I'm writing about booze

Booze is food!

This weekend, weekend meaning Friday, Jesse and I went to The Brickhouse during the opening ceremonies. We had intended on going to The Cambie, but at 7:30 there was already a friggin' line around the block, so we opted for elsewhere. Earlier in the evening we had wanted to go somewhere up Main Street as the both of us had never really checked it out too much (we don't wear enough plaid). As we were waiting for the bus we remembered that it was in fact the opening ceremonies and the party would obviously be downtown, so The Brickhouse was a fair compromise.

Anyways, we got there and the place was pretty much empty, I had never been and heard it was a dive of sorts but I didn't get that impression at all from the inside. On the outside it looked like every other dilapidated building surrounding it and they also share it with a Yoga/Eatery? The mere thought of that boggles my mind... I thought people who did yoga didn't eat? What the hell do I know.

So I order a pitcher of R&B Cream Ale, pay with a twenty (prices are not posted anywhere) and I got THREE dollars back. Three! Dollars! These are the kind of prices I would expect from import beer in restaurants like Earl's. R&B is the shit stuff they served at The Cobalt for fuck sake! To further my point on the import beer, from now on I'm calling a pint of Stella a pint of "Wife Beater".

Jesse and I nursed our liquid alcohol cash as long as possible, while the place remained empty. After the ceremonies were over and the flaming ghost of Terry Fox careened crazily into the outdoor cauldron, people started to trickle in. During this time Jesse and I decided that going to Seattle to drink was actually cheaper than drinking here.

Our bus ticket to Seattle - $50
Pints in Seattle - $2.25
Pitchers - $8
Three pitchers at the Brickhouse - $51

Seattle was a hell of a lot more fun too.

Here's how the ratings breakdown;

Amount of Beards - All
Amount of Bears - None
Atmosphere - Mom's Basement
Affordability - Mortgage your yacht