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More like Super-Duper Bowl!

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Our Superbowl lineup of non-Monday-Night beers. We didn’t venture far from the fold. Dogfish Head IBA and 60 Minute IPA are old standbys at this point. When it comes to pairing food and beer for a Superbowl, there are a few rules. One of them: anything goes well with homemade chili cheese fries.

Oh? and the game! Giants win! I don’t care about the Giants, but I side with the rest of America insomuch as I hate the Patriots.

We’ll be brewing tonight, so come on by. I think it’s supposed to be above absolute zero outside, too.

And in other news, I’ve started making a list of things you don’t want to happen at Waffle House:

  1. Have your fake tooth fall out as you’re chomping on some bacon
  2. Learn you were conceived in the backroom (Glenn)
  3. Learn where the cook?s hands have been just prior to cooking your food (Glenn)
  4. Learn what?s in the grill oil that makes the hashbrowns oh so tasty (Glenn)
  5. Learn what ?smothered & covered? REALLY means (Brad)

Any additions?

8 thoughts on “More like Super-Duper Bowl!

  1. Ah yes, your teeth are falling out like a true southerner. Congratulations. Next up, Dale tattoo and a down payment on a trailer.

  2. Jonathan…

    Glad you didn’t make the mistake of trying to buy your Super Bowl beer on a Sunday…

    As a brewer, and in California, I don’t have to worry about that particular blue law. But I kicked back with a few homebrews and enjoyed what was a much more exciting Super Bowl than we’ve had in years past.

    Oh, and to keep it on topic:

    “To learn what ‘smothered & covered’ REALLY means.”

  3. Just be glad you have a Waffle House down there. That is honestly the one thing that makes me want to go south of the Mason-Dixon line. My wife would probably divorce me if she heard that (she is a vegan).

    When I lived in Germany for a year, I was watching a movie with some friends. They showed a shot of a griddle at some greasy spoon. All of my buddies were saying how disgusting it looked. It was the one time I truly got homesick. It could have been any crap-ass diner in any town. That is what I think of when I think of the Waffle House.

    The Germans may have their local Bocks, the Czechs may have their local Pilsners, and the Belgians may have their homosexual tendencies (oh, sorry, that’s the French), but we’ve got our greasy assed fried breakfasts upon which we can harden arteries and lose teeth.

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