I’m not sure I’ve ever had this one. Seriously. Sure, I’ve had literally thousands upon thousands of Coors Lights in every sort of drinking vessel possible—from a bottle, fo’ty, can, keg, pitcher, stripper’s crack—but I don’t think I’ve ever had just a plain ol’ Coors. Nowadays, people pretty much only drink light beers. It’s an odd phenomenon. You go to 99% of bars and all they have on tap are pretty much macros, but those macros they have are the light version from each line. You’ll rarely see Budweiser or Coors or Miller on tap, but their light counterparts flow freely. Why is that? Is this only an NYC phenomenon? As bad as macro beers are, their light versions are as if you took the already crappy beer and then cut it with 4 ounces of dirty tap water.
So how did I end up drinking this filth? The ladyfriend was forced to buy it to fill out an incomplete sixer at Duane Reade (again, her favorite beer emporium). She was too snobby to drink the Coors—wanting to drink her Bud Light Lime instead—so I decided to end my night with it. It ended up being more a nightcrap than a nightcap. Ba dum dum.
Best part of macros? Twist-top caps. The sensation of using nothing more than your bare hands to twist off a beer cap and then sling it across the room is vastly underrated. And it becomes quite a rarity as one gets more and more into craft beers. Slummin’ it I guess. Taste-wise, Coors actually ain’t that horrendous. Not that bad of flavor, actually no real discernible flavor, until you hit the aftertaste. Which kinda tastes like rotten sourdough bread.
Try not to burp after drinking this one. Or, if you have to burp, at least get some hilarity out of the situation by pulling off the vaunted “French Oven” move*.
Eh, what to say, it’s not a great beer but it’s better than Coors Light.
*Akin to a Dutch Oven, with this move you stuff your bedmate’s head under the sheets and then burp a stinky Coors burp down there.