One of the first things I noticed upon my arrival in France was that the standard order of beer was not the pint, but the demi. Now, while the “pint” is, in spirit, the standard unit of beer consumption in the Anglo-American world, it is hardly a standard measurement, complicated by metric, standard imperial designations and, in Australia it seems, a whole slew of regional beer vernaculars. In spite of historical cross-pond differences in measure – 16oz/473ml (US) or 20oz/568ml (UK) – I would hazard that the most common pint these days falls right in the middle, at the happy 50cl mark.
But I’m not here to talk about pints. They have them here in France, and they are consumed, as are the more Germanic looking 100cl steins, les Barons, and the daintier, 15-20cl gallopins – which was evidently introduced to the French drinking public by one Monsieur Gallopin in 1876. Likewise, we have half-pints in the US (or “schooners” as I knew them in the Pacific Northwest, where they better facilitate sampling the region’s countless craft brews), but they are far less common and often not to be had at all. The simple fact is, if you order a draft beer in the US, UK, or Ireland, you’ll be given a pint. If you order a draft beer in France – and don’t specify its size – odds are you’ll receive a demi.

Now, the causes behind such cultural idiosyncrasies could be manifold. Glassware marketing schemes ascendant in each country? Disparate refrigeration and/or beer-tap technologies? Evolutionary differences between French and Anglo-Saxon constitutions and digestive tracts? Who knows? The simplest answer is, of course, that British drinkers, on the whole, prefer beer, while French drinkers prefer wine. Beer being the principal intoxicant of the island nations, it is only natural that they should drink larger quantities from larger glasses. Besides, a hefty pint seems to rather fit the British national character, as a matter of both history and mythology. To say that a bourgeois, stemmed wine glass fits the French National character – especially in its red-capped outbursts – would be incorrect. A demi – smaller, more civilized – does however seem in accord with that certain idée de la France, especially when that certain idea is to have barley-pop instead of wine.
I have warmed to the demi over time, I think because I have come to appreciate the rather French virtues it embodies. While the French hardly have a reputation as a sober people, they lack the statistically-supported binge-drinking cultures found in the UK, Ireland, Germany, and the Czech Republic. In these latter places drinking, no matter its social function, is but a means to the end of drunkenness. Of course, there are temperate folks and factions in all these countries, but it seems to me that – in the rising generation especially – drunkenness is the logical end to a night out, and is not particularly frowned upon. In France, alcohol (commonly wine), is integrated into daily life in a much different way, and to a much different end. Wine, though full of its own virtues, is by far most virtuous when accompanying a meal, thereby complementing the flavors and extending the total experience. When consumed judiciously, it gives pleasure by heightening the senses, whereas beer, typically, gives pleasure by deadening the senses. Of course, I am a beer drinker, and appreciate the best expressions of the brewers art, and the steadfastness of better beers against even the richest of foods, but I cannot deny that, between beer and wine, the latter is the more sensual libation. Here I could get in to an exposition on the Northern and Southern temperaments of Europe, but I have not lived here long enough, and will leave it at a gesture.

Thus the French, wine drinkers at heart, drink beer differently – by and large – than the Anglo-American world. The French certainly will get drunk on beer, for which application pints or barons are recommended, but they also treat it with a certain French casualness and friendliness towards pleasure, and this is why their standard order is half of ours. A beer during lunch in the States – a pint, as it were – will almost certainly be worn on the breath, back to the office, where it may garnish untoward sniffs and will almost certainly slow you further than the post-prandial coma. A beer during lunch in France – a demi – will neither mark you nor slow you back at the office. If anything, the glint of a buzz and the effervescent carbs will fortify you for the rest of the day. The demi is more civilized simply because it is less – it costs less, takes less time to drink, and weighs less on the body. Thinking of the demi as one drink – and approaching beer thusly – in fact allows you to enjoy beer more.

Case in point: to “stop for a beer” in the land of demis is not as time consuming a proposal as it is in the land of pints. In the land of pints, the inclination is to sit, chat with a friend, ruminate, what have you – much in the same way “having a coffee” is treated. In France, while both you can “have a beer together” or “have coffee together”, you can just as easily “stop for a beer” and “stop for a coffee”. Many Americans seem to think that, because the French do not drink coffee on the run, they must always linger in cafes when they need a caffeine fix. Hardly the case – they drink at the zinc. Because a French coffee – usually just an espresso – is smaller than an American coffee, they can take 3 minutes out of a crosstown walk to prop an elbow on the counter, put down a demitasse in 3 or 4 sips, and continue on their way. The demi, likewise, offers this flexibility, and I have seen it enjoyed in such a manner many times. The pint requires leisure. The demi is adaptable, and I have thus adapted to it.