MCI Academic Journal #9: Guinness Goes Global

I fancy myself as a man quite in touch with the postmodern. I write in that style, bordering on the pessimistic doused with a healthy dose of mistrust and cynicism. Sarcasm and I are old friends, and as a result, reading and appreciating the postmodern is easy and approachable for me.

The postmodernist died a little in me during the trip to the Guinness Storehouse, though. A paean to the Black Gold, the Storehouse should represent the pinnacle of Irish brewing achievement. Instead, it is an achievement in the commercial.

Guinness is no longer an Irish company, no more than Sarah plain represents the average Alaskan. Generally, it's American companies, giant behemoths of capitalism and greed which swallow local culture and tradition whole, chewing it into a multinational mash of global consumerism. But what Diageo has done with Guinness is not much different.

In fact, very little in the Storehouse tells you you're seeing an Irish beer being made, even less that you're even in Ireland. Except for an occasional Irish brogue in the video displays and a few spelling differences in the materials, there's nothing that can truly be identified as "Irish." Guinness is trying very hard to be the next international brew of choice; the next draught for drinkers from Dublin to Durbin to Denver should be a Guinness. It's like Budweiser's beefier brawnier older brother; more history, better taste, and a "stouter" identity. (I know, bad pun, but I just couldn't resist.)

Floor upon floor, this Irish institution I cherished was being swept away, from the evangelism of Guinness as a world wide brand, to even cold (COLD!) Guinness on draft, again and again, I saw signs that being Irish just wasn't enough. "We're not Irish," Guinness proclaims. "We've moved on, just like the millions of Shamrockers who've left the Emerald Isle to find their fortune across the seas." The natural emigration of the Irish to far flung lands finds yet another advocate.

But something that sticks in my craw is that Guinness is now served cold. 40 years ago, the American market was a just a fantasy for Guinness and countless other imported beers. the allure was great with millions of American football fans eagerly awaiting a solid brew to quench their thirst on gameday. But these Yanks liked their horsepiss cold, not warm. Room temperature beer could never catch a fancy in the States, and so Guinness started chilling the draft to suit American tastes. Since America's greatest export is her culture, is it any wonder that much of the world drinks a cold frosty brew as well? Beer used to be about taste, now it's about refreshment, once left to lemonade and Sunkist.

As I trudged up escalator after escalator, I became more and more disillusioned at the prospects of witnessing Guinness' decline in multinationalism. I'm sure shareholders appreciate the bonus in dividends expansion the world market brings, but it's a loss of innocence for me and others who look at Guinness as the epitome of Irish beer.

It's a sad day for a pint.