Beer is Germany’s unofficial blood type, served with everything from football matches to funerals. I, however, am German on paper but Filipino in upbringing—raised in a family where beer was considered a little… beneath us. Not “beneath” in the moral sense, just socially. In our house, beer was the beverage of sweaty mechanics, karaoke warriors, and titos who could fix your car and ruin your reputation with one tipsy anecdote. Respectable in its own way, perhaps, but more flip-flops and plastic chairs than crystal stemware.
So imagine the culture shock when I married into Germany and was told, with great national pride, that beer was now my heritage. My destiny. My liquid soulmate. An arranged marriage if I ever saw one!
Beer and I gave it an honest shot. I admired its confidence—the way it strutted into every party wearing a frothy white collar, smelling faintly of bread and bravado. I listened to friends rhapsodise about hop varieties and malt profiles as if they were discussing French poetry. But every sip was the same: bitterness, heaviness, and the quiet, unblinking knowledge that we just weren’t meant for each other. Beer wanted commitment and unconditional love. I was looking for literally anything else.
We settled into a polite friendship. At weddings and parties, I’d hold a glass for the toast. At Schützenfest, I’d cradle a mug just long enough to avoid suspicion before discreetly handing it to a beer-lover. It was a stable, platonic arrangement.
And then came the ultimate betrayal.
One hot summer in southern Germany, someone handed me a drink. “Light. Refreshing. Perfect for this weather,” they said. I took a sip, and there it was. Beer. But not beer. Beer with lemonade. Sweet, sparkling, citrusy. The forbidden fruit. I had crossed into Radler (shandy) territory, and there was no going back.
The purists were scandalised. “That’s not beer,” they scoffed. Exactly. That’s why I liked it. It was beer in a provocative summer dress, beer that had learned to giggle instead of brood. It wasn’t love, but it was a guilt-free fling I could walk away from every time.
As if things weren’t messy enough, red wine waltzed into my life. Dark, rich, and a little arrogant, it understood me in ways beer never could. Wine didn’t need me to gulp it in litres. Wine was fine with lingering glances and slow sips. Wine didn’t care about purity laws or foamy head height. It just wanted to pair well with whatever I was eating and whisper something inappropriate by dessert, leaving me swooning by the time I had to leave.
So here we are, beer and I, nodding politely across the pub, tossing a meaningful glance that acknowledges our bitter past. Sometimes we share a Radler and pretend it means nothing. Red wine, meanwhile, smirks from the corner, knowing exactly who I’ll be going home with, whispering sweet nothings about making it a ménage à trois with cheese.
Beer, I respect you. I admire you. But I will never be yours, and you deserve someone who loves you for exactly who you are without the lemonade. You’ve been friend-zoned.
FrogDiva Thoughts 