Last week, The Slayer experienced a beer faux pas so evil and vile it rocked the malty foundation of his morals and ethics. While The Slayer realizes this event may seem trivial to most, to The Slayer it was just another example of the deterioration of our civilization.

The dastardly event took place in one of the most chic and classy restaurants Wilmington has to offer. Upon entering this dining establishment, one is almost brought to his knees by a wave of pretension, money and societal one-upsmanship. If your ensemble is not composed of at least 60% black clothing, so preferred by the neo-bohemians, you feel a little out of place, like the bastard at the family picnic. For many, their eating experience at this restaurant is tainted if they can decipher the sexual orientation of their server when introduced.

The Slayer usually does not frequent such trendy places. He much prefers a casual dining experience at restaurants that provide a large selection of beers. However this night, The Slayer was taking The Brew-wife out to celebrate her new job. Because the dining decision was not his this night, he found himself subjected to this milieu.

The Slayer, clad in jeans and a white sweater, at first did not feel terribly comfortable in the restaurant. As soon as he took a look at the establishment's beer list he felt more at home. While the list was chuck full of American lagers and yuppie imports (i.e. Heineken, Amstel Light and Beck's), there was a fairly large selection of microbrews to choose from as well.

However, as The Slayer perused the list he noticed a minor mistake that should have been a foreshadowing of the catastrophe that awaited him. The menu of beers was broken down into sections for the beer novice: Domestics; Imports and Microbrews. While The Slayer found no problem with this arrangement, he did notice that next to the microbrews heading was the word organic.

The Slayer proceeded to look at the beers below this heading. There was not one beer listed that, to The Slayer's omniscient brew-knowledge, was known to be a beer of purely organic ingredients. There are only two beers that have made such a claim, Perry's Majestic and an ale brewed in Evansville, IN. (The Slayer cannot remember it's name; so maybe omniscient is not the right word). Nonetheless, neither of these brews was found on the beer menu. The Slayer thinks that the restaurant used the word organic to keep with its trendy, chic image. Most assuredly, it is a false claim.

Giving this minor mistake not another thought, The Slayer ordered a bottle of Rogue Ale to start. He was not sure if he had slain this beer before; so he thought he would see if he recognized its markings (label). The waiter, hearing The Slayer's request, graciously, in a begrudging manner, accepted the order and brought the coveted brew to him.

Sure enough, this fine brew had never passed trod upon The Slayer's palate. Being quite pleased that he had hunted down and was about to devour another brew, The Slayer did not immediately sense the travesty that lay before him. Lovingly, The Slayer picked up the bottle and surveyed its inscriptions like Indiana Jones would an ancient Sanskrit text. He was pleased to see that the label included such informative data as the international bittering units and degrees Plato of the contents. (The Slayer will explain these important measurements in another column.)

Once the bottle's markings had been digested, The Slayer was prepared to pour this fine ale into a glass. As he picked up the vessel that had been provided, his hands started to shake and a feeling of ire began to crawl up his well hopped spine. "A WATER GLASS!" The Slayer was heard to exclaim. "They gave me a water glass into which to pour this fine beverage!"

The Brew-wife, feeling The Slayer's torment or at least hearing his loud exclamation, said, "Now, now, calm down. This is not the end of the world. I'm sure that they have no other glasses for beer."

"They better find something better than this agua goblet," The Slayer stammered, not at all pacified by her defense of the restaurant. "Would they serve their wine in a coffee cup? For that matter, would they present coffee in a gravy boat? I think not. Why is beer so unimportant that it does not deserve a vessel meant solely to enhance its appreciation?"

"Maybe, the people who come here do not appreciate beer like you do," The Brew-wife answered while trying to keep The Slayer from storming the kitchen.

"Do they appreciate civilization?" The Slayer screamed. "Beer is the foundation of civilized man and all things good and Holy. How can I appreciate this grand gift from God in a water glass?"

"Honey, come down from the table, NOW," The Brew-wife whispered between clenched teeth to The Slayer as she tried to hide her face from view.

"All right, I will drink my beloved brew from a water glass," The Slayer said, feeling the desperation and embarrassment in her voice. "But, I will never order a beer here again."

With a few deep breaths and some exotic Eastern practices that involved chanting and tiny needles, The Slayer finally settled down enough to pour the beer and drink it. The Rogue Ale was a magnificent example of an amber ale. It was full of sweet malt complexity that was perfectly balanced with just the right amount of hop bitterness.

Somehow, The Slayer could not enjoy this ale as much as he had others of less quality. The presentation of this fine brew in a water glass made the Slayer feel dirty, somehow violated. All things have their place. Water glasses are meant, solely, for water and for those who may indulge their tastes for such.