Beer is liquid bread. In fact, the English word beer comes from the German, bier, a derivation of the word brot (bread). As The Slayer has pointed out in previous columns, beer has been a dietary staple for thousands of years. If he had his druthers, The Slayer would sustain himself entirely on malt beverage. Unfortunately, in this day and age, a diet consisting only of brew would neither be practical nor socially acceptable; The Slayer regards the latter reason to be of little importance.

Because the intake of actual solid food has been a habit The Slayer has had since early childhood, he continues this behavior an a daily basis. Always the adventurer, when searching for mastication friendly sustenance, The Slayer tends to seek out the exotic and unusual; especially when dining out. He has no interest in blasted beer nor food. Believing you are what you drink or eat, The Slayer feels that his intake of unique substances maintains his quaint persona and demeanor. He has and will never be accused of running with the crowd or ascribing to conformity.

Recently, The Slayer took The Brew-wife out to dinner. While he was out sampling some fine malt beverages, she had been home malting and crushing grains and drying hops for The Slayer's next brew. She wore the remnants of her labor like a hobo does fingerless gloves and street soot. Her fingers were burnt, barley chaff covered her from head to toe and her face had the yellow sheen of hop lupulin gland dust. While the Slayer expects to have dinner ready when he comes home (something he has awaited for approximately 1,468 days; and counting), seeing The Brew-wife's plant byproduct besmudged form made him take mercy on her this night; so, off to dinner they went.

Finding a restaurant in Wilmington, NC is about as difficult as locating a detached digit at a leper camp. Both are everywhere you step. Amazingly, The Slayer has been a patron at most of these eating establishments in the past four years of his residence in this city at the end of I-40.

Since most of these restaurants are neither exotic nor ethnic, once The Slayer had eaten at one of them he had a pretty good feel for the fare at Wilmington dining establishments as a whole. A veteran of many beer safaris, The Slayer knows that the true bounty lies outside the trodden path. That is why, on this night, he decided to dine Olympia Restaurant in nearby Wrightsville Beach. While this posh beach community is more like exploring Palm Springs than the wilds of a Colorado Brewpub, Olympia's exotic Greek fare would more than make up for Wrightsville Beach's lack of danger and adventure.

While the food, from the appetizer to the desert, was excellent, The Slayer was quite enamored with the service at Olympia. It was courteous, gracious, but most of all prompt. When The slayer and Brew-wife arrived at the restaurant the place was filled wall to wall with patrons. Expecting to wait for some time, the two decided to spend some quality time at the Olympia's bar. Though the beer selection was not something that would make The Slayer return to this place, the fluid refreshment on hand would suffice for this brief respite.

Soon, the fifteen minute wait promised by the hostess had become thirty minutes. The Slayer, always at home on a barstool, did not really care, but The Brew- wife was becoming anxious. Finally, the gracious greeter, who's name The Slayer either did not catch or is buried in the malty recesses of his mind, seated the two. As a token of her regret for making them wait, she bought the two a beer. Nothing says I'm sorry better than a free beer. This act of ultimate kindness immediately endeared her and Olympia to The Slayer.

Once seated, the service continued to be exemplary. The Slayer's waitress, Jen, was attentive as a Midwesterner driving through Harlem. Once they had placed their orders, each course was delivered to The Slayer and Brew-wife in such a timely succession that it was a bit eerie. It was as if Jen instinctively knew when to bring out the next plate of gustatory joy.

While marveling at her flawless service performance, it made The Slayer think of two beers he had tasted earlier in the day; Williamsville Brewery's Border Porter and Studley Ale. Many beers ago, The Slayer had first supped of these malt beverages. Much to his chagrin, both were old and tasted as if the majority of their flavor had been filtered out through the expert use of a cheese cloth. His experience with these beers prompted him to pen a column about the horror of old beer.

At the urging of Kevin Sondey, First Coast Brewing Company's head brewer (a member of the Williamsville Brewing family), The Slayer reluctantly decided to give these two beers another go. The difference was astounding. The only thing that had changed between the first tasting and the second was the freshness of the brews. This time the beers had flavor and plenty of it.

The opaque, black Border Porter has an adequate sandstone colored head that rapidly dissipates. What little aroma the beer has is dominated by the roasty smell of freshly ground coffee beans. It was the flavor of this beer that bowled The Slayer over. Beginning with sweet hints of caramel malt the brew's taste proceeds to the chocolate and roasted flavors that one would find in cafe' mocha. Finally, finishing with a wonderful combination of roastiness and hop bitterness that prepares the palate for another sip.

Studley Ale is of the English Brown Ale style. It's rich walnut colored fluid is topped with a thick and retentive ecru head. This brew again has a roasty aroma with just a hint of hop's herbal essence present. The flavor, which was absent when The Slayer first tried this ale, begins roasty like the aroma then takes on a sweetness reminiscent of cream soda toward the middle and ends with the palate refreshing flavor of English hops.

The major reason The Slayer found his dining experience at Olympia so enjoyable was the promptness of the service (the free beer didn't hurt). Waiters and waitresses are like beer distributors. They take the product from the maker to the customer. If they don't complete their task in an efficient manner, the hot entrees become cold and the salad wilts. No matter how wonderful the food was when it was prepared, if it is not promptly delivered the consumer is likely to be displeased with it.

The first time The Slayer tried Border Porter and Studley Ale he was disgusted with the beers. That only reason he did not like them was because they had not been delivered on time. The raveges of heat and light had degraded their wonderful flavors. Fortunately, The Slayer was open-minded enough to try them again. As with restaurants, service is the key to a satisfied beer customer.