It is a bright, corn-gold light captured in the curve of a glass. Mahou tastes of the dusty, sun-beaten streets and the cool, dark shadows of a Madrid tavern. There is a sharp, metallic snap to it, a bitterness that bites like a winter wind off the Sierras, followed by a finish as clean as a fresh-scoured stone. It is the sound of a clinking bottle in a crowded square, a shiver of ice in the heat of the day, a drink that knows its place and holds it with stubborn sun-drenched pride. It smells of toasted malt and the distant promise of tapas. It is much more than a beverage; it is a passport to a slower pace of life.

Was okayy

Decent pint but sat in a restaurant on my own looking like a twat

Numero ??? De Portugal 2