Friday the 13th I officially became a red belt. Sort of a weird feeling. I remember being a white belt and watching the red belts and just being in awe of their power and technique. At present, I don't think I'm capable of inspiring awe in any white belts.

Anyway, after promotions a few of us headed over to a local "pub" to partake of some beer and greasy food. I'd never really been to this place before, but an establishment immediately shoots to the top of my list when I see "Guinness Draught" on the beer menu. I placed my order of a pint of Guinness and a Gargantuan-Nacho-Supreme Platter. I anxiously waited the nectar of the gods.

My satisfaction in being able to order something other than an American pilsner evaporated when the waitress set my ice-cold pint of Guinness down in front of me. Did you catch the meaning in what I just said? "ice-cold pint of Guinness." The words "ice cold" and "Guinness" should never be used in the same sentence. Unless, of course, it is to say, "it's ice cold outside, bring me a Guinness" or perhaps "I don't drink crappy ice-cold American beer, bring me a Guinness."

Guinness room temperature is a tasty delight; it flows creamily over the palatte. Ice-cold is just plain nasty; it puts an unpleasant edge on the flavor, it rolls off the tongue too quickly instead of lingering in warm, frothiness.

I tried to let the first one warm up to room temperature, but it just wasn't happening. Apparently the pint I was drinking out of had some kick ass insulation. I decide it was better to drink more quickly rather than less slowly. Once the third pint got to the table, I really didn't care it they were serving it to me frozen on a stick. All and all, I have to say even a crappy, ice-cold pint of Guinness is better than anything domestic.