Cheers! North County: Dear neighborhood liquor store — I miss you

I miss the neighborhood liquor store. That is a weird sentence to write, and four months ago it might have encouraged me to do a little self-examination about my drinking habits. Today I’m a little more forgiving of myself, because, well, you know, pandemic.

My local spot is in a narrow building. All the whiskey is right inside the sliding doors. The sunlight reflects through the bottles casting an amber pall over the entryway and a shopping cart filled with discounted bottles. When I enter, the man behind the counter might nod at me while looking up from his miniature television, but he might not. He’s always wearing a trucker cap, and sometimes he’s chewing on a cigar.

Only every other set of ceiling lights work. I like to think that is to prevent the bottled beer from skunking in the long line of coolers along the east wall, but it could also be that the shopkeeper has been too engrossed in soap operas to notice. There are two aisles with really only one way to navigate. Down the beer aisle, and back along a long row of dusty wine bottles. A straight shot only complicated by other customers. To pass, one of us will have to turn sideways while the other does a little shuffle dance to get by.

I miss walking past the first few beer coolers knowing I’m probably not interested in the individual bomber bottles of beer. That trend has passed. I’d take note of what’s on the build-your-own six pack shelves, but I’ve learned that this place puts less than fresh beer there in hopes of selling it. So I usually avoid it.

Towering bookshelves reach the ceiling. Sours, imperial stouts and bourbon barrel-aged beers reside there in dark bottles with caps that have been dipped in colorful waxes to give them a classy look that might help me justify spending just a bit more. It feels a bit like walking through an art gallery. Sometimes I’ll lean in close to check out the label design and appreciate the color or font choice. I might snap a pic to text to a beer-loving friend as if to say, “Look what I found out here in the wild!” I’ll look for the price tag, chuckle, and move on until something else catches my eye.

I miss making my way down this aisle trying not to trip over the cases of cans stacked randomly on the ground. I know these are the new arrivals that haven’t been put away yet. There might be a just-canned hoppy gem tucked away in there. I often check there first if I’m looking for an IPA or pale ale.

Finally, I get to the six-pack cooler. Traditionally, about once a week I would stand here negotiating with myself. Do I want an amber ale or a pilsner? I really liked that one from Eppig Brewing last week, but maybe I should try something new? What was that one I read about from Rip Current? Maybe I could buy two sixers if the price is right. Oh, what’s that over there? I feel a bit like a raccoon who has stumbled into a tin can recycling center.

I’d take my final choice up to the counter. The shopkeeper will grunt at me when the price pops up on the register. I give him some money, and too quickly I’m out the door into the sunshine. On the walk home, I’ll start thinking about what I left behind, and making mental notes for next week.

I guess what I really miss is the routine. It was one thing each week that I knew would be roughly the same, and that consistency brought me a weird sort of comfort in the form of retail therapy. A comfort I’m missing now. These days I find myself filling online shopping carts with beer from various local breweries or grocery stores, but it just isn’t the same. I’m looking forward to the day I can go stand there in flickering fluorescents, make my choices and come home with some delicious beer. We all have some little moment that we’ve been missing. I miss the liquor store, and that’s okay.

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