I think what I enjoy most about a sunset beer is the opportunity it provides for a little quiet reflection. Sit down. Order the local favorite. Let the sights and sounds pass through. Sip down the day. This is the process that has become my favorite pastime. Did you see this? Remember that? I can’t believe… This is how most conversations begin when we find a seat and rehash the discoveries of the day. The liveliest of discussions usually take place over this opportune refreshment. This time and place becomes our sanctuary from the madness of the day, a chance to rest the feet along with the senses. We talk about home and how far we’ve come. We talk about our family and friends and decide who would have appreciated the day’s events most. We remember faces and names as we recall the people who have shaped our experience. The daily mysteries of the world, swallowed down one hoppy sip at a time.
It’s hard to pick a favorite. The Toohey’s in the shadow of the Opera House. The Chang in the hut at the Karen Village. The Tsing Tao at the base of the Great Wall. But if I had to pick only one, if I only had one beer left to drink, I’d have to have to choose the sunset session at the Shanti Lodge in Agra, India.
As our rickshaw pulled up to the Shanti Lodge, Jeannie and I commented on the three-legged dog guarding the doorway, and concluded the building looked more like a halfway house than a dining establishment. A week in India had given truth to the adage that no book can be judged by its cover, so we threw our inhibitions to the trash heap beside the entrance and ambled over the crippled doorman. An odd combination of curry, coriander, and dirty laundry hung in the air as we followed hand-written signs to a shadowy stairwell. A pair of wayward vagabonds from the West, dreadlocked and bearded, were on their way out. “Get to the roof,” one of them offered in a slurred voice. Daypacks over our shoulders, we marched five stories upwards, our noses following two separate trails of garlic and coconut. The stairwell was dark in the fleeing light of the day, but became progressively brighter as we climbed toward the sun. The last step gave way to the roof above the fourth floor. Walking across the top of the building was like falling into a dream. The Taj Mahal—glowing orange in the sunset like the last ember of an incent candle, hovering above the wafting haze of five centuries of worship, swallowing the purple horizon in overstated majesty—was close enough to run our hands over its silky marble dome. This called for a beer.
Only one problem: no such item on the menu. Not deterred by the “listed” offerings, I kindly asked the same fellow who had handed us our menus if it would be possible to have one. He offered me a sideways glance, looked over his shoulder, collected the menus, and muttered something about a tea pot through closed teeth. Before he disappeared down the stairs he gave me a loaded look. It was the kind of glance you share with your best friend when you promise to keep a guilty secret. For ten minutes he was gone. When he returned, carrying two tea cups and a porcelain pot, he was sweating and out of breath. With a wink and half smile, he placed the covered tea pot on the table in front of me. I watched him disappear again, then sat forward in my chair and lifted the cover of the pot. The frothy head of a fresh poured brew stared back from the curve of the spout. Looking out over the Taj, I sipped my tea like an English gentlemen, and savored the secret of the clandestine beverage.
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