Hooray for Red Stripe, The Butterfinger of Beers

What's the perfect equation for a beach outing? Sun, sand, and Red Stripe is all you need. Of course a few buff guys and girls in skimpy bikinis wouldn't hurt either, but if you want to make it even that much better, keep reaching into the cooler of Red Stripe.

I first came across Red Stripe lager while visiting my mother. A woman of exquisite tastes in all matters, she is very picky about alcohol and even pickier about her beers. Usually the bottom drawer of my parent's fridge (as well as the not-so-mini mini fridge downstairs) is stocked with Bud and Bud Light. My dad will go through a few sometimes in the evenings, if the burger's right, but you won't ever see my mother in that drawer except for to clean it.

So, Mom pulls out a beer and I'm intrigued by the squat, brown-tinted bottle. It's dripping with beads of perspiration next to what's left of her loaded burger. It's so hot outside and it look so inviting. "What's that?" I ask, expecting to be offered one. I don't eat hamburgers but my parents make burgers to tempt Christ, so I'm really craving something tasty.

"Red Stripe," she says matter of factly, raising the bottle to her lips, taking a swig, and licking her lips before setting it back down.

Already, I know I'm gonna be hooked on it. I ask again, "What's Red Stripe?" and anticipate her getting up and going to the fridge in her usual bubbly style, pulling out a cold one for me and ready to lay me down with the history of the beer and why it's so good.

"Beer," she says. Another swig and she's finished so she walks over to the fridge and comes back and sets her open bottle on the table. Next she picks up her paper plate and returns to the kitchen.

I didn't even think about it. I stuck my greedy hand out and closed my sweaty fingers around the cold, wet glass. I bring it to my lips. I haven't eaten one of those mouthwatering beef patties and all day I've been drinking water because it's 105 degreees outside and now I can smell it...

"Nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger!" my mom booms in her deep, strong voice. One thing I forgot to tell you about Mom is that she loves Butterfingers. If she buys Butterfingers, that mean's she's PMSing and if whatever she said didn't go before, it did then.

So, I left later that evening, my own designated driver. I got the chance to try Red Stripe a few weeks later while visiting Miami with a friend. We went to the beach with her cousin who, after setting up towels and umbrellas, took off the lid of his cooler to reveal pure gold.

"Is that Red Stripe?!" I nearly pounce on it as if it were the last Dasani in a desert full of cotton-mouthed zombies.

Taken aback by my unique interest in a rather obscure beer (either that or my flailing body hurtling through sand, monster boobs bouncing Pam Anderson-stlye), he raises his eyebrows, "So you like Red Stripe, huh?" It was love for him.

Licking my lips after my first taste of Red Stripe I answer, "Oh, yeah." It was love for me, too.

I'm not a beer drinker. I hate beer. It's disgusting. I can't even finish a can of any beer, besides Red Stripe. What makes me dislike beer so much is the sour taste that penetrates every cell of my mouth. That's beer for you, right? Wrong. Red Stripe is a beer and you know it, but whatever they got going on in that little brown bottle evens out the overbearing nastiness and makes you savor every drop. I'd describe it as a sweet beer, but in no way is it mellow. BANG! The first sip hits you with flavor and leaves you shaking your head after you swallow it, asking yourself "What the...?" That's Red Stripe, baby. Hooray, beer!