United Nations of Beer

Henry House, Halifax

by Jill Lutes
(Beer Delegate, NS, Canada)

Henry House
Halifax, NS, Canada
Visit the UNOB's Nova Scotia Beer Guide

So, the first thing we need to address is the fact that, at the tender age of 28, I’m getting old.

I walk into Henry House in Halifax -– the destination of choice for Saturday evening -– and grabbed Beater’s* hand. "Um…everyone here is underage."

*Everybody gets a codename. Not for privacy, just cause they all wanted code names.

She assures me they’re all legal and we’re bad judges of how old university students look these days. We agree to start drinking as quickly as possible, because the sooner we’re drunk, the sooner we’ll feel like our pretty, invincible selves again.

One catch. I’ve invited my big brother to come along. I’ve never been drunk in his presence before. So this evening is to be a new experience for both of us. He sets the tone early on and offers to get the first round.

I pull out my pen and single sheet of paper I’ve brought to take notes and it’s as though over all the chatter and fiddle music, the entire bar has heard me unfold the page. Everybody turns and watches as I lay it flat on the table and prepare to take notes. "Weird... crowd," I dictate to myself, scribbling quickly.

We order the Henry House Halifax Sampler. Six 3.5oz house special beers. Once again we have the attention of the entire bar, as the waitress brings 18 glasses of beer and sets them down in the order they appear on the menu.

The Dungeons and Dragons boys at the table to our left (honestly, guys, did you think we didn’t notice the matching hoodies?) survey our little beer fest in awe, and then order the same thing. I swear I heard a little squeal of delight, too. You’re welcome for the PR, Henry House.

First up, IPA, or India Pale Ale. Not to be confused with Alexander Keith’s IPA, which is also an India Pale Ale, but is actually good.

The menu lists it as "cask conditioned and dry hopped". My notes say it’s flat, watered down and tastes like university bar draught. The upside to this is that one could drink it really, really quickly. No bubbles = chug city.

Second, we try the Ringwood. "Isn’t that a disease?" I peer at the contents of the glass, leading the my two cohorts to wonder if I’m enough of a lightweight to get stupid off less than four ounces of beer. "Ringworm, buddy," Big Brother assures me.

"Tastes like... bacon bits," says Beater, smacking her lips. "I don’t really like that in a beer." Big Brother takes a sip and makes a face. "It’s, um, not as flat as that other one," he says, trying to put a positive spin on it. (He can’t help it. Our mom’s the most positive person known to mankind. It’s genetic.) I, however, was adopted, and am not blessed with the same ability to spin. "Hate it."

The third beer has Beater wondering if she ate bacon recently, since that seems to be all she can taste. No more Keefe’s Irish Stout for her.

I’m not a fan, but I can recognise that it’s reminiscent of Guinness. Five years in London did nothing to make me like that beer. Big Brother is all over it though, and downs his glass and the rest of mine.

The fourth beer at Henry House, Halifax, Peculiar, apparently won an award. The menu tells us that it was "originally inspired by North Yorkshire’s Old Peculiar, also known as Lunatic Broth".

It might be the name, it might be the taste, but it gets the first unanimous thumbs up of the evening. "I love you," I say, leaning on the table to stroke the glass. "You are my favourite. I want to marry you and have tiny beer babies with you."

Big Brother glances at Beater. "She always like this when she’s drinking?" Beater grimaces. "You have no idea."

I can’t get past the smell of the fifth one. Best Bitter Special, my ass. "Not special. Not the best. Definitely bitter, though." It’s also too flat for my taste. I’m a bubbles girl. This flat business is not for me.

So I’m especially out of luck with our final beer of the sampler. It’s flat. My notes (the ones I can make out) say "Really, really freakin' flat. No pretty bubbles! Bitter is evil!" The notes go on to make some hilarious joke about being bitter about bitter, making me realize now I may be wrong with the whole 'I’m so funny when I’m drunk' thing. Bugger.

I trip twice on the way to the bathroom. A little math for you: 3.5oz x 6 = hammered. The bathroom is clean but dark, and when I check my make up in the mirror, all I can see is a blur. Obviously they need better lighting.

Big Brother offers to check on the male bathroom for me -– these things are important –- and comes back shuddering in disgust at the guy who didn’t wash his hands. Dirty Guy at Henry House in Halifax, if you're reading this, that was nasty.

The waitress comes to clear our collection of glasses and asks if we’d like anything else. "Yes, beer," I say slowly. "Real beer. Corona. Keith’s. Bud. Wait, no, not Bud..."

We sip our Keith’s, relaxing in the glow of the fake fire, and try to guess which of the D&D guys has a girlfriend.

My Henry House, Halifax verdict: cosy atmosphere, friendly staff, cute guy sitting at the bar, but one decent beer out of six ain’t great. Next time we’re coming here for the nachos.