Gone Fishin'

Combine open bar with twentysomethings, and the results mimic starving a feral pig for two weeks, then unleashing the snorting bacon in a room coated with chunky slop: messy, unrestrained and uglier than an unwashed Ann Coulter.

As we get older, open bars decrease in importance. Paychecks increase (supposedly), and decorum trumps double-fisting. By doughy middle age, restraint is a trick we trot out like a well-trained dog. Sip, sip, not slurp, slurp. Yet exceptions remain, with weddings and Christmas parties topping the list of limitless consumption. Add to this a recent Thursday night at Oscar's, a vulgar restaurant situated inside a shanty called the Waldorf-Astoria.

As a general rule, I avoid posh events like I once did Rabbi Fox, a man equally fervent in his religion and urge to pinch my cheeks. To wit: The more luxurious the affair, the more prone I am to calm my jitters with copious alcohol, causing me to leer at a teen's décolletage like vampire to pulsating jugular.

Still, the bait was too great: a dinner celebrating Delaware's Dogfish Head Craft Brewery. The invitation came courtesy of a champagne-bubbly harpy. "Oh, you just have to come. The event wouldn't be complete without you."

Flattering praise, yes, but smoke up my rump: When I abandon the city for vacation or miss a social engagement, I have acid-like hallucinations that wheels will squeak, gears explode. But New York City's steamroller crush continues, unabated, whether I'm party or not. It's humbling. And it's immutable truth, just as I am a chronic tippler who wraps his addiction in the guise of "food and beer" writing.

I accepted the invite. I hate a great number of people, but I have yet to meet a free beer I've disliked. That goes double for Dogfish. Since its 1995 inception, it has become a medal-winning microbrewery. With a business plan based on innovation and experimentation (like Raison D'Etre-brewed with real raisins-and Worldwide Stout, one of earth's more potent beers), they have brewed a tasty and widespread niche.

The delis in my gunshot-riddled 'hood usually stick to Night Flight, Budweiser and rainbow-hued St. Ide's Special Brew. Yet following Brooklyn Brewery's lead, Dogfish's 60-Minute India Pale Ale entered the cracked-glass-fridge land. Gentrification, err, progress! I often snapped up the suds, sucking it down like milk from a golden cow's teat. A decade of such deliciousness deserved a fete, which brings us back to Oliver's. When I step inside the attractively lit room (in that it is so dark, even the homeliest women are model-quality), I push and claw through a nightmarish phalanx of testosterone: middle-aged men with goatees, red cheeks and abundant white neck hair crowd the bar, grabbing endless four-ounce glasses of Dogfish. "He-he, when the wife's away, it's time to play," says one. (As well they should: the evening costs 70 dollars.) Several gelled-hair types wearing loud, pink and purple shirts-collars upturned-munch tempura-battered asparagus and scope out the sparse female element. I grab a glass of eat-it-with-a-spoon Chicory Stout and cower in a corner.

"Who are you writing for?" says a woman with rosy jowls. She points at my lined notebook.

I mention this publication. Not surprisingly, she gazes at me like a lobotomy patient. "We're a newspaper," I add, stopping just short of, "printed on trees."

She perks up. "Oh, then you just have to meet Sam," she says, pointing at a gregarious gentleman in a blue-striped blazer.

"Yes?I have to meet?Sam," I say, swallowing a thick glop. Sam? Sam? Ahh, yes, the reason for tonight: Dogfish founder Sam Calagione is celebrating the release of his book, Brewing Up a Business. As a member of the press corps, I inform her that, yes, I will chat with?Sam. She flits away, happy, I suppose.

Then a woman with browning orthodontics clasps my hand.

"I'm with Dogfish," she says, her grip tightening. "Who are you?"

I explain. She nods. "You guys are doing a bang-up job," I say. "Last year, I couldn't even get fresh bread in my neighborhood. Now I get non-moldy bread and Dogfish Head."

Her grin petrifies. "That's?good to hear," she says. "Perhaps you won't need fresh bread and just have our beer."

Sister, you don't know the half of my diet. I smirk, glug more beer and mosey away. The night ahead will be long and lubricated. I will eventually ingest knee-capping vodka. Eat crustaceans and hooved animals paired with beer. Calagione will grab a mike, as will other men, and expound on Dogfish Head's history. It's real bootstraps stuff, a company built on the philosophy that beers can be exciting Corvettes, not clunky Novas. But throughout the speeches, murmurs course through the crowd. The open-bar curse: social protocol rendered boisterous and bleary-eyed. The message is lost in a bottle.

"Are you having a great time tonight?" asks a blindingly blonde PR woman with teeth like bleached raccoon leg bones. She smiles hopefully, praying I'll write something, anything but this. I grab my fifth-or twelfth or seventh beer-and grin, my lips sewn shut. If I open my mouth, I'm afraid something horrible might pour out. n