I forced myself to love spruce beer before I could reach the counter of the diner Émile Bertrand. Back then, it was the stomping ground of Montreal’s veteran spruce beer brewmaster Barry Fleischer. I’d sneak sips from my grandfather’s frosted glass while he scarfed down steamies, pretending to love the bitter aftertaste the way I pretended to love black coffee. It made me feel grown up, like I was in on something special.
For some, that first sip of spruce beer is like a breath of brisk air at the tail end of December. Others equate the historic soda to drinking melted Christmas tree. Most, when asked, fall short of words.
“It’s an acquired taste,” says Barry. “You either love it or you hate it, but you can’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
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