How the Rest of the World Drinks: Panama.

National beers. That's what the menus say, and it's a correct name for something omnipresent nationwide. They're also cheaper than imports--best defined as someone else's national beers. In Panama, as in Costa Rica, the most common imports are Corona, Heineken, Bud and Miller. Same old story, right?

In Costa Rica, there is one big quasi-monopoly on national beer. It's worth noting that the Cervecería Costa Rica is not yet controlled by a transnational, although Heineken owns a stake. In Panama, there are two big beer companies--one's run by Heineken, the other by SABMiller. Their products are more or less indistinguishable, adjuct-laden pale lagers. Again: same old story. They're drinkable, refreshing, and that's about the most you can say. If they're so cold you can't taste them, so much the better.

In Panama City there are a few haunts with something more, beer-wise. I'll tell you more about them later. But for now, how about drinking with the locals?

When the gringos built the Panama Canal, they dredged up literally tons of rocks and lined them along the sides. On the Pacific side, they built a road on those and connected a couple of islands. It's called the Causeway--the Amador. The Americans built fortifications there, but these day's it's a thriving shopping-and-restaurant district, built around the city's poshest marina.

Amid the names of chain restaurants that would be familiar to anyone in the U.S., a friend brings us to a smaller place called K-YU-CO, on the last island. It's a play on cayuco, or dugout canoe. It's packed. We're the only tourists. The locals are here to enjoy the warm night while watching the yachts come and go. They eat ceviche, whole fried fish and patacones, drizzled in lime juice and Caribbean-style hot sauce. And they suck down iced buckets of national beers with friends.

The sports bar in my hotel, which looks just like any hotel sports bar in America, has a couple of decent Belgian and German imports. Tonight, I'll take the national beers, pescado frito, and atmosphere.

Panama for a buck-and-a-half a bottle, by the way. Mine for the night.

Availability. Quality. Mood. Price.

"What makes you buy someone's beer?"

Which beer is nearest my person? Is it any good? Am I in the mood for it? What's it cost?

When I saw Alan's topic for this month's Session--the 50th--I wanted to provide an appropriately simple one-word answer. Instead I came up with no less than four words, which in reality comprise a sort of complicated mechanism for making a decision. It all seems very pragmatic for something that's so close to my heart.

However: Alan's theme may lead to more interesting navel-gazing among most of you. I'm referring to those of who have access to amply supplied bottle shops in the world's developed countries. Maybe you are trying to decide between some new American-made farmhouse ale and the latest Mikkeller collaboration imperial stout.

Bastards!

At the moment I'm at a mostly-inclusive resort in Panama. There is one beer, and it's called Balboa. I understand that it's owned by a national brewery which is owned by a Colombian company which is owned by SABMiller.

It's available. It's piss. But I'm in the mood. And the price is right.

What makes you buy someone's beer?

First of all: lack of choice. Secondly: It's not "someone's" beer. It's mine.

Innocence Lost.

I'm cynical. When I hear that someone is a "beer sommelier" or Cicerone my gut reaction is to think it's lot of puffery. It's a chance for someone to add a fancy label to themselves and lord it over us. It's only beer, after all. Let's not complicate things.

Then I have an experience like Tammy Tuck had recently, which is sadly common. You can read her account in the Washington City Paper (thanks to Lew Bryson for the link). In a classic Adam's Morgan dive called the Asylum,* a bartender told her that Kasteel Tripel was "'like Budwesier times ten,' 'not so sweet like other Belgian beers,' and 'just like a lager.'"

By the way, if you've ever had the misfortune to try Kasteel Tripel,** all three of those things are dead wrong. It's nothing like Budweiser, although the alcohol taste might be like Budweiser times three. It's one the sweetest, most cloying Belgian ales on the market (although that cough syrup called Kasteel Kriek might offer a run for its money). And it's not just like a lager, although it happens to be pale in color.

Tuck then goes to another place called BarCode, where she is told that Goose Island Sofie--a Belgian-style oak-aged pale--is just like Yeungling. Yikes.

I like to say I'm not a fussy drinker, and then I have an experience like that. Or I hear about someone else's. They demonstrate the growing pains of craft beer in America. More flavorful beers are working their way into more places--normal places, unpretentious places, and we should be grateful for that--but the staff have a certain learning curve. Beer is more complicated then it used to be, like it or not. But drinking it should not be.

So: More Certified Beer Servers, please. More Cicerones would be nice too.

Oh wait, now there are more. Word is out that there are two more Master Cicerones in the world, for a total of three. One of them is Rich Higgins of San Francisco's Social Kitchen and Brewery. The other new one is Dave Kahle of Chicago. Plus there are more than 170 regular-flavor Cicerones and 2,500 or so Certified Beer Servers.

Ray Daniels told me that Cicerones should be "guides and not Gods. For the most part they work invisibly to make sure the beer is tasting great and then train the staff to help customers pick a beer with no more fuss than picking an entrée."

Less fuss is good. I'd settle for servers who know what the beers taste like. And bartenders who keep their draft lines clean.

CORRECTED to fix my confusion of Sofie with Matilda and to ADD the name of Dave Kahle as a new Master Cicerone.

*We used to go to the Asylum on Sundays for a ridiculous special. I think it started at 4 p.m. with 25-cent drafts for an hour. Every hour the price went up by 50 cents. For years the beer in question was Shiner Bock, then later switched to Miller High Life. Quality was not our concern.

**If you've ever wondered why I talk mostly about a handful of Belgian breweries and ignore the rest, it's because I rarely have nice things to say. Yet I still think Belgium offers the greatest, most interesting beers in the world. That just shows how good the really good ones are. Meanwhile Kasteel Tripel--sweet, spiked and spiced--in my view represents the worst of Belgian ale. If you like the stuff, well, I hope we can still be friends.