I’ve lost count of the number of times Czech people have asked whether I like Czech beer. Realistically, the only way to answer is: “Yes,” so it’s a conversational dead end. With that in mind, I decided to try some of the best Czech beer to see if there might be something more to say. Or as one of my friends put it: “To disguise an evening of drinking as a piece of investigative journalism.”

With 11 varieties of Czech beer to choose from, Klub Malých Pivovaru in České Budějovice provided the perfect laboratory for the experiment. I planned to work my way through the beer list, starting at the top.

Realising I would be able to sample more beers if I drank smaller ones, I put in my first order with the barman. When I asked for a “small” he raised his eyebrows as if there was something wrong with me: I may as well have ordered a pina colada with a little umbrella in it.

As I took my first sip of Jílovice, one of my friends asked what I planned to write about it. In that moment I realized the investigation might be doomed: I’ve been chugging beer since I was fourteen, but not once have I tried to define it. And, as it turns out, trying to describe beer when you have no education in brewing is a lot like trying to describe gravity when you have no education in physics.

My friends disagreed: apparently it is possible to describe beer, but not without sounding like a “pretentious beer snob”.

“You could describe the colour?” one suggested.

“It’s yellow,” I said.

“Nah,” said someone else. “It’s golden.”

“Wrong,” said a third. “It’s beige.”

The investigation was definitely doomed. How could I evaluate the best Czech beer when I wasn’t even 100% sure of the colour?

To cheer myself up I ordered a Dobruška, which according to the menu is slightly stronger.

Taste-wise, I preferred the first one.

“Yeah, but you’re bound to say that,” said a friend. “The first beer always tastes the best.”

He had a point: to do this properly I ought to cleanse my palate. A hasty Google search revealed it’s best to gargle water between beers, but that was out of the question. I already looked pathetic drinking small beers, I wasn’t about to start ordering glasses of water in between.

While drinking the third beer (Prachatice), a friend tried to help me describe it.

“I like this one,” he said. “It’s hoppy.”

“It’s beer,” another shot back. “All of them are hoppy!”

“Alright,” said the first. “How would you describe it?”

The second took another sip. “It’s chocolatey.”

“Chocolatey! Is that because you’ve just eaten chocolate?”

“Alright. It tastes tropical, like my first Brazilian girl.”

“Your first Brazilian girl? You’ve never had any Brazilian girl!”

“Yeah I know, but it sounded good didn’t it?”

Paper still empty and pen still full, I ordered a small Chotěbor.

Five minutes later, the barman returned with a large Chotěbor. He said it was a mistake, but I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose because watching a man drink a small beer went against everything he stood for.

I drank the Chotěbor and swiftly moved onto the fifth and sixth (Kocour ležak and Něžny Barbar). I can’t remember anything about these two because I was deeply involved in a discussion about old age. The following day I woke up to find a note to myself: “Kill yourself before you get old.” Clearly I’d thought this such an innovative idea that I ought to write it down so as not to forget.

The seventh beer was called Bakalář Medový — and it tasted awful.

This didn’t surprised the barman: “There’s something wrong with this beer”, he said. “Shall I take it away?”

“Let’s not be hasty,” said one of my friends, grabbing the glass and finishing it off.

By this time I was feeling ropey, so it seemed fitting that I’d just ordered a beer called Bipolar.

As I slumped back in my chair to drink it, another friend arrived.

He announced I’d never get through the list and volunteered to try one for me. He selected Krkonšský Medvěd (a beer I had been avoiding because I was unsure how to pronounce it), and sipped it in a similar fashion to the way I had sipped my first.

“It’s a refreshing summer beer,” he remarked.

“Do you feel refreshed?” laughed another.

“Yes,” he replied. “I feel refreshed. It’s fruity with an interesting tail.”

Having confirmed the impossibility of describing a beer without sounding pretentious, we moved into town to see what other Czech beers Budějovice had to offer.

Unfortunately, my notes from that point onwards are non-existent. But I do remember finding a bar that served Jílovice and telling anyone who would listen it was the best beer in the Czech Republic (as if I had tried them all).

When I woke up the next morning it felt like I really had tried them all. For a while I blamed this on the dodgy Bakalář Medový (even the barman had said there was something wrong it!), but eventually I had to accept it was just a bad hangover.

I asked a Czech friend if there was a traditional Czech hangover cure I might try.

“I usually drink a Pilsner.”

“The beer?” I replied.

“Yep.”

“I don’t feel like another beer right now, is there anything else?”

He recommended I try some medicine called “Samaritan”.

I stumbled through the pharmacy door, asked for “Samaritan,” and received a look of pity in return. The Pharmacist handed me a small box that looked like it had been made during the second-world-war. Even in my dazed state it struck me as remarkable that a product could remain so untouched by the modern world.

Stuffing it into my pocket, I wondered if I would manage the three-minute walk home, or whether it might be wise to give up now and throw myself underneath the bush opposite the pharmacy instead.

Safely back at my flat, I opened the archaic box to discover Samaritan is the Czech equivalent of alka-seltzer – a fizzy powder that dissolves in water (hangover cures are easier to describe than beer).

After two glasses, my senses began to return.

I looked at the strange little box again, this time with gratitude.

Two things occurred to me.

First, how had I never heard of this stuff before?

And second, the investigation hadn’t been a waste of time after all.

The next time someone asked me the inevitable question, I’d have something different to say: “Yes, I like Czech beer,” I plan to reply. “But I really love Samaritan.”

*First published in Milk & Honey, České Budějovice, Czech Republic