#White IPA

[thedaily-beer]

Valaisanne White IPA (Picked up at a Coop in Zürich). A 3 of 4. Interesting combination with the yeast esters you’d expect -- mostly banana and spice, particularly clove -- and quite a bit of orange citrus and some much fainter tropical fruit. Relatively high carbonation and very sticky lacing -- the body has a touch of oiliness to it, which is nice, and a lingering bitterness, too.

[encoreunebiere]

656  Crime Passionnel de De Dochter van de Korenaar. 

Une bonne IPA blanche belge, assez amère, saveurs de malt et fruits tropicaux. 

https://www.dedochtervandekorenaar.be/fr/toutes-les-bieres/toutes-les-bieres-permanentes/ https://www.ratebeer.com/beer/de-dochter-van-de-korenaar-crime-passionnel/260575/1/2/

[thechurchofsplatterdaysaints]

[awkward-teabag]

I have to wonder how many people celebrating AI translation also complain about "broken English" and how obvious it is something was Google translated from another language without a fluent English speaker involved to properly clean up the translation/grammar.

Because I bet it's a lot.

I know why execs are all for it—AI is the new buzzword and it lets them cut jobs thus "save" money and not have to worry about pesky labour laws when one employs humans—but everyone else?

There was some outcry when Crunchyroll fired many of their translators in favour of AI translation (with some people to "clean up the AI's work") but I can't help but think that was in part because it was Japanese-to-English and personally affected them. Same when Duolingo fired many of their translators in favour of LLM translation. Meanwhile companies are firing staff when it's English to another language and there's this idea that that's fine or not as big a deal because English is "easy" to translate and/or because people don't think of how it will impact people in non-English countries.

Also it doesn't affect native English speakers so it doesn't get much headway in the news cycle or online anyway because so much of the dominant media is from English-speaking countries and English-speakers dominate social media.

But different languages have different grammar structures that LLMs don't do, and I grew up on "jokes" about people speaking in "broken English" and mocking people who use the wrong word when it was clearly a literal translation but the meaning was obvious long before LLMs were a thing, too. In fact, the specific way a character spoke broken English has been a way to denote their native tongue for decades, usually in a racist way.

Then Google translate came out and "Google-translated English" became an insult for people and criticism of companies because it was clearly wonky to native speakers. Even now, LLMs—which are heavily trained on English compared to other languages—don't have a natural output so native English speakers can clock LLM-generated text if it's longer than a sentence or two.

But, for whatever reason, it's not seen as a problem when it goes the other way because fuck non-English readers or people who want to read in their native tongue I guess.

[transzilla]

sooo i’ve always wondered. what drinks should i get if i wanna look like a man? i’m always worried to order at bars. afraid I’ll look like too much of a pansy <3

To be honest I think if you just order something classy like a tom collins or gin tonic instead of like a frat boy drink you just look like severe enough of an alcoholic that it comes off as like haww my bitch ex wife masculine, like to me shit like vodka shots and fireball is a pussy ass drink even though people hype it up because it's like... a teenager drink. Like jesus christ shots of fireball... like a cinnamon jelly bean has a higher alcohol content than that and honestly less sugar. Personally I'm not a mixed drink person, sipping on straight liquor is always a pretty ballsy move and people are like woww he can drink without making a face, i like whiskey over rocks or tbh I am a big scotch guy so I like drinking that just straight with no ice. If you want to look masculine drinking a beer is ok but like... don't drink beer at a bar just buy a pack. you'll go broke. I also harshly judge people who can't get drunk without spiking soda or juice. Like you're already drinking alcohol give your poor circulation system a break with the sugary shit. Like we have drugs if you don't like the taste of alcohol stop with the whipped cream blueberry ipa shit. Just don't drink like a MIDDLE SCHOOLER

[spector]

beer haters dont interact but the one i bought for today truly does taste like piss.

[wiiildflowerrr]

calumhood: Drinking in Oslo

31 May 2016

[chicagobeerpass]

Chicago Beer Pass: The Boss Berry

Welcome to the Chicago Beer Pass: Your ticket to all the great beer events happening in and around Chicago.

