After all these years of searching I finally did it. I met an alien. Whilst seated at the bar (one that you could argue might be in the top ten in the country) a middle aged white guy walks up and orders a white wine. Alien.
I don’t know what planet this thing hails from, or what they look like when not in disguise, but clearly this alien doesn’t understand that when you’re at Stone Liberty Station you drink really tasty beer. It’s inhuman to order wine.
Or, maybe this older chap is so confident in his ways & his preferences for life, that he just doesn’t care. Dude knows what he wants. Period. Like if you were so comfortable with who you were that you walked into a vegan restaurant and demanded pork without shame. In a way, it’s kind of admirable. But, he should have still ordered beer.
But wait, there’s more! For reference, I was seated at the closest seat in the corner.
After the alien departed, two guys (a Cali Korean and Cali Chicano) and a gal (Cali Pilipino) [God Bless America] took up the area to the right without actually sitting down. Somebody had left an empty beer glass and a partially full glass of rosé. While continuing to order more beers, the Chicano began to dare the Korean to drink the rest of the rosé. This went on for about twelve minutes. I kept waiting for things to escalate, for table dagger fingers to appear, but sadly this didn’t occur.
Off to the left another pair of Southern California template bros were activity hitting upon a gal clearly wearing a wedding ring visible to the whole planet. She did her best to not look uncomfortable and smiled a lot, but this continued until the husband showed up. It probably helped that her husband looked like the guy who dead lifts kegs for Stone in the back. The difference in audible volume of voice for these two guys pre and post husband appearance was stereotypically comical.
Back to my right our Korean friend had decided to take the dare and began sipping the rosé. Our Chicano chap began aggressively texting with another guy not present with happiness and made a repeated comment along the lines of, “I love ‘Rique man, I love him, I love that bro!” At which point his girlfriend accused him of being a homosexual.
Other bar regulars begin to discuss a forthcoming special event where Wil Wheaton and two other men I’ve never heard of are famous for an annual stout that’s brewed, then debuted during some kind of video game symposium they hold inside the bar [furrows brow] and folks drink the beer, but play games, but there’s some kind of limit on time or whatever.
In other news, Wil Wheaton did not turn out to be a coked out sex fiend and is in fact a normal person. The Traveler probably got his head right during their dimensional journey so Wheaton didn’t get child actor syndrome.
Of to the right, our bros killed off the last of the rosé with other friends who had arrived by lying to them about whose said rosé it originally was. Then they all left and I felt a great absence in my life as I was no longer entertained by casually observing other members of the human race who sat two feet away without acknowledging that I existed.
Luckily a family of Japanese took their place. We had the Mom and Dad, their son, daughter, and their son’s wife or finance. The son and wife spoke English, the rest of the family did not. It was neat to hear solid Japanese again for the first time in a long time. I’m reduced to near zero skills, so I caught only a word or two here and there.
The son was forced to simplify Stone’s extensive beer list by describing a number of beers as “IPA Gaijin”. The Father understood the situation better and discussed a number of IPA Gaijin options for selection but ultimately he settled upon the Wheaton stout.
The bartender felt the need to card the young ones. The son and wife have their Cali licenses. The sister pulls out her Japanese passport. The bartender is clearly put off balance because the whole darn thing is in Kanji. He takes the passport, looks at it briefly, nods once, and hands it back to her without comment. She gets beer, all without the bartender ever knowing they sell beer in vending machines in Japan.
Father tastes the Wheaton stout and suddenly realizes he’s got something high octane shit in his hands. He asks his son, who clarifies that Wheaton’s Klingon brew cranks in at 13%. Father grins, grunts, and growls with pleasure like Mifune over a good sake. He then proceeds to truck said beer in only a few minutes. Mother, sister, and wife all get beer flights. They’re all still there when I leave.
Oh by the way, the food is pretty good. The beer is astonishingly awesome. At least a dozen drafts are brewed directly on site. You are to be challenged to find a fresher sip with such variety.
Built from the remains a former Navy mess hall Stone’s turned it into a satellite station to hold events, beer different beers, and generally create something more than your typical restaurant, bar, or micro brewery. I truly applaud them for doing something different, something unique that goes beyond the standard all too faceless Bar Americana #728b.
The descent into another dimension is entertaining, to see all the wide variety of humanity. But really, the only reason to go to Stone Liberty Station is to drink incredible beer. It’s more than enough. Such good beer.