Relax. Don't Worry. Have A Chicha.

Mi hermano poco y yo caminamos en un cabana-

Lo siento.

My little brother and I walk into a hut, dried earth bricks ascending from a packed earth floor. Purple plastic bags shaped like a flower hangs above the doorway, the universal sign in rural Peru for "welcome Gilliam boys, you've found us." We take a seat at the sole table, and a stout elderly woman in the Andean garb walks out of the adjacent room to greet us gringos.

"Dos chichas, por favor" my little brother Lee says. He's been studying Spanish in Cusco since January, and this is easily the least impressive thing he's said so far (the most impressive was, upon arriving in Cusco, watching him talk a cabbie down from 14 sols to 4 for a ride into the city ["CATORCE? No, vivo en Cusco, cuatro.])

The woman smiles and shuffles into a corner where two 30-gallon earthenware pots sit, one covered with a towel, the other un-lidded. She doubles the towel over itself, unveiling what is undoubtedly to my homebrewer's brain a krausen, the foamy cap that tells a brewer that fermentation is taking place. She takes a ladle (brushed aluminum, a stark juxtaposition to the very homely surroundings) and spoons out two huge glasses. Seriously, something like thirty ounces (I wonder how many milliliters that is?)

For two sols apiece (about seventy cents) Lee and I cup massive glasses (really, these put the Taphouse to shame) of a lukewarm drink resembling a yeast starter. It kind of looks like a beer; it has a substantial head on it, although not from carbonation, but rather the yeast still metabolizing whatever had been mashed (my guess is corn or maybe chocle, which is a massive corn.) It takes a moment for both of us to summon the courage to taste this, and I take the quiet before the storm to sniff.

Tangy. Yeasty. Not at all like any beer I've ever wanted to try. I feel around with my olfactory, trying to push past the deep sour edge to find anything floral, grainy, or bitter. No such luck.

Oh god, this beer is horrid. I want desperately to enjoy this, but as it explodes down my gullet in a mushroom cloud of tepid greenness, I can't help but wonder if this was a good idea. I have to channel Mr. Papazian (there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer, there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer, there are no known pathogens...) to calm myself.

Lee is watching me. I hold a thumb up, trying to hide the grimace peeking around my fist, and gulp a bit before telling him "try some, it's good." He does not seem convinced, but pinches his nose and takes a sip.

"Pah-guh-pih-suh-pap" come the noises that are the Gilliam signal for "this is something foul." We giggle. I tell him not to pinch his nose, that he needs to really appreciate it. He does not take another sip.

I begin to gulp the starter (which is beginning to settle out, though the krausen is still bubbling) in a manner that would make a frat boy proud, although I can't imagine any polo shirts leaning against dried mud bricks. I feel smug satisfaction at my ability, my experience.