Encountering Iceland

I accepted a junket to visit Iceland's Ölvisholt brewery from Belgian beer importer Vanberg and DeWulf, partly because I've known them for so long -- Don Feinberg and Wendy Littlefield have been great influences on my beer thinking, and on life in general -- and partly because I've never been to Iceland, and have always wanted to see it. Saturday afternoon, May 5th, Cathy dropped me off at Hamilton station in New Jersey, and after a pretty painless set of rides on NJ Transit, Long Island RR, and the JFK AirTrain, I was at JFK, waiting my 8:40 flight on IcelandAir among an amusingly high percentage of tall, slender blonde folks of varying ages; homeward bound, I assumed.

That all went off without a hitch, on-time takeoff, and 6 hours later -- no sleep, my curse -- the sun was rising as we approached Iceland. I was looking out the rightside window as the plane was descending, eager for my first look at the island, seeing only waves and a couple of fishing boats. Then I looked to the left, and through the window across the aisle, I saw the snowy cone of Snaefellsjökull; my first sight of Iceland, appropriately, a volcano. Excited, I continued to look at details: the flat seaside plains that now appeared to my right, the sparse buildings, the snowy line of hills and more volcanoes to our left far across Faxa Bay. We landed at 6:05 AM local, blew through customs and baggage claim in ten minutes (really, it was wonderful), and after getting some krona out of the ATM and buying a bottle of water, I was on the FlyBus to the hotel. 

The trip from the airport wasn't as bleak as people had told me. The volcanic rock along the road is actually well-covered with lichens, moss, and some grasses, and a few hardy types have built homes closer to town; isolated, and of the spare style I'm growing to appreciate as I acclimate. They use simple, cheap materials -- corrugated metal, cinderblock and stucco -- but they achieve a balanced simplicity that is appealing in its honesty. They could easily build blockhouses...but they don't. They build solidly constructed, simple homes.

Changed the white balance on my camera accidentally...

Anyway...the bus arrived at the Natura Hotel, and Wendy was right there, coming out the door to go on a morning walk (it was about 7:15 by now). That was lucky, because I needed to get to sleep! She welcomed me, got me checked in, and I was shortly snoozing. About three hours later, I was much refreshed -- I thought, I'd need another nap later before I was set -- and we walked into town, Don, Wendy, and I. 

Don and Wendy are very much about the place of the beer, and not just the terroir, but the cultural origins, the place the beer has made for itself. So this was about meeting Iceland, which means meeting Reykjavik; over half the population of the entire country lives here. We walked up the hill to Hallgrímskirkja (above), the huge church on the hill overlooking the main "downtown" and the harbor. Services were just letting out as we got there -- children running around eating ice cream! -- and we bought tickets for the elevator to the sightseeing platform on the 8th floor of the steeple. You look out past the faces of the clock to views like that below.

Looking down into Reykjavik, concert hall in mid-distance center.

Views taken in, we walked downhill into town, past The Hand-Knitting Association of Iceland (really, and they actually figure in the story later...), and we stopped in a place called Vegamot (which turned out not to be a vegetarian place: vegamot means something like 'crossroads,' or 'where paths cross') for a beer.

This was a chance to try the big beer in the country, from the big Egils brewery, Gull, or "Gold" (pronounced something like "gool (th)", with just a bit of 'l' and a quick flutter on the end; interesting language with an obsession with "th" sounds). "Gold" is a good name for it; it's a decent international pils-type; nothing exciting, but not bad either. Happy to finish it. They also have a "craft" line, called Borg, and we sampled the Blonde (No.4) here -- again, good, not crazy -- and had the IPA at another point -- kinda blunted, but to be honest: there was a lot of old bottled beer in Iceland.

We walked on, and wound up at a nice little place for lunch: Lækjarbrekka, where I had what they called a traditional Icelandic fish stew. (I'd been told about all the Icelandic goodies I should try: whale, puffin, and the fermented shark meat...nowhere we went offered any of them.) It was fairly bland, but good, and did the trick. From here we walked to the Harpa, the large, modern concert hall right on the harborside. It was gorgeous, it was impressive, it was comfortable...it was naptime again. After a nice chat in the comfy chairs at Harpa, I was starting to drift off. We went back to the hotel, I had another snooze, we had dinner at the hotel (an interesting buffet with two different kinds of herring, cod, and chicken, and more vegetables than I've ever seen at a German hotel spread, I'll tell you that)...and after I'd marveled at how bright the light still was at 10:30 PM local...I called it a day.

The next day we would visit Ölvisholt and meet brewer/owner Jon Gunnlauggson...and see volcanoes, ponies, glaciers, fish jerky, moss, steam, and angelica. Back soon.

Western PA, Day 2

Yes, I'm still here, just got really busy with book signing and family life.

To pick up where I left off... I got up the next day, Sunday, then went to get breakfast. Sigh. Cranberry Township is a lot of things, but there aren't a lot of independent diners around. So, oddly, despite having gone to grad school at CMU back in the 1980s, and having been back to Pittsburgh on an almost annual basis ever since, I went to an Eat'n Park for the first time ever. Hey, at least it's a locally-based chain, okay? And the blueberry pancakes were pretty good.

Back to the room, did a bit of work that was hanging fire, suited up for the day, and I headed into town. It was a gray, raw, rainy day, and when I found a spot by the loading docks at the Strip (just about across from Kaya), I was unloading books in the rain. But it was all worth it: I got into the Pittsburgh Public Market and was knocked out by the great selection of local merchants and shtuff. I hustled down to the far corner where Scott Smith has opened the truly ground-breaking East End Brewing Growler Shop, and dumped my stuff. More about the growler shop shortly -- it was lunchtime. I got a recommendation: "Go up there to Sito's, get the wrap, they put an assload of stuff in there." And they did, and it was awesomely good. I wanted to get that plug in there because it was one tasty sandwich thing.

