I took an opportunity to visit the Mondial de la Biere last week, and I traveled there with Uncle Jack Curtin (as Uncle Jack has been recounting -- more or less truthfully -- recently). Credit to UJ, actually, because it was his idea. I called him to see if he wanted to go to Pittsburgh to check out the wonderful new places that have opened there recently (the Rivertowne Pourhouse, Point Brugge (new to me; I keep trying to get in, and keep hitting it when it's closed, terribly frustrating), Bocktown Grill, a new D's, Marzoni's West, the new beer engine at Piper's Pub, and a new breakfast joint run by an old friend of ours, the Hot Metal Diner (most of which I do intend to visit in about 10 days on the way to Kentucky...)). There was a bit of malice in the invite, since Jack was apparently traumatized by our last road trip to Pittsburgh (page down, it's there, and worth a couple chuckles), the great weenie, but I did want to go.
But Jack said, no, what he really wanted to do was go to the Mondial. Good idea! Even better, I had a lecture lined up for Wednesday of that week in New Paltz, with a room and a fee that would easily cover my costs for the trip to Mondial. Perfect became perfecter when Jack found lodgings in Montreal that were a 15 minute walk from the fest, clean, secure, and only $45 a night. (Nice work, Jack.) We were on.
Getting over to the Beer Yard to pick up Jack was a traffic horror, getting through NJ was almost as bad, and when I found myself happy to be paying $4.69 a gallon for diesel, I knew things were screwed. As it turned out, I was wrong. The lecture went smoothly, and we also fit in a quick visit to the Gilded Otter brewpub in New Paltz (excellent alt, as always; a bit overly chocolatey to be classic, but not a problem when it comes to good drinking), the Tuthilltown Spirits distillery (more on that in another post...maybe, because I might be able to sell that one -- meanwhile, that's a picture of the stillhouse on the right.), and an excellent -- huge -- German dinner at the Mountain Brauhaus (highly recommended, great German fare and beers). Things got even better when I forced a visit to the Miss Albany Diner for breakfast, one of my top ten breakfast spots, a classic Silk City diner with house-made sausage and a MAD assortment of specialty omelettes and waffles (the Irish whiskey waffle is just nuts).
Okay, enough prelim. We slid up through the Adirondacks (sedately; I've discovered the zen of mileage, and got 43 mpg over the whole trip (I think Jack was somewhat chagrined by the calmness of my driving)), smoothed down onto the flats outside of Plattsburgh, and just before the border, yes, I did realize that my cell plan was stupid expensive in Canada, and called my family and asked them to only call me for emergencies (something Jack would twist cruelly at every occasion into "He told his family to stop calling him."). Onward to the border, only...
Jack and I got stopped at Customs. We were detained. After a long chat with the woman in the booth, who seemed quite pleasant, she suddenly started asking questions. Did we have any firearms? Did we have any firearms at home? (I do, one antique shotgun that was my grandfather's, but why that's a concern of Canadians -- or any of their business -- is beyond me.) Where else have you lived? (A fairly long list of different states for me.) Do you have any alcohol? (A flask of whiskey for personal use only.) Jack wisely said "No" to most of these questions, but I just couldn't help being truthful.
And she gave us a yellow card and told us to go park in the detainee lot and give our passports to Immigration. This didn't sound good. But it was just hand over the passports, watch the woman we gave them to stand around doing nothing while holding them, and then her calling Jack -- I'm sorry, John Curtin, and who the hell is that? -- up, and giving the passports back, along with a secret code number (*4050, and I'll probably never get into Canada again now) to get out of the parking lot. Stupid silliness; I can't imagine what 'profile' me and Jack Curtin headed to Montreal for two days would fit. It really pisses me off when government folks pull this screwing with you and never saying why crap. Ah, me.
