Feel that? That’s a sense of inferiority welling up in your chest. It’ll pass eventually. (I should know -- I feel inferior quite often.) See, the shandy is originally from Europe. In a deviation from other continental inventions like world wars or bidets, this one is brilliant. The only reason the beer-juice mix-up hasn’t earned the same warm reception in America as it has across the Atlantic is because real heroes (like me) have been muzzled by our own humiliation.
But you know what? I enjoy this brilliant, fancy European concoction, and despite your disdainful glance, I know -- in my flavor-addled heart! -- that you admire my international tastes.
I have lived much of my drinking life in the darkness of society’s disapproval. Shandies are my albatross to carry; they are my cross to bear. Each summer, I wonder -- is this the year that I break my shandy silence? The season when I stand up and boldly tell the IPA-jocking beer bro-lluminati that yes, I like fruity beer, and I'm proud of it? The moment I break down this gendered wall and show my fellow man that it's not too twee to enjoy a refreshing radler?