|This picture showed up in the google image search for "Coqui 900" not sure how it's related. Oh well. Hubba Hubba!|
A few weeks ago I ended up in a liquor store in the ghetto. For reasons I will enumerate in short order I did not wish to drive to the ghetto again anytime soon, and since I was already there I decided to stock up on malt liquors they don’t sell in white neighborhoods. The most curiously named beverage I found was a 40oz bottle labeled Coqui 900. Clearly we weren’t in suburbia anymore.
|What an odd looking bottle of beer|
I ended up in the ghetto after the Chicago Bulls had clinched a playoff berth. In tribute I decided to drink some Schlitz Malt Liquor (see previous post.) This proved more challenging than I originally assumed. I went to the seediest looking liquor stores in my area, the ones that smell funny with cult member looking dudes behind the register, and l came up empty. I live by a few trailer parks and some shitty apartments, but not shitty enough apparently. I had to drive a half hour to find what I was looking for.
Walking into the liquor store I felt a little uneasy. I kind of stood out. I was probably the only person in the store without a Scarface tattoo, and aside from my White Sox hat I don’t look very gangster. Fortunately, everyone inside was very friendly and polite. Super polite, a lot nicer than that cult leader guy by my house. I bought a wide selection of malt liquors and started walking back to my car. When I got to the parking lot I noticed a guy selling crack right behind my car. I wondered for a second if I should I ask him to move so I can pull out. Then I remembered the time a crackhead threatened to “fucking kill” me over $5, and decided to wait and let him move of his own accord.
|This dick owns the liquor store by my house, he wants to throw me an "Egyptian Feast," whatever that means|
Right around the moment I noticed the crack dealer my wife called me on the phone. This wouldn’t have been a big deal, but my ringtone is Supertramp’s “Goodbye Stranger.” Not exactly the most masculine song in the world. I’m not exactly looking to intimidate someone with my ringtone, but a bunch of dudes singing in falsetto just kind of screams, “Beat the shit out of me.” True to form, my wife wanted to have a long conversation. I got off the phone as quickly as I could, got in my car and got the hell out of there. I wanted to take a picture of the place on my way out, but I didn’t think the drug dealer would take too kindly to having his picture taken.
|My favorite Puerto Rican: Rosario Dawson|
As for the spoils of my journey, Coqui 900 was pretty good cold; nothing exceptional about the flavor, good or bad. As it got warmer the cheapness and aftertaste got more pronounced. It has kind of a fried chicken aftertaste; not in the sense that it tastes like chicken. The aftertaste is more akin to the same aftertaste you get after you eat a bucket of chicken, without the joy that comes from eating copious amounts of chicken. Not surprisingly it didn’t sit that well and I felt kind of sick when I got to the bottom of the bottle. It’s far from the worst malt liquor (ahem, Steel Reserve) but it’s certainly not very good. I speak fluent French and it’s worth noting that Coqui is a French term for several species of small frogs indigenous to Puerto Rico. Coqui 900 is an apt name because it tastes like 900 tiny frogs just had anal sex in your beer. It is also worth noting that if you start shouting in German French people will do whatever you say.
I told you about my adventure, and Coqui 900 is serviceable but not very good. I think that about wraps it up. Oh shit, I almost forgot, Coqui 900 also comes in a 45oz bottle! I think I speak for everyone when I say, “Holy shit!” That’s 5oz bigger than your standard 40! What will they think of next? Coqui might not be that good, but if you can find a 45oz bottle I guarantee that it will be 5oz better than every other malt liquor you come across, and that’s saying something. I’m not sure what, but it's something. On the other hand, if I was saying, “Essen Sie deinen Schwanze!” I'm sure every Frenchman within earshot would eat his own penis. On that note I’m going to bed.
|And we'll close on a little more Rosario Dawson and her hot jugs|