Last Saturday night, in search of the perfect Buffalo Bunk, Todd and Raph decided, on Raph’s suggestion, to find the finest ales in all of Buffalo. The night called for something aside from the usual Main Street bars, with their hordes of underage frat boys and sorority wenches. It was indeed a night for something different, something alternative. Yes, it was a night for Alternative Brews. The kind of brews that we dig.

This tale begins after the hitting up of the ATM, when around nine, the two strapping young lads arrived at their destination, ready to wet their respective whistles with all the barley, hops, and ales that they could fathom. Their arrival was heralded by Big Tobacco, a local blues band, part of the blues lineup that appears every Saturday night. Tobacco was magnificent, with their tight rhythms, hard rocking melodies, and covers of the likes of Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Who, Bob Dylan, and The Blues Brothers. The original Blues Brothers, mind you.

“We should begin with the light ales,” Raph proclaimed, “and slowly make our way into the darkest reaches of beerdom.” “You don’t mean,” said a panicked Todd. “Yes,” Raph replied, “the dark ales. Monsters though they may be.”

They motioned for the barkeep, Darryl, who arrived saying they served “everyone from 21 to 101.” Too bad for the 102 year olds, thought the two journalists as they ordered the first round. Raph decided on Boddingtons and Todd a Scottish Ale that he never heard of the name, but didn’t care. Both, dear reader, were on tap.

The first rounds were light and delectable, and came in pints, and finished in mere moments, as Big Tobacco killed the barflies as they closed out their first set with a rendition of “Sweet Home Chicago.” This was not the usual crowd for collegiate students. This was a crowd of hardened alcoholics out for a good time on a Saturday night. Bikers and blue collared legions, old women in search of youth, and young women in search of old…men. A brave soul next to Todd and Raph stated “I’m here to pick up some moms,” as he ordered tequila shots without salt.

They saluted the man in his endeavor, and the time arrived for the second round. This time, it was to be beer from the far reaches of Colorado, the home state of the late great Hunter S. Thompson. The brew was Flying Dog’s Road Dog. A darker ale, only suitable for the tongues of those who crave adventure. “To Dr. Thompson,” Raph said, raising his glass. “To Thompson,” replied Todd. The clink of the glass was clearly heard in the now quiet bar.

Again, the glasses were soon empty. Darryl came back, with a knowing look in his eye: these brave men needed something else. The order was made and he returned with Ithaca Nut Brown for Raph and Middle Ages Grail Ale (not to be confused with Middle Ages Impaled Ale) for Todd, who exclaimed “A mighty brew this be.” “Aye,” stated Raph, as the clink of glasses once again resounded throughout the bar.

As the alcohol levels in their blood raised, discussions ranged from the quality of the establishment to if the Scouring of the Shire should have been left in the film Return of the King. “Yes!” boomed Raph, with much bombast. “No!” Todd declared, though it pained him in his heart to do so.

Unbeknownst to them, the band had returned. The two journalists didn’t remember ordering the next round, but nonetheless it was there. Smithwicks was the beer to arrive. ‘Twas a lighter Guiness, luscious and moist, with a divine ability to quench the palate. “’Tis milked from the juices of virgins,” Raph said, a tear in his eye.

“I must complete my quest,” Todd slurred, “I must have…the Monty Python Holy Grail Ale!” And he did, all 22oz. of it, and there was much rejoicing. Raph, feeling risqué as ever, ordered Brooklyn Brewery’s Monster Ale. “I shall vanquish this beast, even with its 11% alcohol,” Raph stated, and, again, there much rejoicing. The ales were rich and dark, and, in the dim light of the bar, the band played on.

The two brave men only skimmed the service of the 150 beers that Alternative Brews offers, and neither of them partook in the food that is available. Nor did they play darts or euchre. But they were damn sure they had found the best bar in Buffalo.

As they left, their pores clogged with fine alcohol, Raph said, “But we musn’t tell anyone.” “Aw shite, then what do we write for bunk?” Todd said. “A fine question,” Raph said, as they stared off down Sheridan Drive, into the waning moonlight.