On this episode of Chicago Beer Pass, Brad Chmielewski and Nik White crack open cans of Boss Berry. No, Boss Berry isn't the newest Deep Woods beer. Boss Berry is a fruited sour from the good folks at Goose Island. This fruited sour hits just right for the summertime, and it also looks lovely in the glass with its bright red hue. As the guys knock back a couple of these, they talk about a few stops they made in the burbs and the closing of Lagunitas Brewing here in Chicago.

Having issues listening to the audio? Try the MP3 (41.9 MB) or subscribe to the podcast on Spotify

[writersdrug]

Bartender!Simon accidentally running into Waitress!Reader while she’s carrying a bunch of drinks for a table, causing them to spill all over herself 👉🏻👈🏻

Even more bonus points if she’s dressed in a white shirt, iykyk ���

You're onto something here

Also, combining this with the ask about reader snooping through Simon's flat on the 3rd floor

Warnings: NSFW, slight humiliation, Simon goes from gentleman to having nasty nasty thoughts

It's a busy night - when mid-September rolls in, the nights get colder, and people gravitate towards the warm lighting of the bar through the street-front window. You still have a couple of hours left on your shift, which means Ghost still has a while, too.

He can't remember how many beers he's poured tonight. The noise of the shaker is drowned out by the buzz in his head. Mack wants another PBR. Table eleven still needs their shots and two Martinis. He's in the zone, pouring liquor and juices and bitters with practiced skill. He catches every word from the patrons at the bar - at least, every order. He mumbles out a quick "step back, please" when a gaggle of girls tries to stand near the end of the bar, waiting for their drinks. The bar is completely seated, people stuffing themselves between chairs to place their orders. Somon's got half a mind to tell them to clear out and get the fuck back, but he has to be civil. It won't be this hellish for too much longer - Price texted Simon that he'd be there in a bit to help.

Simon's more concerned about you: you're running around, delivering food and drink, bringing condiments and refilling waters - you're weaving between tables, maneuvering around bodies with a quick "sorry" or "scuse me"... you're at one table, and in the blink of an eye, you're at another. Simon sometimes doesn't realize you went into the kitchen until you're busting the door open with plates of food. You're covered in a light sheen of sweat, your usual chipper attitude dampened by the Friday night rush. Simon doesn't miss the way you scowl when you hear a table calling for you, when both of your hands are full.

You push yourself through the crowd of girls hovering by the end of the bar. You huff, grabbing a tray and some glasses. "Is it national 'Go to a Bar' day?" You mumble, squeezing behind Simon and heading to the free soda gun.

He barely makes an effort to reply. "Must be." He grunts, pulling several bottles from the shelves and setting them on the counter. He's snatching this and that - you fill your glasses with water, sliding behind him and grabbing the various drinks on the end of the back and stacking them on your tray.

A man elbowed his way between the patrons at the bar. "Can I get another DogFish IPA?" He says, sticking his glass across the bar.

Simon groans internally, but he keeps a stoic face. He quickly leans to his left and reaches for the glass - right as you were picking up your tray, now stacked with drinks. You stumble back, not expecting Simon to be so close to you, and bump into one of the girls that crowds by the bar's entrance.

Simon feels his stomach drop when he sees each of the glasses topple over. You're instantly drenched, alcohol splashing across your eyes, which you have squeezed shut from the onslaught of fluids. Your shirt is absolutely soaked; a few of the glasses fall to the ground and shatter upon impact, alerting the entire bar and making their heads turn to you - the man who handed Simon the glass is ogling at you shamelessly, and the girl you'd bumped into turns around with a simple oh…

You're frozen, eyes wide and your entire front soaking. Your white shirt is practically see-through, clinging to your skin and providing little coverage for your pink, lacy bra. You look mortified and on the verge of tears. Your panicked stare drifts to Simon - you think he's going to yell at you, or worse: give you the silent treatment for the rest of the night because he's too frustrated to speak.

Simon is trying to keep his own staring under wraps – your tits look absolutely tantalizing, hugged so tightly by your wet shirt – but he snaps out of his daze when he sees your teary eyes. He drops everything - you're the most important person in the room right now. He quickly takes the tray from you and sets it aside.