So, the growler shop. The way Scott explained it, the inkling came from a 2006 inquiry he made with the PLCB on another topic, in which they happened to mention, unprompted, that he would have the same ability to fill and sell growlers at an off-site storage facility that he did at the brewery. Busy as hell just staying afloat at that time, he didn't really think anything of it, but three years later he started thinking about opportunities, and that came to the top. It sounded like the off-site "stores" PA wineries are allowed to have, and that would be great, to get a growler outlet in a more consumer-friendly area than his famously out-of-the-way brewery, a place with more retail traffic.

It would be, but there was a PLCB odyssey to go through first. (Stop me if you've heard that one before...) Scott started going through layers and layers of bureaucrats, all of whom seemed baffled by the idea of an interpretation of the Almighty Liquor Code that actually made things easy for the brewer. "You'll need a license for that," he kept hearing, but like Virgil in Dante's Inferno ("This has been willed where what is willed must be, and is not yours to question.") Scott brandished the letter, saying "But I have a ruling from the Board." Because it was a letter direct from the actual Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board, not one of their lawyerminions, Scott won through, and has an off-site storage facility at the Pittsburgh Public Market: a lockable cooler with tap outlets next to a serving area with a ton of East End merch.

And let me tell you, they do a land office business. On a wet, cold Sunday, there were people lined up five-deep happily waiting to get growlers filled, sometimes six at a time. And quite a few of them were interested in books! It kept me pretty busy, and Scott kept me supplied with tasters (can't get enough of the Fat Gary brown ale), but all good things had to come to an end...I packed up, shook hands all round, and made for the door.

It was seriously raining now, and I had to make my to [two of the colleges in town] to pick up [four college students I happen to know]. Yeah, I'm covering up identities here, you'll soon see why. I took the kids to one of my favorite spots (and my late father's very favorite spot) in Pittsburgh: Max's Allegheny. It was hopping, the Steelers were at home that evening, and Max's runs a shuttle to the arena. They managed to stuff us into the basement, where I got me some hassenpfeffer and Kostritzer.

So, why I covered the identities: they filled me in on the Four Loko thang. Yes, everyone drank it (this was pre-ban by about two weeks); it was compact and easy to smuggle in under a jacket, and a can is four 'regular' beers. "Oh, it tastes awful," they freely admitted, but they were equally open about why they were drinking it: for effect. One of the colleges had a no-drinking policy on campus, even for students of legal age, and the effect, they told me, was that no one drank beer, because it was too bulky to smuggle in. Instead, it was 'handles' (1.75 liter bottles) of cheap liquor (rum seemed to be preferred), bags of weed, and Four Loko. Great policy! I tried to set them a good example by praising the taste and low alcohol content of my schwarzbier, but it's truly for naught, given the 21 LDA; Max's was clearly a better environment for drinking (and learning to drink) than a dorm where every drink was contraband, but what's logic in the face of dogma?

I took them back to their campuses, and considered just going to my hotel in Monroeville...but I had gotten a Facebook message from Steve Lander, a true alpha beer geek (and funny SOB to boot), that I should meet him at The Headkeeper in Greensburg. Well, I'd put Headkeeper's into the book on recommendation, so I felt duty-bound to check it out. Glad I went, though I wish I'd et a bit lighter at Max's: Steve was eating, and the food smelled fantastic. He'd been eating his way through the menu over a couple months and said it was almost all outstanding; this from a metro New York guy. The beer...well, no possible argument, the beer selection, draft and bottle, was exceptional. If I hadn't already had a couple, and had a 30 minute drive back to my room... But instead, I hung with Steve and talked geek for a while, and had a Schlenkerla Lager (always welcome), and finally did check into the Holiday Inn Express (I gotta start finding more non-chain motels...). And that was Sunday. Next day: breakfast with an old high school chum, lunch at Rivertowne, a visit to Full Pint (finally!), the Church, and Penn, and the big PA beer dinner at Bocktown... stay tuned.

(I'll get some pix up on this one as soon as my PC stops acting like Betty White; maybe I should try a Snickers...)

Driving to Mexico City

We got up this morning with an extra hour of sleep (thanks to some realistic evaluation of how long it would take to get through the minimal security at the Xalapa airport) to greet a very  foggy morning. We set out for the airport, but didn't get more than 10 minutes on the road when we got the word: fog too heavy, no flights today.

Quick as that, the Pernod Ricard crew decided we'd DRIVE four hours to Mexico City. Is that okay with us? HELL YES! We strapped on the SUVs and headed west. Once we got to Xalapa (past the airport museum, past the SUX buses, past a bunch of people in raincoats, and gardens and a huge cemetery), we followed the signs to DF MEXICO, and climbed out of town for what was easily half an hour, grinding uphill on a two lane road that just kept rising and rising. The towns were something to see: colorful, poor, rich, bustling...and mostly wet, at first. We went through one town where every second store front  advertised QUESO! (cheese); we wanted to stop but didn't.

We broke out onto a plateau, where it cleared up and was COLD. I was in short sleeves and my breath was fogging. Just a short stop for los baños, though, and we bundled back into the cars. We saw forests of spiky, stumpy trees, cactus, and then hills covered in trees much like home. There were huge snowy peaks in the distance, including two that were volcanoes, rearing up out of this largely flat landscape; like Nebraska, with the occasional mountain. Just incredible. Passed through some tollbooths while on a divided highway; every one was guarded by at least one guy in a bulletproof vest armed with a big nickel-plated pumpgun -- with five extra rounds in loops on his belt! What the hell kind of problems do they have with toll evasion! Had a good time with the folks in the car, too. Very glad we drove.

