns all over the world. The perfect ones will take 119.5 seconds to pull. Now, anyone who’s ever imbibed in black magic – or the black stuff or a pint of plain or whatever you choose to call Irish champagne – will know that not every bartender pours the perfect pint.

Let’s suppose, generously, that half of those pints are perfectly poured and we’ll allow an average of 45 seconds for the floundering eejits to pull each of the other murdered pints. That, according to the genius of my phone’s calculator app, is around 3.8 million hours, spent today (St Patrick’s day), just waiting for that beautiful creamy white head to perfectly settle on that black loveliness. That is a lot of hours.

Of course, the perfect pour is not just about presentation; it’s so much more. It’s that delicious sense of anticipation when placing the order (all that’s required is a single nod to the bartender in your local). It’s the theatre of first pour, the slow settle, the second pour and the final pause while the creamy head emerges. It’s the lifting of that perfectly poured pint, and the cold glass touching your lips as you take the first smooth sweet malty taste (occasionally followed by a foam moustache for the beginners!).

So what will happen in those 3.8 million hours, waiting for those pints of Guinness today?

proposals will be made;
breakups will happen;
someone will swipe left;
someone else will delete a dating app;
some will drink alone;
someone’s blind date will arrive, a little late, but the spark will be instant;
someone else will slowly drink 2 pints and then face up to the fact that they’ve been stood up, again;
someone will be offered their dream job;
someone will be made redundant;
hands will be shaken with strangers;
a punch will be thrown;
a bet will be lost, and another one won;
gaslighting will continue;
someone will say the prefect thing to make someone else’s day;
messages of hate will be posted, and so will messages of hope;
a tear of despair will be shed;
jokes will be cracked, some causing belly laughter so hard that it hurts;
someone will die;
someone will be born (hopefully their mum is not waiting for a pint at the time but with 170 million pints to play around with, who knows?)
friends will be warmly hugged;
someone will turn their back on the Guinness being poured, and give a silent cheer to their sobriety;
a killer line will be written for a novel;
songs will be sung and music will be played;
someone will celebrate their PB on their run that day;
someone will fall;
someone will reach out a helping hand to a stranger;
there will be much talking;
none are likely to realise they are part of the 3.8 million hours of life on this day waiting for a pint.

And as for me, I’ll lean in to my 119.5 seconds. I’ll sit quietly and wait. I’ll notice the glass held at 45 degrees for the first pouring, the dark liquid sliding slowly down the glass. I’ll watch the tiny bubbles rising and the foam settling. I’ll tune out the hubbub of the pub and listen to the soft hiss of the second pouring. I’ll wait a little longer until that line between dark and light is sharp. And as I lift my pint of Guinness to my lips, I’ll know that in this crazy messed up world, some things are perfect.

Sláinte.

(This piece was written on the morning of St. Patrick’s Day.)