"Here-" he shoves a fresh rag into your hands. "Cover up with that." He says, taking you by your shoulders and leaning down to your level. "Third floor, there's a dresser on th' left side, second drawer has shirts. Go dry off 'n get a new shirt, I'll clean this up."

You're too stunned to cry. You're angry, embarrassed, frustrated... there's so much happening around you, so many eyes staring at your fuck-up, but Simon's eyes keep you from losing control of your emotions. He doesn’t seem angry or irate – he’s worried about you. Shouldn't you help him clean up? It's your mess after all. "But-"

"Hush. Go on, luv - you're practically see-through." He quickly turns you around and gently shoves you into the crowd, and you hurry away to the stairwell without protest, holding the rag close to your chest.

Simon sighs. The pub slowly starts to return to normal, though people aren't trying as hard to get their drinks. A sense of shame seems to hang around everyone’s heads, though there was only one party at fault, here. He stares daggers at the girls who are still hovering by the bar. The one you ran into is gawking back in fear - she knows she messed up.

"Get the fuck back." Simon seethes, storming over to the POS. They all scramble away and press against the wall, afraid he might start swinging at them. "Finish ya drinks and leave. 'M closin' your tab. You're done."

They dissipate back into the crowd, right as Soap pops his head out of the kitchen. "Heard a crash, ye alright?"

"Fuckin' wankers can't understand simple orders." Simon grumbles, grabbing a broom from the corner and sweeping up the glass. "Slag couldn't get her ass out th' fuckin walkway and made bird spill a tray."

"Christ, she ok?"

"Upstairs. Changin'. Shirt nearly disappeared when it got wet."

"Need me tae check up on-"

"Got a fuckin' kitchen t' run, don't ya?"

Johnny scoffs and disappears back into the kitchen. Simon continues sweeping - he spots Price jogging up to the building throught he street front window, and he sighs in relief.

Upstairs, you do just as Simon instructed. You're topless, your bra still a bit damp after you tried to towel-dry it with he rag Simon gave you. You're sifting through his drawer, face scrunched as you shuffle through and inspect each shirt. You're a bit miffed at how many plain, black t shirts he has - has he ever stepped foot into an Old Navy? - but, eventually, you hit the jackpot.

You pull a shirt from the very bottom of the drawer. It's army green, a bit worn over the years, with a bit of a natural, masculine musk clinging to it. The right front chest has a skull, a sword, and wings, along with the table "Task Force 141". On the back, in large letters: "LT. RILEY".

A smile creeps its way onto your face. He never said which shirt... he said any shirt. And this is the one you want.

Your bra comes off quicky, the fabric still wet and uncomfortable. You toss it somewhere on the bed behind you – you’re sure Simon wouldn’t mind if you hung it over the back of his chair, right? Can’t be wearing a wet bra while you’re running around the restaurant; you’d have a bra-shaped water stain on your shirt. Or, worse – you’d get sick. And you know for a fact (though he’s never said it to you) that Simon would kick himself if you got sick on the job.

You quickly pull the shirt on - it swallows you, both in size and scent. It smells just like him - the bodywash you catch a whiff of when you pass him, the slight muskiness that surrounds you when he reaches above you to grab something - it's all there, just tenfold. You stand up and pull it down; it covers your thighs down to your shorts, almost making it look like you weren’t wearing any to an unassuming person.

You take a peek around the room: it’s quite cozy, even with a lack of real décor. The bed sits against the middle of the wall, with Carolina blue sheets and a grey comforter. The pillows look rather worn, but there’s at least three of them. There’s a television on the dresser that faces the bed, and a small bookshelf in the corner next to an antique-looking chair, except the shelf is filled with mostly keepsakes and memorabilia. Any books in the room are stacked on the edges of the two bay windows, embedded in the brick wall that faces the street. The only lighting comes from three lamps: one on the nightstand by his bed, a taller one next to the clothes rack near the bathroom, and a lantern-looking lamp that he’s somehow attached next to the door.