Then we got to Mexico City -- huge, sprawling, and traffic worse than ever I've seen. We had a tremendous lunch -- seafood, beers -- went to a historic bar -- more beer, saw the hole in the ceiling supposedly from Pancho Villa -- and walked to our hotel...awesome. More stuff happened, but...I'm whipped. We go to the Kahlua facility tomorrow...and no, we don't get to see the distillery. It's down in Veracruz. We'll see the coffee roasting, grinding and extraction, and we will get to sample the rum that goes into the drink. And maybe...I'll get to come home. Snow's not looking good for that, though!

No pictures for now, unfortunately; I managed to jam the dummy SD card in the slot in my laptop...

"He's bringing some hooch out of the back room!"

We went to la Estrella de Oro tonight, what we were told is the oldest cantina in Coatepec, about 120 years old. It was originally a train stop; the tracks ran right down the center of the street. Anyway...it was rustic, the people were rough-cut but friendly (especially when a bunch of gringos descended on their bar), and they had cold beer. They also had a folding table that had a top surface made of inch-thick stone, such a bizarre thing that I actually got out my notebook and wrote it down. I got an Indio, a FEMSA dark beer; it was fine, it was cold. I had some mezcal; I don't like tequila, but this I liked, smoky, not as vegetal.

And then I saw the bartender go into the backroom and come back with a big glass tumbler about 1/3 full of some not-quite-clear liquid, pour it in two guys' glasses, and top it with a bit of Fresca. What da hell? I leaned over to Sarah, one of the Pernod Ricard folks, and said, hey, the bartender's bringing some kind of hooch out of the backroom! Can we find out what that is? So she got our local guy, Pablo Zacarias (interesting dude who's planning on moving to Montreal and opening a Mexican/Veracruz coffee shop there; I need to get him in touch with the Mondial folks), to ask. Sure, he'll do that; do you want some? Well, hell yeah!

He's up there a long time, talking and grinning, and he finally comes back with about 1.5" of the stuff in a tall glass. What is it? "It's donkey herb," he says, with a big grin. "Yerba del burro. It's an infusion, in rum, sugar cane rum." Sarah asks him what it is, he says it's donkey herb -- good answer! -- and I'm thinking, I don't know what it is, but I'm sure as hell gonna Google it when I get back (and I did); meantime, let's get blind on this stuff! It had a kind of sweet tarragon aroma, and was quite sweet. Not surprising to find some kind of backroom rum thing in an area with all this sugar cane growing. It wasn't bad; we split on it, some liking it, a couple hating it as too sweet. I wonder what it was like with the Fresca.

Great little scruffy joint. I'd go back.

Quite a trip

I got up way, way too early Monday morning and left for the Newark airport at 4:30 AM. I was headed to Mexico City for a press junket* to learn about Kahlua. We had an uneventful flight, landed in Mexico, and had an amusing experience at Customs; after you go through passport control and then make your declarations at Customs, you have to walk past a booth with two bored young women...who pointed to a red button mounted on the counter and told you "Push the button." I did, it flashed red, the two people with me did the same, and they waved us on. "Push the button"? WTF? We found out later that it was a random search generator; every now and then it flashes green...and you get searched!

We hooked up with the rest of the group in the lounge (quick Tecate and an avocado salad, quick e-mail check), and onto a turboprop to Jalapa in Veracruz. The flight was great: this hotrod pilot gunned the plane into a tight turn onto the runway and firewalled it BANG! into the sky. We were talking later, and one of the other writers said "it seemed a bit casual to me." Indeed! 

We flew over Mexico City a long time: that place sprawls something fierce, like a tide of houses. Then it was over the mountains, and they were wild, green and brown, with scattered houses and little towns, scratched-out roads on the tops of ridges. (I've been to Mexico once before, and both times it's reminded me of a bigger, rougher-edged version of California; the block of raw terrain that California was carved out of.) Then things got much, much greener, and the plane went into a sudden hard bank to the left and started dropping, not diving, but dropping fast, we were passing cows at a low altitude...and we landed. Kudos, amigo, that was a great flight!

We were in Jalapa. We boarded two SUVs and headed down the road. Things got more and more rural, battered signs, cantinas and roadside taquerias, over a waterfall, through green green trees, and the mountains everywhere. We got to Coatepec, one of the big coffee towns in Veracruz where they grow shade-grown Arabica coffee. Our hotel, the Meson de Alferez, is just outside the middle of town, and I'm loving it: simple, built around a courtyard with hibiscus plants and a fountain. We walked into town, had a lechero (served here, it was a glass of steamed milk, served with a cup of espresso; you dump the espresso in the milk...yum), walked around the square -- mayonnaise corn, balloon venders, shoeshine carts -- and back for dinner. We had a tasting menu at 45, the restaurant next door. Very good mole, the cheese and corn pie was good, the pumpkin flower taco was delish.

And we had plenty of Kahlua. I'm not going to write too much about Kahlua here in the blog: Mass Bev Biz gets first dibs on that (see below). But I will say that we got Kahlua sours, kind of as a joke...and they were excellent. Kahlua, fresh lime juice, and simple syrup, garnished with fresh lime. So simple, so good, so surprising.

Today we visited El Cafe Tal, a coffee museum and coffee 'sanctuary.' Again, I'll save this, but the picture above is our host, Cuauhtemoc Apan Rohas, driving us to the sanctuary in a 1962 Dodge Power Wagon, which was excellent. Great views of the mountains, banana trees, sugar cane fields, and coffee bushes popping up everywhere. We got out and hiked around the sanctuary; like the drive, only steeper and narrower. Just great.

Tonight we go out to a cantina, drink mezcal, and have dinner...and I suspect we'll be drinking more beers out in that courtyard. I...am so ready for that.

Back to work on PA Breweries 4!!
Because you asked: the Power Wagon!

*(the trip was offered to Mass Beverage Business, they offered it to me, I'm writing a piece on Kahlua for the magazine: full disclosure).

