I’ve lost count of the number of times Czech people have asked if I like Czech beer. The only real answer is “yes,” which makes for a short conversation. So, in an effort to find something more interesting to say, I decided to sample some of the best Czech beers. Or, as one friend put it, “To disguise an evening of drinking as investigative journalism.”

With 11 varieties of Czech beer to choose from, Klub Malých Pivovarů in České Budějovice provided the perfect laboratory for the experiment. My plan was simple: start at the top of the beer list and work my way down.

Realizing I could sample more beers if I drank smaller ones, I placed my first order. The barman frowned at my request for a “small,” as if I’d just asked for a pina colada with an umbrella in it.

As I took my first sip of Jílovice, a friend asked what I planned to write about it. That’s when it hit me: I’ve been drinking beer since I was fourteen, but not once have I tried to describe it. And, as it turns out, trying to define beer when you have no knowledge of brewing is a bit like trying to explain gravity without a physics degree.

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

“You could describe the color,” one suggested.

“It’s yellow,” I said.

“Nah,” said another. “It’s golden.”

“Wrong,” added a third. “It’s beige.”

The investigation was doomed. How could I determine the best Czech beer when I wasn’t even sure of the color?

To cheer myself up, I ordered a Dobruška, which the menu described as 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 should cleanse my palate. A quick Google search revealed that water is best for this, but that was out of the question. I already looked ridiculous drinking small beers; I wasn’t about to start ordering water in between.

By the third beer (Prachatice), a friend tried to help.

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

“It’s beer,” another shot back. “They’re all 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 claimed it was a mistake, but I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose. Watching a man drink a small beer must have gone against everything he stood for.

I drank the Chotěbor and moved on to the fifth and sixth (Kocour Ležák and Něžný Barbar). I remember nothing about them because I was deep in a discussion about old age. The next morning, I found a note to myself: Kill yourself before you get old. Clearly, I’d thought this such an innovative idea that I needed to write it down.

The seventh beer, Bakalář Medový, tasted awful.

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

“Let’s not be hasty,” said a friend, grabbing the glass and finishing it off.

By this time, I was feeling rough, so it seemed fitting that my next order was a beer called Bipolar.

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

He announced I’d never get through the list and volunteered to try one for me. He selected Krkonošský Medvěd — a beer I’d been avoiding because I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it —and sipped it with the same thoughtful expression I had at the start of the night.

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

“Do you feel refreshed?” someone laughed.

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

Having confirmed that describing beer without sounding pretentious is impossible, we moved into town to see what else Budějovice had to offer.

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

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

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

“I usually drink a Pilsner,” he said.

“The beer?”

“Yep.”

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

He recommended a medicine called Samaritan.

I stumbled into a pharmacy and asked for it. The pharmacist handed me a small box with a look of pity. Even in my dazed state, I was struck by how archaic the packaging looked — like it had been produced during the Second World War.

Safely back at my flat, I opened the strange little box and discovered that Samaritan is the Czech equivalent of Alka-Seltzer — a fizzy powder that dissolves in water. (Hangover cures, it turns out, are much easier to describe than beer.)

After two glasses, my senses began to return.

I looked at the old-fashioned 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 asks me the inevitable question, I’ll finally have something different to say:

“Yes, I like Czech beer,” I’ll reply. “But I really love Samaritan.”