Special Bargainnaisseur Recommendation

Haffenreffer's Private Stock Malt Liquor.

Seriously. So affordable. So drinkable. It has liberated me from the Budwiser-induced cheap-beer doldrums. The events upon which I stumbled into this bodega gem are rather auspicious as well, moving this delightful quaff from simple bargain boozing into what is likely to be a life-long love affair.

This all started the second week of May, during the blog's dark period. I was in a friend's final project for her playwriting program at Columbia University and I was playing an adaptation of Falstaff as the imaginary friend of a not-so young anymore Hank Cinq interested in trading up for a better model of imaginary friend, sniveling, flax-nosed, ungrateful, malmsy jackanape.

Having only a week to prepare this production and being a bit out of practice with the intricacies of building a character's physicality, I decided to seek pharmacological help in developing the persona of an inveterate drunkard. Perusing the selection at my local bodega, I of course gravitated towards the malt liquor, just to take away any pretense of legitimacy to the affair. I wanted a troubled, desperate drunk full of self-importance and airs of grandeur, self-aware of the charade of life and dedicated to easing the dolor and tension of or mortal contrivances with bombastic investment in our baser instincts. Where amongst the bottom-dollar brews was the shining star, Sir John's quality quaff of choice? Old English, too obvious an appeal to the Bard and I never really took to the stuff. St. Ides? Of all the things Sir John might do to a sorority girl hell-bent on self-destructive debauchery, championing her inebriatory proclivities is not on that list, not on the short list of things he'd do while not actively bedding said bacchannette anyway.

Thus it was that, tempted by imperial green glass and regal gold foil label proudly proclaiming distinction in script and heraldic seal, I brought home two 24 oz. bottles of Haffenreffer Private Stock Malt Liquor and a fifth of White Horse whiskey just to rinse away any hope of a pleasant, respectable drunk.

That was all a little too much booze for one man on a Wednesday night, though. I had expected the roommates to lend a liver to the cause, but neither were interested in getting shitcanned. Drinking alone never seemed to deter Falstaff, though, so undaunted by my lack of confederates, I plowed on through one of the Private Stocks and more of the White Horse than I really should have before ceding that Everyday Shooter does not mix well with advanced inebriation unless your goal is to explore several shades of futility and despair. Fortunately this did work to inform my character's emotional climax.

It wasn't till after the production had run it's course, later into the following week, that one of my roommates offhandedly declared how surprisingly good the Private Stock was. I had left one in the fridge and gone to Philly for the weekend. We're very open about the nature of booze in the apartment, which is highly volatile and prone to spontaneous potation, regardless of how it came into our happy home. There in that moment was our realization of the thing before us, some sublime new convergence of potability, price and punch.

Ever since that day, it's been my bodega buzz of choice. The 24oz. bottles are the perfect size for the weeknight wind-down and two will get you pretty much as drunk as you want to be depending on your pacing. At $1.50 per, there's really no contest. But really, how does it taste? Up front it's about as unassuming as a beverage that tries to be like beer but fails to legally qualify can really claim to be. It stands far above Colt 45 and Old English 800, and is worlds better than any hoposhu the Nipponese put out. I'm thankfully not too familiar with any other near-beers of the world, but I defy my readership to find a better pretender to the throne than good old Haffy. There's a piquant bite as it rushes back that adds a refreshing quality to the belches that sizable quaffing is bound to stimulate. Even as it starts to warm up, it's still well better than many actual beers in a similar price range.

But why the whole story about the play and all that bs Shakespearean vocabulary conflation? Well, as I humbly sought to fact-check my spelling of this grand beverage, I stumbled upon the history of this most humbly blessid of inebriants. Originally brewed in Boston, MA by one Rudolph Haffenreffer, Sr., the brand was eventually bought by and is currently distributed by none other than Falstaff Brewing. Yessiree, John. Seems like the spirit of the merry mirthmaker reached through the aether to guide my quest to know him better. I would say that my mind processed the word "Falstaff" on the label in an extremely sneaky subversion of my illusory intuition, but the label never carries the word "Falstaff," instead billing Narragansett Brewing Co., the current brew house, as the place of origin.

Ok, maybe not the eeriest of convergences. It's no soviet radioactive monster mystery, but it gave me pause this afternoon. Theater tends to put one in a superstitious frame of mind, though.

Long to short: Drink Private Stock. It's good for you. Kind of.

The Haffenreffer to Falstaff Story
Reviews of Private Stock