Talk about a wild hair...

I admire this. This guy Drew gets a wild hair up on a Friday afternoon, and bolts out of Pittsburgh with his girlfriend, hell-bent for Chicago and beer. On the way they visit Jolly Pumpkin, Dark Horse, Arcadia, Bell's, Hopcat, and Founders, then grabbed a quick one at Goose Island, before getting a deep dish at Lou Malnati's and...getting on the road straight back to Da Burgh.

Look, go read it. My hat's off to these two: this was one balls-out beer trip.

New Jersey, Hunt-style

I've told you about the annual busman's holiday* I do -- The Hunt -- and this year it fell to just Les Gibbs and me. We decided to do something completely different, and headed out -- after a leisurely cup of coffee and a split bottle of Flying Fish Imperial Espresso Porter -- for New Jersey. As you can see by the picture, our first stop wasn't even beer-related, but more about "laying in a base": Calandra's Bakery in Newark, which was, to use a simile that came easily to our Berks County Hunt-trained minds, kind of like a Dietrich's Meats of bread.

It was crazy delicious stuff. We got four loaves of bread, a dozen canoli (which I dutifully took home in their cardboard box lovingly tied with red-and-white string, and of which eight were gone before I even got a shot at them, my family are pigs!), and some eat-on-the-spot goodies: a custard tart for me and and some pignoli sweet bun for Les. The French baguette was still steaming when I ripped it open in the car, gawd, it was good!

From there, we struggled with traffic to the excellent Helmer's Cafe in Hoboken, and managed to find parking pretty quickly. I got some Krusovice Cerne (a dark lager the bartender seemed to think was a spiced holiday beer; I liked it) and sausage-stuffed mushrooms; Les joined me on the Cerne and got a slice of leberkäse, a first for him that he decided was very much to his liking, especially with the German mustard that was served with it. We had a good time, but decided to move on; I could have stayed there for a while.

We struggled with traffic to the Star Bar in Jersey City, only to find that it didn't open till later. Okay...I was about done with the metro area traffic, so we aimed the Passat for Montclair and Tierney's. I found Tierney's when I was working on New Jersey Breweries, and I'd been hankering to go back again. It was a bustling day, the bartender was handling the whole place on his own (and trying to get a late lunch), but he did get us our drinks (I went light with a Guinness, Les had a Cricket Hill American Ale). Tierney's is solid and true, and we hated to leave.

But The Hunt is about moving on, so we headed out for the Stirling Hotel. It was hopping, at least in the bar, and we managed to snag one stool out at the far end. Great taps, good bottles, and I grabbed a Stoudt's Winter, and then went to drinking water. Very knowledgeable staff here, one of the reasons I wanted to return, and this time I got to meet more of the patrons. We had a great time (although the kids who piled into the table behind us were kind of a pain), and I'd be happy to go back again.

Onward! It was getting nasty wicked cold by now, in the low 20s and a whistling wind. When we pulled into the parking lot in front of the Warrenside Tavern, I was ready to sit and warm up for a bit...er, and hit the head. I left Les at the bar and went to see a man about a dog. On my way back, I walked by the cooler in the back. The Warrenside's taps hadn't impressed me before, but the bottle selection was pretty damned good. Wow, no longer: huge open spaces in the cooler!

I did spot some Fuller's Porter, though, so that's what I ordered. When the bartender brought it, I asked her: is the beer supply low, or are you cutting back? Cutting back, she said, there's a recession on. Too bad; almost every other bar I know of (like Helmer's, and the Stirling...) has found that craft beers have been the thing that people keep buying. But hey, I'm not a bar owner! It was a nice place to warm up, and the Porter tasted good. But it did hone my hankering for English beer, which made up my mind for the next, last stop...

The Ship Inn was doing a pretty good business, families, folks at the bar. We got glasses of Best Bitter, and tucked into dinner: Shepherd's Pie for Les, a Lancashire Cheese and Onion pie for me, solid and tasty. We ate, we drank, we talked...and then drove home, laughing and talking some more. It was a very good day.

* the link's to an Urban Dictionary definition that -- gasp! -- includes no sex, scatology, repetition, racism, homophobia, or repetition -- will wonders never cease? 

Going on the Drinko: Day Two in San Francisco

I never did get back to you on the rest of the trip to San Francisco. After puttering about, showering and getting dressed, some e-mail, some reading I had to do, and such, I called Jamie Fox -- husband of long-time Malt Advocate staffer Kathy Fox, and a good friend -- and asked him if he had anything planned for lunch. How about we go across the Bay and hit two brewpubs in Berkeley, I temptingly offered. He quickly accepted, and we grabbed a BART train at about 11:15 for the trip to Berkeley Downtown.

Jupiter is right across the street from the station, intriguingly close and signed with a script neon that had called to me last year...but I had no time then. This year I did, and Jamie and I crossed the street and went in. They'd just opened, and the bar still smelled a bit of sour beer from the night before, so we wandered out back into a lovely little beer oasis, with a fountain pool that had a gas flame firepit in the middle; quite Elemental. We sat under the arbor, relaxed, and it was good.

Even better, so was the beer. I had a very nice glass of helles, which pleased me immensely: a brewpub lager, in California, and it was delish! I hadn't had anything to eat yet, and quickly ordered the Asian chicken skewers (good, and the peanut sauce was good, but not tremendous). Mostly we just relaxed and enjoyed the moment, the beautiful weather, the peaceful spot, and the friendly attentions of our waitress, Elizabeth. When the time was right, I ordered my lunch, a Galileo pizza: artichoke hearts, mushrooms, cheeses, garlic, spinach, and diced fresh tomato. And a porter, which was also quite nice; just a touch chocolatey, very drinkable.