Curiosity gets the better of you – discovering anything about Simon that he hasn’t already told you is like striking oil. You pad over to the shelf, leaning down to inspect the various objects. A balaclava, rolled up and tucked behind a box. In said box is a medal, bronze and dull, with a fist tightly holding a blazing torch. A worn-down pair of sunglasses lay next to a ring. A green stone sits on a silver band, nestled between two ivy vines. There’s a picture of the four of them: Simon, Johnny, Price, and even Kyle – you had assumed they had met Kyle through the restaurant industry, but there they all were. Dressed in military uniforms, holding guns and posing with stern faces in front of a helicopter. Simon was wearing a rather terrifying skull mask, the rest of him completely covered by his uniform. You were only able to recognize Simon from his brown eyes, but the man in the photo looked entirely different from the bartender downstairs.

Fuck! You completely forgot that you were a waitress, sniffing around your manager’s office when you should be tending to your tables. You turned on your heel and left Simon’s room, running down the stairs two at a time.

Simon was still in the eye of the storm – barely a word had been passed between him and Price, other than a simple hello when he had first hopped behind the bar. Simon was keeping an eye on your tables, which were currently satisfied for the time being – but damn, what was taking you so long? Were you showcasing all of his shirts? The thought of that would’ve had him biting his cheek to prevent a boner, but he was too busy to be anything but concerned for you.

On cue, you come bounding down the stairs, throwing yourself back into the busy crowd as you tie your server apron around your waist. Simon pours a tap, barely able to make out your form flitting through the crowd, making sure your tables are well-off and happy. Price calls your name over the din of the crowd, and you squeeze yourself through the mass of people to collect the drinks sitting on the end of the bar.

“Sorry!” you exclaim, setting your drinks on a tray. “Had to mop myself up a bit with the rag. Did anyone order anything from my tables?” you ask, looking at Simon.

He’s… occupied. His eyes are trained on your shirt. His shirt. That army green that brought up so many old memories, ones he hadn’t thought of in a long time,..

His shirt. Covering your body – and, fucking Christ, you’re not wearing a bra. You’re completely naked under that shirt.

You’re confused. He’s staring at you with such a shocked, glassy pair of eyes that you wonder if you’ve shot him in the leg. You look down at what he’s staring at – oh, right. The shirt. A part of you heats up in embarrassment, and a part in… something else. Yes, I took your shirt. I’ve got your name on my back. If he’s thoroughly upset by this, he’s not expressing it. And if you’re mistaken in the thought that he looks aroused (you wouldn’t be surprised to find him drooling behind the mask – you know how delicious you look right now), you’ll give him the shirt back eventually and pretend this never happened.

“Thanks for earlier.” You spoke over the noisy chatter around you. “This, uh- I hope it’s ok, it was the first shirt I saw.”

Bullshit. He knows he buried that thing deep in his drawer. He did it on purpose. “’S fine.” He mumbles, still dazed.

You glance at him as you carefully balance the tray on your hand. The printer is dealing ticket after ticket of drinks as Price enters them – the man looks at Simon with a frustrated, tight-lipped glare, working double-time to push orders through.

“I’ll be back to grab the rest.” You say quickly. You scurry off, careful to avoid slamming into anyone this time. Simon nearly has a heart attack when he sees his last name across your back. You might as well have his bite mark branded onto the side of your neck.

This opens up a nasty can of worms for him. He’s a goner – he’s thinking about chasing you around the bar, after hours, while all you’re wearing is his shirt; snatching you up and slamming you down on the bar, shoving his face in between your thighs; what you sound like when he pumps you with his fingers; pounding you against the wall in the office, hips crashing into yours as he growls and grunts in your ear, “wanna wear my fuckin’ name, baby? hmm? wanna make sure everyone in this fuckin’ pub knows you’re mine? I’ll gladly fuckin’ help you, fuckin’ tease-“; god, he needs you, he needs to know what you feel like wrapped around his dick, what you sound like when he’s reaching those spots, he needs your nails in his back and your palm smacking him across his face and your teeth on his neck-

“Simon!”

John’s- no, Captain Price’s voice shuts off the movie playing in his mind. He looks at him, barely recognizing the growing frustration in his eyes – Simon’s fighting his own demons right now, and he isn’t even sure if his Captain’s wrath can save him.

