Am I Allowed In This Brewery Without A Baby?
As I left the front door of my apartment building Sunday afternoon, I was met with a symphony of bird calls, a soft breeze caressing my cheek, and the blinding sunshine reflected off of the pasty thighs of prematurely-balding tech consultants.
Ongoing visual assault by the five-inch-inseam-shorts parade was making me thirsty. Moreover, the low-70s temperatures could only mean one thing: I needed a craft IPA and some deep-fried snacks with my girls like I needed oxygen.
My pals and I buzzed with anticipation, prancing over to our tried and true gastropub-slash-craft-brewery. The menu was laden with truffle fries and spicy cheese curds, each beer’s name more ridiculous than the last. As I sipped on my frothy “Intergalactic Footjob,” I scanned the dining room to find the usual brewery crowd. Neck beards in obscure band t-shirts and elder millennials with blue hair intermingled, sipping beers from gay little chalices. Something had changed, though — the watering hole’s regulars had all arrived toting one or more vomit-stained, poop-scented bundles of joy. How sweet.
Over the dull roar of shrieking and spit up, I exchanged a puzzled glance with my friends before asking the host for a table. Our dreams of handhelds and shareables were quickly quelled by what I saw as a judgmental glance from the host, solidifying that perhaps we did not belong.
Although we were successful in our weather-induced day drinking, my peers and I were outnumbered in droves by infants and toddlers, spewing from both ends like fire hydrants with rosy cheeks and footie pajamas. After settling our tabs and figuring out how to stand again on several very strong beers, we discussed our experience. One takeaway? iPad speakers are surprisingly powerful. Another? Gone are the days when breweries were spaces for young adults to imbibe over gossip peppered with dirty words and full government names.
You heard that right, dear reader. Your favorite brewery is no longer teeming with peers who possess nary the whisper of a crisp Ulysses S. Grant in their 401k savings account. As playgrounds and bookstores fade into obscurity, the new backdrop for quality family time is a place where one can build memories with their children while getting absolutely hammered off of funny little brewskis. If your child happens to clock an unsuspecting passerby in the face with a chicken nugget (or even a pointy little fork), it’s ultimately the stranger’s fault. I mean, how could they come to a bar and expect not to be forced into interacting with a baby?
We have received the message that Gen Z is not welcome in craft breweries. Perhaps it is time to find our very own third space, such as the bench outside of the gastropub, the post office or even the Aldi frozen vegetable section. Regardless, poopy stinky babies are NOT the boss of me. This generation has many faults, but our community spaces will thrive another day.