Eventually, we left, though not before discovering that I'd apparently lost four credit cards! Luckily I had plenty of cash, and paid up with that. (I would eventually learn that the cards had dropped out of my wallet in a cab the night before; no harm, no foul, just a bit of angst.)

Up Shattuck we walked to Triple Rock. So comfortable, so welcoming, so friendly. I stuck to porter, and enjoyed it, and enjoyed the interplay of bar patrons. Nice people at Triple Rock, an older crowd -- at least, during the day when I've been there the last two years -- and Jamie was happy with it. After our first round, we noticed that our time was running down -- had to get back to the hotel to do some WhiskyFest work -- so we got right to the business we'd come for: a liter bottle of Monkey Head Arboreal Ale, a specialty beer brewed for Triple Rock at Drake's and only available on Thursdays; I don't know why, but I missed it last year and I wanted it.

Well...it was okay. It was good, it was solid, but it wasn't compelling. I was saddened, but not enough to put a dent on this great afternoon. The credit card situation was maybe preying on my mind a bit, to be honest. We pulled stakes and got back on the BART to the hotel.

A little work, and then we went out to see Parker Beam and the Heaven Hill folks at Rickhouse, a new bourbon bar: John and Amy Hansell, the hard-working Joan McGinley, and myself (we supposed Jamie was under the drink flag, but it was actually Kathy who was napping!). Good time, but hot up in the upper balcony/mezzanine. Delish drinks: a punch made, I believe, with Bernheim wheat whiskey, or maybe that was in the second drink, a smash with a blazingly fresh and aromatic mint leaf on top. I got into a conversation with a rep from Bols, who was shocked to learn that not only did I know what genever was, I was a fan, and had five different bottles at home, none of which were her product. What can I say, I like the stuff.

After that, we headed for Magnolia Pub & Brewery, where we were to be met again by Dave Keene. It was hopping, and we put our names in for a table and headed for the bar. At least, John and I did; we thought Amy and Joan were with us, but we lost them. We had headed in different directions (why would you head in any direction other than the bar?). We hadn't gotten the bartender's attention yet when a waitress said she had a booth open that she could put a chair to; would that do? Sure! We sat, and quickly ordered pints of cask Marin IPA. By God, they were just about perfect.

Unfortunately, we would have problems getting more of them, as our waitress at that point seemed to get very confused, and would bring us Marin Mt. Tam Pale Ale every time thereafter, despite John's telling her, This is not the beer I ordered. She brought him another Mt. Tam, and we gave up. It was good, but it wasn't the IPA. I short-circuited the problem by ordering cask Cole Porter, a house beer, and it was good.

The two women had rejoined us at this point, and Dave had arrived, so we fell to our dinners, which were excellent (rare burger, heavenly). When dins was over, we walked out into the warm early evening (it was actually quite warm, and a bit muggy, and no one has AC in SF...), looked up and down Haight, and thought about options. Amy and Joan grabbed a cab and headed for Bourbon & Branch; Dave and John and I decided to walk up Haight to Alembic. We were all thinking cocktail, something light, cool, sippy, and sophisticated.

However...Alembic was jammed (and hot), so we reluctantly went back out to the street, and caught our own cab to Bourbon & Branch. What's the password, the doorkeeper asked. WhiskyFest, we answered, and he said, that'll do. We went to Joan and Amy's table, tucked into the back room, and ordered drinks...which arrived just after we left on a tour of the whole place, including the Library and the new cigar bar. Great tour, fascinating bar with a lot of history, and a lot has been put into making it just so. Unfortunately, when we got back, our drinks had been sitting for almost half an hour, and they were limp and exhausted. The waitress got us fresh ones, but we weren't knocked out by them.

Hmmm...lemme see the menu. I was hot, which was part of the problem, so I looked for a tall drink, something more refreshing. How about this: a Democrat, bourbon, peach liqueur, honey, and fresh lemon juice in a collins glass full of ice. Sounds great! Best of all, I quipped, it's a Democrat: someone else will pay for it! (just a joke, folks...) It was delicious, cold and refreshing.

It was also the end. I walked back to the hotel -- everyone else took a cab, and only beat me by about minute -- and hit the hay. Jamie and I had planned to hit Dottie's True Blue for breakfast Friday morning, and I had to get rested!

Kegs Go Home

Philly Beer Week's last event for me happened two days ago on Saturday; the Return of the Kegs. I took the kegs from our Upstate Beer Night at the Grey Lodge back to the brewers. It was a long day.

I filled up the Passat, and dropped Thomas off at Holy Ghost for the qualifying rounds for the National Catholic Forensics League championship (he qualified, and will be competing in Albany in May!). That was about 7:50 AM, and I aimed it north from there, up the Turnpike Extension. First stop was One Guy Brewing, and although I mostly just had time to drop off the keg (Atomic Punk IPA, and it went over well) and hit the head, I did get a short progress report. Guy's still having to run hard to meet demand, and an expansion of the taproom (almost doubling in size) is about to start. He's getting Friday nights when people can't get in the door! Bravo, Berwick.

Off again, headed for Williamsport. It was a beautiful day, cold and mostly sunny, and not too much traffic on the road...except for one wing-ding on Rt. 15 North, who just would not let me pass him. I don't get that. If someone wants to pass you, why not just pull over and let them by? Why play games and whip back and forth across two lanes to keep them from passing? Are you bored?

Anyway...slid into one of the courthouse parking spots, grabbed the Bullfrog keg (Beesting Saison, might have been the hit of the night) and handed it to a waitress (the pub wasn't open yet, it was a bit before 11). Ran back to the car and drove three blocks to Bavarian Barbarian. Mike was in, and I gave him his dunkelweizen keg back (not enough dunkelweizens out there, and I hope he keeps making this one). Took a few minutes to sample his spiced winter ale, First Snow (good -- for spiced ale, I'm not a huge fan, but this had all the right pieces in the right places and didn't overwhelm in any direction), then hit the road again.

