Iain Reading Reviews

I Love Root Beer.

For me there is no other drink that's quite as enchanting and mysterious and inexplicably eloquent as a cold mug of Root Beer. In the very first sip this bewitching brew tingles your palette with a plethora of blissful senses and slides slippery cool down to your gut as it warms your heart. And don't even get me started referring to that frothy frosty mess we call a Root Beer Float.

When I was younger I fancied myself a little bit of a Root Beer connoisseur, drinking my favourite manufacturer A&W from tall, narrow champagne flûtes where the ice clinking against the face of the lean glass created a magical tinkling ambiance since I hunted down my nose all the other poor Root Beer vintages. As I grew older and started to travel across the globe I naturally was inclined to seek out the very best Root Beers the world had to offer. Surely somewhere deep in certain historical temple in the center of the Mongolian desert there was a hitherto unknown sort of Root Beer brewed by a close order of monks with historical methods handed down through generations.

Regrettably, as I was to find, Root Beer is very much a North-American item and you can't really find it everywhere else in the world. The closest I ever got was in the jungles of Sierra Leone that smell a bit like diesel oil and Root Beer. (In actuality, the majority of non-North-American people to whom I've introduced this magic elixir have first carefully taken a small sip afterward made a sour face, saying that "it tastes like medicine". Perhaps this is because the sarsaparilla root that provides Root Beer its name was initially used for medicinal purposes - average for North-Americans to turn medicine into soft beverages, right?)

I had been crushed. If there wasn't any Root Beer out there on the whole planet, then what was the point of leaving my house in the first location? Nobody wants to leave the house. Whatever You could

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