I live on a tiny island off the coast of North America, a mere 22.96 square miles (that’s 59.5 square kilometers, for you metrologists) in area. For years I have bemoaned the scarcity hereabouts of one of life’s pleasures, which hails from an even smaller locale, deep in the heart of Texas.

I have brought the same home in airline checked baggage, on buses, and in the back of rented cars, from Texas, Pennsylvania, the District of Columbia and Delaware.

I was delighted when, some months ago, the other signer of our joint return discovered the magic potion at a barbecue restaurant accessible by public transport. On draft, yet.

But something even better followed. One of our island’s better-known gastronomic-organic supermarkets was pleased to become the local dispenser of the same. The proper way, in longnecks.

Shiner Bock has come to New York City. You are invited to join me in a chorus of “Rock Around the Bock.”