Please tell me I am not the only one who did this in her younger days.
That is: you cut off the edge of a big watermelon and scooped out the innards, leaving a melon cauldron of sorts, and dumped in a bottle of cheap vodka. You added some Sprite, pilfered from the dining hall. You allowed it to marinate for a couple of days. Then, you poured a nice big glass over ice, expecting it to taste like a Jolly Rancher. Instead, you discovered that watermelon-plus-booze is a foul combination. (But you and your friends probably consumed it anyway because, hey – you weren’t going to let a $15 bottle of Monarch go to waste.)
No? Just me?
You could be forgiven for repressing such a memory, as I apparently did when I picked up a six pack of watermelon-flavored beer a couple of weeks ago.
WATERMELON-FLAVORED BEER. I know. A lapse in judgment on my part.
I never would have given 21st Amendment’s Hell or High Watermelon a second look if I didn’t have quite a bit of respect for the brewery. Their standard IPA is solid and their Back in Black Ale is excellent. I figured that they wouldn’t bother releasing something undrinkable. I figured wrong.
It is, in fact, the Worst Beer in the History of the World.
Strike One: The first time I cracked open a can of Hell or High Watermelon, it was a sunny Friday afternoon and I was refinishing some furniture.
(Side note: I refinish furniture now. It’s, like, a thing. I enjoy it immensely even though it’s probably the worst use, ever, of my time. It took me three weeks to spruce up a pair of nightstands that I probably could have purchased new for under a hundred bucks.)
Anyway. I had been working on my project for a couple of hours and was parched, so I took a big swig of this beer, right out of the can.
I was not expecting it to taste like rotten ass, and hence, I nearly spit it out – which totally would have ruined my primer job and made me hate this beer even more. But I choked it down. Barely.
Unable to find words for what I’d just experienced, I tossed the rest of the can and resolved to try the beer again later. Maybe the paint fumes were messing with my head.
Strike Two: The second time I cracked open a can of Hell or High Watermelon, I enlisted help.
Some friends were over and we were having drinks on our roof deck. I stated my hypothesis – that I’d discovered the Worst Beer in the History of the World – and begged them to try it and tell me whether or not I was crazy. I brought up a can and passed it around.
Paying more attention this time, I was able to better grasp the specific qualities that made me want to retch. Hell or High Watermelon starts out fine: you take a drink, and it tastes like a normal light beer, crisp and bubbly and a little bready. But then it hits you: this very faint fake watermelon flavor that tastes like…perfume. Fake watery watermelon perfume. Perfume that would be marketed to tweens in a bright pink plastic bottle. And sold at Sears.
The consensus around the table seemed to be more “meh” than “oh my god you have indeed found the Worst Beer in the History of the World, someone should probably pay you a bunch of money for this making groundbreaking discovery.”
But no one thought it was actually good. Or if they did, they were too polite to interrupt my impassioned anti-watermelon rant to say so.
And I’ll admit this: the can was polished off, by someone, at some point that evening. Hmm. So I guess the jury’s out on whether I’m crazy.
Strike Three: The third time I cracked open a can of Hell or High Watermelon, I did it to be absolutely sure.
Calling something the Worst Beer in the History of the World is an act that shouldn’t be taken lightly, so I gave it one last chance. Today, actually, over lunch. I poured it in to a proper pint glass and sipped it like it was an aged barleywine, pausing between tastes to stick my nose in the glass, trying to pick up a scent that might somehow enhance the beer’s flavor.
Um…nope. Still tasted like watery fake-watermelon perfume. Still disgusting.
Three strikes. You’re out, Hell or High Watermelon.
Bottom line: Hell to the no. What were you thinking, 21st Amendment? (Purchased at Greene’s Beverage, $10/6)
Lesson learned. Watermelon and booze don’t mix.
Or I guess I should say: learned again. Because apparently I have the World Memory in the History of the World.
Anyway. I’ve got three cans left if anyone wants them. I won’t be drinking this again come hell or high…something.