A Beautiful Cock

‘Can I have two Serges to go?’

There’s a bar near our apartment in South East London that I like. It’s one of the few places I’ve found in the UK that sells not your classic English beer — the Camden Ales, London Prides or Guinness, that make your stomach swell and eyes puffy the following day — but an actual, craft IPA — of which Moscow and European bars are abundant, but in the UK, it’s seen as a lesser form of drink.

One of the beers has a sharp citrusy flavour and a title that, needless to say, caught my eye — “Serge.” As self-absorbed as I am, this became my favourite beer and my favourite place near my house.

“Can I have two Serges to go?” I started saying, with an emphasis on the name, winking at the bartender, as if everyone should instantly know that my name is Serge and that this is all somehow funny.

“Of course,” said the young woman behind the counter. “Would that be all?”

“Yes,” I’d say. “Actually, no. My name is Serge as well. Get it?”

“Uh, that’s great, I guess?” she’d say.

How many of these essays were written there, under the low-lit atmosphere and with a citrusy Serge on my lips! (Well, actually, none, because I never write when I drink.)

As the beers arrive (and so does Masha), the bartender would suddenly change her attitude from semi-friendly to openly hostile.