The Mac & Jack Experience (And My Terrible Writing)

About a year ago I was in search of some secondary income, and I applied for a barista position with Trabant Coffee & Chai in Pioneer Square. Part of the application process included a questionnaire that required some creativity (something this blog lacks, remember?). Here is one of the questions I had to answer, and my seemingly over-the-top response. I have decided in favor of not editing any parts of it.

[Question]: Pick a food or beverage that is not coffee-related and describe to me the experience of consuming it in as much detail as you can. Please assume that I have no knowledge of common foods such as tomato, chocolate, oranges, etc. Be creative and descriptive.

[Answer]: One thing I do enjoying drinking is beer. I do not care much for mass produced beers such as Budweiser, Coors, or Pabst Blue Ribbon. I have a strict preference for a mild (amber) micro-brew. For this experiment, I choose a pint of Mac & Jack Alaskan Amber. Brewed in Redmond, my pint does not have to travel far to get to my favorite bar for consumption. I give my order, pick up my pint, and pay the bartender. I sit down with my chilled glass filled with Zeus's tears (if you collected them in a glass, they would taste like Mac & Jack). I lift the glass to my nose, and I take in a long breath to prepare my palate for the goodness of what is to come. I lift the cooled glass to my lips and take a sip [Flash]. I'm in the sky, walking on a cloud, surrounded by nothing but blue skies. Angels are singing sweet music for me. [Flash]. I am back at the bar, not fully aware of what I just experienced. I know it has something to do with the beer I just consumed. I let the taste linger in my mouth...the bitter taste of the hops (the dried conelike flowers of the plant; from the late Middle English, "hoppe")...the subtle hint of caramel (liquid velvet)...and the crystal and pure water taken from a comforting waterfall. Five minutes have now passed, and my lucidness has long since evaporated. The beer and I have become a synthesis of unfathomable desire. My glass is now empty; the beer inside me. The second beer arrives, and I shudder. This one is even more crisp in taste (such as if tiny pins were pricking your tongue) than the last. One can only hope that a third is en route. [Note: I've been reading quite a bit of postmodern literature lately]

I never heard back from them. Paliacci rolled around four months later.