Little Beers

I’ve been commuting all week to Battery Park City (which I call Faketown, because it’s like a squeaky-clean, shooting-a-movie-in-Vancouver-and-calling-it-Manhattan bizarro world) to see my dog. The dog’s staying with friends while Sean and I look after two other dogs who once belonged to Sean’s father and now need new homes. Steve and Demian, our Faketown-living, dogsitting friends, love making cocktails as much as we do. They are particularly fond of drinks with ribald names (The Sandy Vagina, The Butterface, The Big Red Gay; I am literally retyping these off a chalkboard in their apartment), drinks that taste like edible things (the PB&J), and trompe-l’oeil drinks, like Little Beers.

You can serve these in shot glasses or some such thimbleware at your Super Bowl party, ask your friends if they’d like a sample-sized sip of this delectably creamy, new lager you found, and should some suspiciously request clarification of just what it is, you may innocently and honestly respond, “Oh, they’re just little beers.”