So we headed up the AUT 15 with me in a somewhat foul mood, but the beautiful day soon got me over it. Things are pretty flat in this part of Quebec, which only makes the rearing backdrop of the Mont Royal all the more striking. My GPS was practically useless in Canada, so I'd fired up the laptop with Streets & Trips, and Jack was balancing it on his knee as we tried to figure out where to go.
The expressway part was easy, but once we got onto the surface grid, things were moving too quickly, and the street names on the screen were too small to read fast in the bright sunlight. I beat the directions into some kind of usable thing and found our lodgings...and then took about 10 minutes trying to get pulled over in front of the building so Jack could go in and find out where we were supposed to park (at least Canadians drive on the right side of the road...mostly). We did that, checked in, and headed down the Boulevard René-Lévesque to the Mondial.
It was a breezy mile and a quarter walk, and we bobbled around a bit finding it, but it was quite the thing once we did. It's an indoor-outdoor fest in a large restored train station and the outdoor courtyard. It's big, and fun, and free admission/pay for beer (which got expensive at times and stupid cheap at others: $2 for a big 12 oz. pour of St. Ambroise Oatmeal Stout -- yum -- but $3 for a niggardly 4 oz. pour of La Route des Indes IPA from Au Maître-Brasseur that tasted nasty and off). It was a thoroughly enjoyable festival, with cider and cheese and spirits to boot, which of course would be illegal as hell in most of the U.S., God help me.
I'll leave Jack to give the blow-by-blow (except to add my admiration for the drop-dead beauty and friendliness of the Unibroue serving women and their cute as hell lace-up vests) and move on to overall impressions. There were some absolutely outstanding beers at the Mondial, Canadian, French, and the usual American suspects (the "Petit Pub" had a wide assortment of non-represented beers, including some Sly Fox that Jack was quite exercised about). I had my first Unibroue Eau Benite in way too long, and it was exquisite, as were pretty much every beer I had from Dieu du Ciel, (where Jack and I would retire for a long, very enjoyable session that evening), Ferme Brasserie Schoune (where we were led by Tony Forder to meet the brewer and Tom Peters, who was already arranging for them to do a beer dinner at Monk's), and Benelux-Brasserie.
But I was struck by the number of inferior beers I also got. We've pretty much gotten used to the idea that beer festivals in the U.S., craft brewers in the U.S., have reached a certain level of competence. I remember ten years ago sampling beers at fests and remarking to friends that the brewers must not be sampling them, because they were all too obviously flawed and often infected. That's gone away, and I have not had a flawed beer in quite a while at a U.S. fest. I had at least three dumpers at Mondial.
I don't really think this is attributable to anything but the atmosphere and culture. Canadian brewing/drinking seems even more dominated by big breweries -- MolBatt, the Canadian equivalent of American beer geeks' BMC -- than America, and the impediments to cross-provincial beer sales haven't helped. It's not chance that the very best Canadian breweries seem to be either brewpubs, breweries with strong export sales, or new. There is acceptance of craft beer in Canada, but it seems to be behind the curve a bit.
I'd say it's rapidly catching up, though, and the experimental stuff, like the hibiscus amber at Dieu de Ciel, is equivalent to the stuff American brewers are doing, with its own direction. Canadian brewers, and particularly Quebecois brewers, explore things with less fear of having the results labeled as "girly beers," and I think that's a very good thing. There seemed to be less of the embrace of the EXtrEme beer, which I also think is a good thing.
That was about it, except, yes, I did go to Hard Rock Cafe Montreal. I'd never ever been to one, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. To be honest, I still don't know. It was perfunctory service, all MolsonCoors beers (the Molson Export I was served almost brought me to tears: I drank a lot of Ex in the 1980s, and this was a pale, sweet shadow of that beer), and stiff prices ($6.50 for a shaker pint of mass-market beer seemed extreme (please note my stupidity...I've since realized that this was NOT a shaker pint, it was actually a larger beer; my apologies)...especially since Jack and I both left 2/3 of our beers sitting on the bar (he'd got a Rickard's Red, which he repeatedly said was the worst non-infected beer he'd ever had). I guess I just don't understand what most people want from an evening out. Which is okay with me; I know what I want, and usually see that I get it.
