They’re sophisticated and impressive
Let me tell you something else, reader. Something you wouldn’t know, because you are small-minded, xenophobic, and utterly unable to comprehend disparate perspectives. When a man drinks a shandy, it says something about him. "Oh, hello there," it croons on his behalf in a tangy, energetic tenor. "Have you traveled extensively? You really should some day. Wow, I guess I’m more worldly than you are."
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?
This summer, I wonder no more. The time is now. The confession is thus. I am a man who drinks shandy, and I am not ashamed.
Cider, though? That stuff is for chicks.
Dave Infante is a senior writer for Thrillist. He is an embarrassment in most ways, but not in this particular way. Follow @dinfontay on Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat.