As a guy that has significantly cut back on drinking in the midst of a transition between cable providers, I didn’t have high expectations going into the weekend. I figured I’d go buy Fallout 4 after work, hunker down in the living room, and put in an ungodly amount of hours scavenging the wastelands of New England. I followed that plan to a T Friday night and into Saturday morning when my roommate Jared asked if I wanted to go to something called “Wurstfest” in the afternoon.
Typically, I ignore both Jared’s texts and his face to face interactions with me, but I had just then raged quit after putting myself in a tough spot with a Deathclaw and zero ammunition, and had already gone to the gym earlier in the morning to hit legs. My options were severely limited. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to pull a two-a-day on leg day. Back and bi? No doubt. But legs? That’s just asking for trouble. And so was hermitting myself any longer trying to put a baton beat down on something that essentially one shot K.O.s me every time it’s within ten feet. Frustrated and bored, I laid down the Xbox controller, spruced myself up, and went to New Braunfels, Texas for a German beer and sausage festival.
Maybe it has everything to do with the miserable diet I’ve been on for the last two or so months, where, like I said above, drinking has become less prevalent in my life than doctors visits — nonexistent — but this spot was heaven sent. As we approached the gates with our ten dollar entry coupon, polka music could be heard off into the distance, and the magnificent sight of thousands of incoherent guys and gals in lederhosen and high socks downing beer directly out of a pitcher coincided with the smell of smoked meat wafting intensely through the air. Yeah, forget what they have going at Mizzou right now, this was the quintessential “safe space.”
After dropping a few Andrew Jacksons on drink tickets, I went to the Spass House and asked for a pitcher of their darkest, hardest-to-pronounce beer they had on tap. The bartender, without hesitation, grabbed the nearest plastic container, filled it to the brim with stouty goodness, and handed it to me with a smile on his face before saying “You’ll like.” Hans wasn’t wrong.
The atmosphere was electric. Not a single person there, other than maybe the children in the strollers parents were holding onto to support themselves, was remotely sober. Seriously, it didn’t matter if you were twelve or ninety-five, you were most likely a few 64-ouncers deep and doing some form of do-se-do by nights end. It was oddly too joyous if that makes any sense. Normally, there’s at least one toolshed in the crowd that gets bumped into and has to ruin someone else’s night with a haymaker, but this was surprisingly an asshole free zone. Did a few people get carried away with the Ziggy Zaggy, Ziggy Zaggy, Oi Oi Oi? Guilty. But if there’s one place to get away with it, it’s the German beer and sausage festival.
The food did not disappoint, either. Committed to the cheat day, your boy went hard. Sausage kabobs, sausage on a stick, potato pancakes with apple sauce and, you guessed it, sausage, were all wonderful in their own right. But something about lugging around and ripping off giant portions of a mammoth turkey leg has always been my personal favorite. I feel like a fucking Viking enjoying his victory meal after ransacking a Nordic fishing village. It’s just so primal. So inherent. So right.
All in all, I dropped like $70 total. Ticket included. Not bad at all, considering I’ve dropped over a hundo on 6th Street for a much less enjoyable time — on multiple occasions. So yeah, if your city or a town relatively nearby is having a booze and food festival, I highly recommend checking it out. Ladies, it’s another excuse to dress up post college, and guys, it’s another opportunity to see your girl dressed in a sexy little number. Win-win. Plus who doesn’t like to get belligerent on good product with thousands of potential new friends and dance to a Polka version of “What Do You Mean”? .