“Stop thinkin’ with your Pork Sword and get your arse back on bar.” Price barks – a few of the regulars laugh at that, and Simon realizes he’d had an audience.

He clears his throat and grabs a ticket, quickly reading it and grabbing a glass. He forces himself to let go of the fantasy – he’ll have all night to think about it once he closes. That, or he’ll be hating himself for even thinking of you in that way, especially when the situation wasn’t in your favor. For now, though, he’s got a job to do. He continues to pour and stir and shake drinks left and right, occasionally stealing glances at you, prancing around with his title.

He knows one thing’s for certain – your bra is still somewhere in his room.

[sardonic-simp]

If you say you're "drama free" I'm gonna take that to mean you have no principles. No way you are avoiding conflict while also standing for anything important.

[thebreweryblazer]

Bucket Brigade Brewery, Cape May Court House, New Jersey - Cape May County

[bloomchema]

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[featherwurm]

Hand studies with the tadfool's preferred wine & beer orders:

Shadowheart - White wine and lots of it. Leave the bottle.

Astarion - Red. It's red, it's in a glass, don't worry about it (trying to keep it 'warm' in his hand - or using it to warm his hand, your choice.)

Karlach - Red ale, a big and crisp in a nice big, cold 24 oz glass.

Lae'zel - Hazy IPA, bright and full.

Gale - Some sort of fancy barrel-aged something or other, comes in a pretty glass and looks expensive.

Wyll - A classic amber ale - or whatever is a specialty of the place they're at.

Tav - Stout, dark enough to see yourself in.

(Is this a sneaky modern AU thing? Maybe a little and in dress - but I think the taste still stands either way.)

[sheltiechicago]

Abstract Chicago

Abstract series of architecture in Chicago

Photographer: Rob Darby

IPA 2021

[drdemonprince]

ok so, what if I was having an affair and decided to link up in Chicago. what'd be the best place for a drink and some fun?

scream. Are you trying to fuck them at the spot? Are you gay?

Assuming yes, I would recommend having a cute little Aperol Spritz on the patio of Sofo Tap (or a thc drink, they have them!) then head upstairs to Banana Video and pay the $10 cover to wander around their darkrooms and pick a spot where you'd like to fuck. That's what it's there for. All genders can go tho it skews gay male. This is the most romantic, cutesy option for a drink and fuck spot.

If you're into leather or kink and don't mind basic well drinks, Cell Block on Halsted has a backroom for fucking with a sex swing, a cage for go-go dancers, and theme nights. This is the place to throw back a White Claw and then suck your lover's dick while other (mostly) men around you do the same.

If you want to show off a little bit, head up north to Jackhammer for a cocktail or an IPA (they have a decent menu), flirt over a game of pool or some darts and then head downstairs into "The Hole" where you'll find a St Andrews cross, showers, lockers, a clothing check, a room of sex swings, and a second bar. This one is the brightest and the most lysol-clean option, it's like fucking in an Orange Theory Fitness if it had a hotel bar.

If you're straight, get a short-term membership at Galleria Domain 2 (if youre a brogrammer pleasure dom who is sober) or The Chicago Rose (if youre an unpretentious ass eater who likes Miller High Life).

now maybe by "fun" you didnt mean fucking, those are just the bars you can fuck at. If you just want a romantic illicit place to grab a cocktail and a date, i'd say Marty's Martini Bar, Dorothy's Downstairs, the California Clipper, the Palmer House Hilton's lobby bar, or the Green Mill.

[dedalvs]

So, this question is a bit of a weird one, but you know how the IPA chart has white spaces for sounds that hypothetically could exist but aren't known (as yet) to exist in any natural language? Have you or any of you and/or your colleges considered experimenting with creating a conlang to include one or more of those hypothetical sounds? Not necessarily as something you could use for a show or film or something, but just to mess around to test/show off your skills and have fun.

Oh, sure, plenty of conlangers have. Some even design sound systems for alternate vocal tracts (e.g. for aliens or animals). For myself, it doesn't interest me artistically. Theoretically, sure, but if I'm going to sit down and create a language, I prefer to go different routes. If you click around in the conlang tab here you may find your way to someone who's done some pretty cool stuff, though.