If it ain’t America’s beer (and it ain’t—it’s, sigh, owned by the Brits), then PBR’s most definitely Portland’s beer.

Why? It’s dry, it’s light and it’s best served cold. In its way, it is the most quintessential lawn-mowing-barbecue beer of them all.

So why should you drink one?

Because the second one always goes down even easier than the first.

Because it continues to win blue ribbons, still. (No lie: it won a Great American Beer Festival gold medal for American-style lager a couple years back).

Because, even in a town and a state that prides itself on its hops, PBR is, without a doubt, Portland’s baby. It was as dead as Lazarus until Portland almost single-handedly resurrected it, empowering the brewers to spread their PBR gospel to hipsters everywhere.

But mostly because the brewers don’t pander to us. Don’t pander to us, and we’ll drink your beer. A lot of it.

That means no majestic horses. No stupid Super Bowl commercials. No stupid party dogs or croaking frogs. Just plain-and-simple beer.

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