Tilt a twenty-ounce tulip pint 45 degrees, let the 6°C draught beer flow down the glass's side until filled three-quarters of the way to the harp logo, then let that settle for 86 seconds before topping it off. Exactly 119.53 seconds later, you have a perfect pint.

No beer is presented with more ceremony and rules than Guinness. Diageo, one of the world's most prominent alcoholic beverage conglomerates, calls that the "Guinness Experience." Crusty Irishmen call that the "proper" way to serve a Guinness. I call that, a brilliant marketing scam and waste of valuable drinking time.

With St. Patrick's Day on Tuesday, and thirteen million Guinness pints about to be consumed in a single day, I think it's finally time to admit the Guinness pour is unnecessary, no matter what they've had us believe over the 255 years of their existence.

Guinness is a fine enough dry stout, something even most beer geeks will readily admit. It's surely one of the most gorgeous beers around, with that deceptively dark ruby red body topped by a creamy mocha dome of a head. Its taste is a little less remarkable in this era of big, bold imperial stouts, but still, it's roasty, creamy, and insanely drinkable. Hardly motor oil thick like neophyte drinkers seem to believe, it's the "lite" beer that doesn't need to brag about it, at only 125 calories per twelve ounces. On those increasingly rare nights nowadays when I find myself drinking pints well into the double digits, it's often Guinness I'm throwing back.

Still, there are countless beers in this world and no others have the gall to claim that six steps—six steps—are necessary to get their liquid from a keg into your glass. Watch this two-minute pouring tutorial video on Guinness'swebsite. It seems like satire. I've watched YouTube videos on how to hit a golfball out of a pot bunker or tie a bow tie that are briefer. But, you say, the pour has to be special because Guinness is special. Even that's hardly true any more.

Guinness is exclusively served on nitrogen, meaning it is pressurized in the keg with a nitrogen/carbon dioxide mix (at a ratio of 75% to 25%) as opposed to being strictly carbonated like most beers. Unquestionably, nitrogen taps pour differently that standard lines, coming out rich and velvety and, indeed, taking a little while to settle. But not that long.

Guinness's two-part-pour myth-making might have worked back in the days when few beers were available as nitrogen pours. But, nowadays, countless beers are available "on nitro," with most bars devoting a line or two to special faucets which help further facilitate a nitrogen beer's correct flow. Nitrogen beers have long been the domain of stouts like Guinness, but as of late I've seen unexpected offerings like Left Hand's Sawtooth ESB and Founders Centennial IPA pop up on nitro. Literally the best beer I drank in all of 2013 was a milky double IPA on nitro, Alpine's Bad Boy. Yet my bartender managed to get all those other nitro beers in front of me a lot quicker than a completely arbitrary 119.53 seconds (not that I was timing on my chronograph).

Kyle Kensrue has heard all the myths about Guinness as well. A certified cicerone (essentially a sommelier for beer) and the beer director at New York's Randolph Beer, he told me: "They say that by taking your time and pouring Guinness in increments, you are able to let the beer cascade after each pour, making it more dense and creamy. I've never actually tried to pour in increments, but the science makes sense to me." Although, he also noted, "You could do it with any nitro beer theoretically."

I decided I should just test it out myself. I went to an Irish pub in midtown during off-hours and gave the bartender an odd request: a "proper" 119.53-second Guinness and one Guinness pulled like he'd pull a Bud Light. I asked him to serve them to me blindly and side-by-side, but that ultimately didn't matter. It was self-evident which was the properly-poured Guinness as its head was noticeably thicker compared to the quickly-poured pint which was bubbly and frothy. Still, aside from a slightly less creamy mouthfeel, the taste was the same and I doubt anything but the most discerning palate would have noticed a difference. The old cuss behind the bar was so surprised by my findings he did the same test himself, begrudgingly—but not quotably—admitting they tasted "about the same."

Sure, patience is a virtue. And, in this increasingly faster and faster modern world, there's nothing wrong with waiting for something quality to be crafted before your very eyes. I'm guilty myself of enjoying the "experience" of watching a hipster mixologist in a tight vest take a good fifteen minutes to carve a flawless ice square, meticulously measure and stir it, then delicately express a swath of orange peel just to make a simple Negroni. So maybe that's the way Guinness is for you, a pint of placebo, an evocative ale that takes you to a special place while you relax those 119.53 seconds. People like ceremony in their life, and well, if it can happen at the bar simply by handing over five or six bucks, I suppose that's all the better. But, at the least, it's time to finally admit you could get that same Guinness with about 60 seconds less foreplay.

Even brewmaster Fergal Murray admitted as much a few years back in Esquire, "It is a ritual. It's theater. It's about creating an experience." That experience might be pleasant for you, but for me, especially if I were going to be in a crowded bar on St. Patrick's Day (I won't), it's an experience of, "Couldja get me my beer before I order something else that doesn't have so many stupid pouring rules?!"

Aaron Goldfarb (@aarongoldfarb) is the author of The Guide for a Single Man and The Guide for a Single Woman.

Aaron Goldfarb Aaron Goldfarb lives in Brooklyn and is a novelist and the author of 'Hacking Whiskey.'

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