Now I headed down Rt. 220, then cut back east and south, over two ridges (that's the landscape picture above) to Millheim and Elk Creek Cafe and Aleworks, to return the last keg (strong Belgian golden, and that was nice in a small glass). I had pushed hard all morning so I could relax now: I'd never had the food at Elk Creek, and I wanted to try it. Worth the wait. I had a glass of Oatmeal Stout -- smooth, bitter, nice -- with a bowl of lamb-lentil stew, and then a Blue Heron Pale Ale -- bright and hoppy, very drinkable -- with a smoked turkey, bacon, and avocado sandwich on flatbread, which was delicious; the side of house-made potato chips were outstanding. Gotta go back for more.

Down the valley to pick up Rt. 322 down to the Susquehanna, when I realized I had about 30 minutes to kill before talking to the Harrisburg homebrew club (ReHAB) at Scotzin Brothers homebrew shop in Lemoyne. It was a Saturday afternooon; I stopped by Tröegs. Wow. First time I've been in since the remodeling of the tasting area. What a huge difference. If you haven't been, you should go, it's a great place to try the latest and greatest from the Trogners. Just don't do like I did and park in the wet spot in the parking lot; turned out to be run-off from spent grain, and my car and I both smelled horrible!

Across the river to Lemoyne, where I spent a very pleasant two hours talking beer (and whiskey) with the homebrewers, and sampled some pretty darned good homebrews. They did not make a mead-drinker out of me -- sorry, guys, others have tried, and it just ain't happening (with one exception in Oklahoma and I've never tasted the equal since) -- but there were a couple beers that were excellent.

I left there about 5:30, stopped in at my parents' on the way home for dinner, then finally -- 450 miles later -- returned home. That's when I found out that my daughter, Nora, had learned that her school robotics team, the Mount St. Joseph Academy Firebirds (Nora's a freshman member), had won the Chairman's Award at the Philadelphia Regional FIRST competition, an awesome and jaw-dropping honor indeed. We were pretty proud parents. Good day!

New Jersey To Do List

Yesterday's post on Gaslight (and would someone please settle whether it's Gas Light or Gaslight? Their own stuff uses both!) made me think: what New Jersey breweries are still on my "need to visit" list? I took a quick look, and here they are:

• Basil T's in Toms River
• Climax Brewing in Roselle Park
• High Point in Butler
• Krogh's in Sparta
• Trap Rock in Berkeley Heights

Only five left, and the last four are not that far apart. Looks like a trip just waiting to be taken, and I'll just have to get to Basil T's when I can. Ah, Tommy Dewar was right: there is no joy like work.

Gaslight Brewery

I went to a beer can collectors meet in New Jersey today to sign books (and signed quite a few -- good bunch of folks, and thanks to John Ahrens for the invite!), and got out about 1:30. Lunchtime, and I asked where was good in the area. They directed me to a nearby branch of The Office, and I was going to go there -- happily: they're a local chain that does a nice job on their beer -- but I got to thinking: I still haven't visited all the breweries in New Jersey.

So I opened a copy of New Jersey Breweries and took a look at the map. Trap Rock was closest, and I'm intrigued by the place -- lots of beer geeks say 'too fancy,' and I was dressed for the place, having gone to the meet directly from cantoring at 10:30 mass -- but they don't open till 4 on Sundays. Next closest on the "to do" list: Gaslight, in South Orange. Open? Check. Worthy menu? They smoke their own meats; check! I hit the road, and about 20 minutes later, I was parked and walking down a cold, windy street to Gaslight.

I walked into the bar, saw the open dining area to the right, the cozier dining room in the back...and well, you know, I sat down at the bar. Got a Black Gold Oatmeal Stout (4.7%, all the parts in the right place, good pint), and ordered the fresh mozzarella platter (fresh mozz, prosciutto, roasted red peppers, tomatoes, and grilled garlic foccacia: excellent) and the pastrami reuben, an open-faced beauty made with the house-smoked pastrami. It smelled fantastic, tasted great (lean, smoky, peppery...luscious), and was so honking big I took half home for tomorrow [and it was almost as good re-heated!]. I had a glass of Big Dog Porter with the reuben, and that was good -- and clearly different from the stout, a very good sign.

The place was warm and comfortable, service was quick and personable. I've seen a number of very negative reviews of the Gaslight online, all centering on atmosphere and service, and I'm not sure why. I didn't see any of it, although it does sound that it centers mainly on the owner, which means one of two things: the owner is an issue, or someone's disgruntled. Until further personal experience -- which I intend to get, if only to try more of them smoked meats (and I got one of the house-made landjäger to go) -- I'll withhold an opinion on that (and I'm not going to have the comments section turn into another slagging spot, so don't bother).

I can only talk about what happened to me, which was great. Delicious food, competent and enjoyable beer, a good selection of guest craft beers, a very impressive selection of whiskies, and smart, efficient service. Good day at the Gaslight. Wish I had some pictures, but I left the camera at home today.

Fun in Montreal: me and Jack at the Mondial

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.

And I'm home again

Sorry I fell off the face of the earth for a few days. I did intend to blog most of the Belgian trip, but the Wi-Fi got really problematic, and the Euro-keyboards in the Internet cafes were too different for reliable, high-speed typing. So I focused on creating experiences to blog about. Great trip, but it's always good to be home. More to come...slowly. I've got work to catch up on, and Philly Beer Week is about to start, and Holy Week is right after that. STAG is going to take a backseat.

Lunch in Dendermonde

Wow. I had a serious lunch with the Bosteels, Ivo and his son Antoine. Steve and I trained to Belgium from Germany this morning (no big deal, thanks to the ICE train, about 2 hours and across the border, ho-hum), then took a local to Dendermonde, where Ivo met us and threw our luggage in the back of his Benz SUV and hurtled down the roads to Buggenhout, where the brewery has been since 1791. Really.