That's not you getting detained - that happens everytime anyone crosses customs with any drink or other taxable. Just thank your stars you didn't hear the cool snap of latex glove hitting wrist.
Hmm. Both you and Jack praise the beauty of the Unibroue servers. Yet neither of you post pictures. Were they confiscated at the border?
I have some insight on the hassles you get crossing into Canada. Historically, U.S. folks were waved into Canada with perfunctory questioning. After September 11, the U.S. put in security measures that significantly slowed entry into the U.S. from Canada and strongly pressured Canada to do the same. Canada was none too thrilled about this and unofficially does the government version of labor's "work to rule", where they follow the guidelines _to the letter_, and check folks against watchlists verryyy slowwlly... because the U.S. does it on their side. Canada turns back anyone convicted of a crime, no matter how long ago, assuming the information is easily found in electronic records searches.
But you know, Lew, if just one life is saved by this, it'll all have been worth it... he says, eyes rolling.
By God, I'll learn to be so damned honest. Worst thing is, I never even opened the flask!
I was told by one Canadian that the real problem was...our beards. "We don't really like beards," he said, begging me not to identify him, because then "it could go badly for me." RCMP Secret Squad, I guess.
Ah, the Unibroue servers. I think we were both overawed...or maybe just not the type to take pix of women just cuz they're pretty. Or maybe just intimidated. I dunno.
A country having sovereign rights to control its borders, and inspect foreign nationals who want to cross them, is "stupid silliness" to you? Ever think that random checks on passenger and pedestrian lanes of a border crossing are done for a reason? One you necessarily have no "right" to know about. A country having sovereign rights to control its borders, and inspect foreign nationals who want to cross them, is "stupid silliness" to you? A country having sovereign rights to control its borders, and inspect foreign nationals who want to cross them, is "stupid silliness" to you? Ever think that random checks on passenger and pedestrian lanes of a border crossing are done for a reason? One you necessarily have no "right" to know about. Arrogant American asshole, Good lesson, lie and be dishonest to Canadian immigration officials.
Molson Export, then simply Molson Ale, was one of the first truly DIFFERENT beers I ever experienced, back in the late seventies. It doesn't surprise me that, in the recent rebranding of Molson products (i.e. all of their ale products being reclassified as beers)their signature ale has lost it's distinctiveness. Go grab a Labatt 50 to recapture the essence of the Canadian Ale experience!
Hey. Anonymous. Try decaf. You're repeating yourself, and I'll bet you've got slobber on your keyboard.
Lew - I am crossing the TI bridge in about five hours to watch a rookie league baseball game at Watertown NY as well as a run at the wonder that is Dick's sporting goods. I will let you know how many questions your (usually inordinately friendly) guy with the machine gun asks me. For most folks who live by the line - whatever side - these things are no big deal.
And I don't think caffeine is anon's issue...but you know that. Nothing more boring than an ugly Canuck.
How do they know you live by the line? Is there a sticker?
For the record, crossing back took about 40 seconds. Jack and I were almost suspicious that they were going to come racing after us after letting us go for a little while, just to mess with our heads.
I can see America from my office window. It's right there. We know where to look. People who are looking in another direction, well, they don't live by the line.
Plus I am sitting in Canada and listening to an NPR transmitter ten miles away which I got the radio engineer for the station to move ever so slightly a few years back to improve reception. People who live by the line know how to do that. I know where the good six packs are, too. I live by the line.
Sorry, Lew, but Jack's account of your border crossing is much more entertaining.
Jeez, Guy, it's also much, much longer, and clearly shows the influence of Jack's admittedly drunken relationship with Robert Ludlum.
Well Lew - I'd stop you at my border just to get you to write about it later. Keep up the god work. Peter A
It is 'Dieu du Ciel' not 'Dieu de Ciel.'
Whoops. Thanks for that catch.
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