Don’t worry – we got butter beer on our first day at Universal. I’m not a n00b. It was exactly how I imagined it would be: butterscotch-y, creamy, a motherfucking delightful river of magic coursing down my gullet. It was so sweet that I had to share it with Henry, though.
At first, Henry was like, “IT’S BASICALLY JUST CREAM SODA, BIG DEAL.” Because he’s the Beverage Overlord, he thinks he can make these types of radical declarations amongst rabid Harry Potter fans. I was like, “OK Papa H, slow your roll. You’re about to get us flogged by all these newly-purchased Ollivander’s wands.”
Like, way to sour a magical moment, you know?! My first butter beer and Henry is trying to write it off as some basic A&W bullshit.
But this post is not about me and the way each sip of butter beer danced the Swan Lake upon my palate.
It’s about how not even an old miser like Henry could escape the pure joy and whimsy of the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. The butter beer alone made me him SMILE IN THE SHADOWS!
And by the second day, he was sneaking off to buy his own butter beer.
He wasn’t interested in sampling my fishy green ale. (Which was amazing, btw. Not as great as butter beer, but really fun because it had exploding blueberry fish eggs at the bottom and I love those damn things. Shout out to my homies at the Asian froyo establishments.)
The way he drank it was slow and methodical; he was totally savoring every last drop while probably imagining himself going head to head with DRACO MALFOY (I was going to say Voldemort but I think Henry knows that’s out of his wheelhouse even as far as imagination goes.)
I tried so hard (so hard!!) to get him to let loose a little and rock a butter beer froth-stache but he refused and then walked away and stood alone when I tried to smash his cup against his mouth. Ugh. LIVE A LITTLE, HENRY.
And on the third day, we visited Florean Flortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, and guess what Henry ordered? BUTTER BEER SOFT SERVE, YOU GUYS.
If you look really close at Henry’s face (I know, it hurts my eyes too*), you might denote that his lips are struggling to remain down-turned in that omnipresent frown of his.
(Gotta stay on his good side. He’s been showering me with music festivals lately and vague promises of Romania lately.)
We popped into the Hogs Head so I could get a butter beer in a souvenir glass (which I will honestly probably use as a succulent planter, no fucks given). I ordered a frozen one from the bar maid.
“Will that be all?” she asked, and I started to say yes, but then Henry cut me off and said, “And one regular butter beer.”
OH SHIT SON, someone’s caught feelings.
I just asked Henry for a review of butter beer in his own words and his reply was a very Henry-esque: “Butter beer good.” I’m sure he had a lot more to say in his butter beer porn script.
“And as the frothy butter beer sluiced down Hagrid’s bare navel…”
What about Chooch? He had one sip and shrugged, mirroring my face when I try actual beer and remember that I don’t like 97% of the beer that ekes past my lips. Chooch only likes milk and lemonade. He’s a fucking weirdo.
If Henry starts bringing home pallets of Faygo cream soda and bags of those yellow-wrapped butterscotches that me and old people love so much, we’ll know why: BUTTERBEER KNOCK-OFF. Maybe he’ll start competing with the asshole kids in the neighborhood who sell watered-down lemonade in the summer. Maybe he can call it…Hank’s Margarine Ale. Or nah?
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