This is the brewery that produces Pauwel Kwak, Tripel Karmeliet, and DeuS. You may never have heard of the brewery; they take pains to make the name of the beers important, not the brewery, or, in fact, themselves. "We are not important. The beer is important." says Ivo. "We are a service, the brewery, we are in service to the beer." Steve and I turned to each other at one point and said, "The man is a quote factory," which he is, because his passion for brewing shines through like hot summer sunshine.

The picture above is Ivo holding up two glasses of beer. Take a look at them. Click on the pic and look at them close up. They are the same beer. Ivo did this to show what a difference the glass makes. That's Karmeliet Tripel in its own glass (on the left) and the Kwak glass on the right. You'd think they were two different beers. This goes to show that the different glasses for different beers are not just marketing. They show -- and smell, and taste -- the beers just how they were meant to be.

Anyway, the lunch. We went to 't Truffeltje in Dendermonde, a place Ivo and Antoine said they only went to two or three times a year...it is a Michelin one-star, and the meal was excellent. First we got an amusee bouche of a scallop in a DeuS sabayon, side-by-side with a forcemeat eel disc on greensauce: to drool for. We spooned up the excess sabayon and ate it. I must admit: I have never been a fan of DeuS. Now I understand. What a delicious beer. We had it with the seafood, and all of a sudden it made perfect sense. I get what everyone else ever said: it is crisp but complex, startling and not really one-dimensional at all. Now... was that me, or was it individual batches? I don't know. I stopped drinking it because it bored me. This was not at all boring.

We had a filet of cod with a Karmeliet sauce (did you know Karmeliet was made with oats, barley, and wheat, all both malted and unmalted?) that was excellent (see left), squab breast with Kwak sauce (with the best damned carrots I've ever had), and about three dessert courses. Woof.

Then it was back to the midst of Dendermonde, the plaza, where we had draft Karmeliet -- rather dead, and uninteresting -- at which point Ivo hustled us next door to St. Joris Cafe where we had the bottled Karmeliet: excellent.

Well...maybe there's something to this "bottled Belgian is better than draft" after all.

We finally bolted, and Ivo wound up driving us to Het Anker when we missed our train...but that's another story, and I'm exhausted right now. Must sleep.

Lunch in Köln

I got up this morning about 8:30, got some work done, and then Steve and I took a walk around the shopping district. I grabbed a Berliner -- the jelly donut, not the wheat beer -- which was just wonderful, and munched as we walked. After an inspiring tour around the Dom -- it was a cool, breezy, sunny day, and the view was, well, awesome -- we tripped down to the Gaffel Haus and had a couple stange of that crisp, hoppy kölsch.

Then we made our way through the torturous nest of intersections at the south end of the Heumarkt (if you've been there, you know just what I mean: 5 minutes to get 60 meters!) and had lunch at Malzmühle: as Steve said, the other end of the kölsch spectrum, the malty, even a bit sticky end. The food was as farmer-simple as I recall: a hearty mash of potatoes, green kale, and hammy bits cooked up in broth, with a fat and solid grilled bratwurst sitting on top. I could not finish it, delicious, but just too much. A last kölsch, back to the room (we're stazing at the Maritim, a very nice hotel just about 40 meters from Malzmühle), and then we hopped the train to Düsseldorf...where I'm typing this now before heading over to Uerige.

Tomorrow: Belgium.

Hiding Out in Lagerland

Yes, I'm on that trip. I landed in Lagerland yesterday, met Stephen Beaumont at the Frankfurt Airport, took the train to Köln, and checked in at our hotel. My room has a great view of the Dom.

We hit Früh for two quick kölsches, then trained up to Düsseldorf. We picked up a tourguide from the local tourism bureau, who gave us a real whirlwind tour spiked with plenty of history. Then we got a brewery tour at Zum Schlussel (details on all of this later, I'm a bit rushed for time right now) and a delicious schweinehaxe dinner, and plenty of good altbier.

After that, getting a little bit of a second wind, we crossed the street to Im Goldenen Kessel for a couple glasses of Schumacher, then down to Zum Uerige, where we actually found an open barrel-table right next to the one where my blog picture one the left was taken. Like coming home. But I was crashing hard, been up almost 36 hours at that point, so we had two and caught the train back to Köln. And now we're up and ready to go back to Düsseldorf for more. I may or may not be able to post more, it's going to be a bit crazy.

Back to Uerige

See that picture of me I've had pinned to the top left corner of the blog since I started it, a little over a year ago? That was taken -- a little over a year ago -- at Zum Uerige, in Düsseldorf. I hope to have another one soon: I'm headed back. Stephen Beaumont recently contacted me, saying, I'm going to Düsseldorf and Belgium, wanna come along? Hell yes, I did: I, um... have never been to Belgium. True. So I'm going to fix that. After all, Steve's never been to Düsseldorf.

The fun thing is, what originally seemed like a problem -- a trade fair in Düsseldorf made it impossible to find a hotel room (is there always a damned trade fair in that town?) -- turned into a plus: we decided to stay in Köln and take the train back and forth, getting us what Steve is joyfully calling 'a twofer.' So I'm essentially going to be commuting to work, something I haven't done in over ten years, unless you count walking down to my basement office (as I'm sure Ms. Anonymous will tell me doesn't count because it's not a job...thanks, toots). And when I "get home from work," I can toddle by the spectacular Dom for a couple glasses at Früh.

Ahhh, wonderful...and that's not even touching on the beauty that will be visiting Belgium: Brussels, Ghent, a couple small family breweries in the country. I'll be trying to blog some of this for you, but I may get busy. You understand, of course.

