The Beer Tastes Terrible in This Other World
I died.
Well, not exactly died in the dramatic sense. I just drank too much, passed out, and woke up in another world. Classic isekai stuff. The kind of thing you'd see in those web novels I used to read while nursing a hangover.
At first I thought it was a dream. The sky was a ridiculous shade of purple, there were two moons hanging up there like a pair of judgmental eyes, and some guy in a robe was yelling at me about being the chosen hero or whatever. I laughed so hard I nearly puked on his fancy boots.
Turns out it wasn't a dream. And the hero thing? Total scam. They just needed someone to fight the Demon King, and I happened to be the poor sucker who blacked out at the exact wrong moment. After about three days of listening to their lectures, I told them to shove it. I wasn't interested in saving the world. I just wanted a cold beer.
That's when the problems started.
This world has beer. Technically. What they call beer here is some fermented grain slop that tastes like regret and dirty socks. It's warm, it's flat, and it gives you a headache before you even finish the first mug. The locals drink it like it's ambrosia. I wanted to cry.
So I did what any self-respecting former office worker with too much free time and a suspicious amount of brewing knowledge would do.
I opened a bar.
Well, more like a tiny tavern at first. The kingdom gave me a plot of land as a consolation prize for refusing to be their hero. It was in the middle of nowhere, next to a trade road that saw maybe ten travelers a week. Perfect. Quiet. Just what I needed.
I named it The Beer Garden. Simple. Honest. The sign is still a little crooked because I hammered it up myself while half-drunk on that awful local brew.
The first few months were rough. I had to build most of the furniture myself. The stove kept breaking. And don't even get me started on trying to explain what refrigeration was to the local carpenter. But I managed. I always do.
The real challenge was the beer.
I spent weeks experimenting in the back room, turning the place into a makeshift brewery. Barley wasn't hard to find. Hops were a different story. The stuff they grew here tasted like pine needles and sadness. I had to crossbreed it with some wild mountain variety with the help of a very confused druid. The first successful batch made me so happy I actually teared up.
When I finally tapped that first keg and poured myself a proper pint, I sat there in the empty tavern at two in the morning, took one sip, and whispered to no one in particular:
It was perfect. Golden, crisp, with just the right amount of bitterness. The kind of beer that makes you want to sit for hours and talk about nothing important.
Word spread faster than I expected. First it was the local farmers. Then the adventurers passing through. Then, to my absolute horror, a dragon showed up one day demanding to try the legendary human brew. I nearly had a heart attack when that massive golden-scaled bastard squeezed his head through the front door.
But he paid in actual gold coins the size of my palm and left a glowing scale as a tip. So I guess it worked out.
These days the tavern is doing pretty well. I've got regulars from all sorts of races. A dwarf who complains about everything but drinks six pints without fail. An elf who only orders the lightest lager and writes terrible poetry about it. A demon refugee who cries every time he tastes my dark stout because it reminds him of home.
Me? I just pour the drinks, listen to their stories, and occasionally brew something new when inspiration strikes. No heroics. No world-saving. Just good beer and decent company.
Turns out that's enough.
Oh, and if you're ever traveling the southern trade road, stop by. First pint's on the house. Just don't order the local stuff. Trust me on that.
Golden Lager — crisp, refreshing, perfect for hot days
Dark Stout — rich, chocolatey, pairs amazingly with grilled meat
Dragon's Breath IPA — very hoppy, very strong, only for the brave
Seasonal Special — whatever I feel like brewing this week