NOW TO paraphrase one of the nation's great rock poets, times change, baby, and sometimes at such a pace that you can lose your breath: You fall behind, miss a craze on the road, sit and drink a negroni or an amaretto sour on a reputable watering hole and really think you've got the beat down, that you've done your homework for once, but then out of the blue a real coolio walks in - and you know right away that he's a coolio , who really doesn't miss a beat - and now he sits down with his super-rare parka jacket and his sloppy but dead-perfect hair, and you feel an immediate sense of calm that you are, after all, in the same bar as such a trendy star, but then the fact that him the coolio doesn't order a negroni or an amaretto sour at all, but rather – and this is where, at this moment, you completely lose your cool – a black Guinness. Yes, gods!
I wrote home to the one of my friends who seemed to have been most taken aback by the creamer hype. It was good enough, he replied, he had gone completely crazy with Guinness, which he otherwise had never cared about. (He drank himself the week he rediscovered it, drunk on creamers three times).
He also wrote something else interesting, namely that you could now get Guinness on tap at Gården & Gaden, a rather hip bar and restaurant on Nørrebrogade in Copenhagen.