Tavern serving

Usage examples of lager.

You but your hand in my bocket ven you takes my dinners, my lagers, and my brandies, but I no do vat no shentlemens does.

I wobbled to the kerb and cut the motor just as Television segued into Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers, and cracked the last can of lager.

Midway through the evening Yasmeena thought she would fall down in the middle of the room and send her tray, laden with chicken biriani and mutton vindaloo and boti kebabs and schooners of lager, spewing across the floor.

It was all about the Channel tunnel and a landscape awash in Eurotrash, and French fashion victims, and acid rain, and lugubrious Belgians, and Iranian language students, and lager louts swilling Heineken, and football hooligans, and holes in the ozone layer, and Italian playboys, and South American drug lords, and Swiss banks, and AmEx Goldcards, and the greenhouse effect, and the Age of Inconsequence, and soon and so forth.

Gimpo was laughing at our erotic hosts, drinking strong Lappish lager and farting loudly.

Kingfisher lager and taking tastes from bowls of Kashmiri rogan josh, Rasedar shaljum, Kutchi bhindi, and French-fried potatoes.

They ate calamari, washing it down with cool lagers before walking through the narrow streets, dodging from awning to awning, window-shopping.

The backslaps and the fagsmoke, the lagers and the Scotch eggs, did not combine well.

The drink is delightfully cold, its flavour closer to beer than the lager which Baz offered him.

Their alliance had been clinched by the confession that neither of them liked lager, Peter because he didn't want to be British blokeish, Sam on the grounds that it tasted like ear-wax.

He hoped they would not play silly buggers and breathalyze him: he had drunk three pints of lager with his smoked-salmon sandwiches.

It's minor-key enough to be eerie against the empty lilt of the voice and the clinks of tines and china as Mario's relations eat turkey salad and steamed crosiers and drink lager and milk and vin blanc from Hull over behind the plants bathed in purple light.

Two camp beds in one of the bedrooms, spare linen in the airing cupboard on the landing, food still in cardboard boxes, mostly tinned stuff, the refrigerator half-full, six-packs of lager, bottles of vodka.

It was typical of the neighborhood at lunchtime: a crowded scene smelling of dampness, dominated by the sight of tightly rolled umbrellas, and bowler hats perched here and hanging there, dark-suited men from everywhere in the city taking their midday recess of lager and sandwiches.

That original appellation was before my time, and I confess to a degree of yearning for an age when bars had, in the main, sensible names, and did not pride themselves on serving their own creakingly-titled cocktails, a Choyce Selection of Our Eftim-able Home-Made Pies, Hotpottes And Other Fyne Dishes, and twenty different designer lagers, all of which taste identical, cost the earth and are advertised on the tellingly desperate Unique Selling Points of having a neat logo, a top that is difficult to open or a bottle neck whose appearance is apparently mysteriously enhanced by having a slice of citrus fruit rammed down it.