It's all part of my continuing education (without brewery sponsorship, by the way) to get to know these places, these breweries, these beers better, so I can write better. Okay, it's fun, too, but shouldn't every job be this satisfying?

(Addition: I promised Adam I'd post the two sites I used to plan that first trip to Düsseldorf and Köln: Ron Pattinson's excellent and superbly chatty European Beer Guide, and Fred Waltman's much more focused Sticke Warriors site. BTW, Adam: I fully endorse Fred's recommendation of Hotel Haus Rheinblick (the link's in German, but if you can figure out that "Reservierungsanfrage" means "reservation requests," you can probably take it from there), a very nice family-run hotel in the north half of the Altstadt, a short easy walk to the Rhine, Im Goldenen Ring is three minutes walk, Uerige is about seven minutes, Im Füchschen is about 12 minutes...and you get breakfast, too, for well under E100 a night. I can't recommend the penzione where I stayed in Köln; clean, but not particularly comfortable, in the Turkish quarter, which was fascinating (and delicious) during the day, but scary at night; we heard frightened screaming people running through the streets two nights in a row. Trying a new place this time; pricier, but close to the train station, because of the commute. Actually...I just looked at the map, and it's not closer to the station. But it is right beside Malzmühle, and it's not uphill, so I'd say it's a win.)

Miami: Day Two

I got up Wednesday morning about 7 AM. Showered, dressed, headed downstairs to grab a quick breakfast and get ready for my presentation: "Make Every Beer Count." I caught the people setting up just in time to stop them from putting out glasses: I had tasting mats to designate the beers to be served as A B C. We did that, and poured beers: A and C were Bud Light, B was Coors Light. I wanted to do a "triangle trial" in which people were invited to sample three beers that were actually two beers. The whole idea was to get people out of thinking of beers as brands and get them thinking of beers as categories. This may sound elementary, but to a bar that doesn't get it, it's like hieroglyphics.

I did the presentation, it was well-received (the tasting went well, except for the few people who over-analyzed and decided that I'd actually put out three glasses of the same beer), and I felt pretty good. I went to Steve Beaumont's seminar in the next session; he'd attended my 9:00 session. He had a fresh look at promoting the idea of food and beer pairings that had a lot of folks taking notes, including me.

After we partook of the free conference lunch (What's lunch today, we asked the waitress: "Meat. I'm pretty sure it's meat."), I proposed that we catch a cab over to Miami Beach and visit The Abbey, a kind of contract-brewed brewpub: they have their beers brewed for them at a Florida micro, have done so for years, at three different breweries. Patrick Jones, the brewer at Triumph Old City, used to be the brewer at the Gordon Biersch here in Miami, and told me about The Abbey and their big beers and the hours he used to spend at their small, comfortable bar. He made me promise I'd go, and he made it sound real nice, so we did.

After a harrowing, nonconfidence-inspiring cab ride through rain and over bridges, we arrived at Abbey. It was indeed a small place -- the picture at the left shows about 2/3 of the place, and the rest of it is one table and the keg cooler (short runs on the taps, too). The only other person in the place was the bartender, Aaron, who got us two glasses of their IPA (Maggie had a glass of cabernet that she declined to finish). It was...okay. Drinkable, but some mineraly funk going on.

We decided to switch to the Imperial Stout: good call. This was definitely better, real nice, actually, with real ale fruitiness to it, big body, and some of that burnt bitterness I like in an Impie. I got a glass of "Brother Aaron's Quadrupel" after that, which was quite big, and maybe had a touch too much sour edge to the fruitiness -- but maybe not. I liked it, and happily finished it. Then we had a lighter round: I got a Kostritzer, Steve got a Spaten Ofest. Maggie was happily plugging away at the bottled Strongbow she'd found on the menu, and had demolished two chicken empenadas.

We were enjoying ourselves in a place that Aaron reminded us was emphatically not "Miami Beach." Indeed, not a club atmosphere at all. As he said, if you blacked out the front window, you'd never know you were in Miami Beach, the place felt more like a Chicago or Philly bar. We relaxed, we drank, we rattled on about how rambling beer people tend to be when telling stories -- and interruptive, too: I think all three of us were in the middle of telling a story at one point -- and how that's what people want to hear from us: stories, stray interesting thoughts, that kind of thing.

Eventually we had to go. We walked up to the corner, and after I'd done a really stupid thing at Dunkin Donuts that almost got me a stop-and-search from two Miami-Dade cops, we grabbed a cab and had a much quicker ride back to the hotel. We met back in my room, and then went down to the cocktail party. We drank some delish cocktails, ate more "meat" (okay, it was actually really good tenderloin, chorizo, and crab cakes), and talked some business and pleasure. It was good to finally meet the Cheers staff after writing for them for five years.

After that, Steve and Maggie and I went out to dinner -- we were amazed to get the same scary cab driver we'd had that afternoon -- that led off with some delicious raw Blue Points. More fun, and then we went back to the hotel, end of the day. Great time, overall, fun town, if a bit tough to walk in. Thanks to Cheers for the opportunity.

But you know what? We never did get to any mojito bars. Dammit.

Southbound

I'm off today for the World Beer Festival in Durham, NC. The folks at All About Beer magazine invited me down to the festival, to check things out and to give a seminar on Dark Beers. I've been checking out the beer list and getting interested; this is going to be a great chance to try some new breweries.

It's also a chance to try some new 'que. I'm going with my brother-in-law Carl Childs, who is about as much a barbeque hound as I am a beer hound. Carl's got the best smoke pits en route and in Durham mapped and plotted, and we is gonna be eatin' some pig. Should enable me to get back in the swing of The Session, our monthly beer blog-a-rama (I've missed the last two months, regrettably), which is Beer and Food this month, put on by Beer Haiku Daily. Beautiful.