"The planet has needs for your deeds," read the bottle cap. I studied it as the beer's head made sizzling noises, bubbles popping in the glass. "Well," I thought, dropping the cap and producing a tinny rattle. "Obviously." I brought my eyes around to study the carbonation's wavering path as it rose through the brown fluid. A previous topper reading "It's later now than it has ever been before" stuck to my other hand as I put it down. I flicked the cap, and it skidded across the glass table, leaving a faint but traceable trail through the collected pollen. Weakening rays of early evening sun hit me on a slant as I closed my eyes and leaned back. Those beams wouldn't be much good for generating solar power, but they seemed to recharge my personal batteries just fine. Some sort of tiny insect crawled its way over the hills and valleys of my toes and back into the green grass. Ah, spring.
Normally, this lede would be filled with some bit of esoteric ephemera wherein we'd compare the universe-building in the novels of Iain M. Banks to the lifestyle of the Hopi nation or some such, but we've been getting a little spacy lately, and I felt it was time to take it back to basics. If you want to talk katsina spirits and the socioeconomic theory of intangliation, come drinking with me some time, but for now, let's just talk beer.
We're going to look backwards and forwards this week. We're going to borrow something from November and give thanks for how good we have it, and boost our spirits as we look forward to spring. Our Yankee ancestors made it through bleak winters with barely any fresh food, and in an agrarian economy there wasn't even work to divert their cabin fever. Breaks from the desperate monotony came in the forms of weekly hymns or the occasional cholera outbreak. Well, that may not be strictly true, there was also smallpox, but in addition to smallpox, and considerably more preferable, there was beer. A little brewer ingenuity gave rise to bigger ales with deeper colors and increased potency to hold the cold and dark at bay and transform the winter months from merely bearable to enjoyable. That same tactic works to this day, and this can be found for the next month or so wherever you can find Smuttynose.
The Monday after Thanksgiving is one of the cruelest of the year. A country isn't really worthy of the name until it has a National Day Of Feasting, (and a beer and an airline, according to Frank Zappa) but I feel like a good feast, especially a winter-ish one, could really do with a National Week Of Hibernation subsequently. But we all have our roles to play in the national ant colony, and so we waddled back to our jobs, office chairs protesting perhaps more loudly than we ourselves did at the morning's alarm. My role at Thanksgiving, however, was considerably more enjoyable: Bringer Of The Beer. Here's how that went.
Craft brews have officially tipped in the Malcolm Gladwell sense. Most bars and restaurants now feature at least one tap dedicated to interesting beers, and brew-focused establishments seem to be springing up everywhere, to the delight of the hop head.
The following Froth column was originally scheduled to run last week but got sucked into a worm hole. Pardon any time related ambiguity.
Congratulations to those of you who are now able to read this after having been gracefully ushered back into the 19th[strikethrough] 21st century by our benevolent dictators at CL&P. There's a scene in Gladiator where Djimon Hounsou's character sees the Roman coliseum for the first time and says "I did not know men were capable of such things." I imagine that's a little what it's like to use an oven or turn on the lights after a dozen days whose rhythms were controlled by the Sun's rise and fall; writing notes on the back of a wooden shovel with a lump of coal by candle light, that kind of thing. The long nights of the winter can now once again be banished by the sorcery of compact fluorescent bulbs, but some elements of the wintertide are to be embraced, like seasonal brews.
Modern hipsterism is a weird and annoying thing. Here's how it goes: people had settled into a fairly stable fashion landscape by the time the millennium rolled around so they naturally started looking around for the next big thing. Lacking any creativity or new ideas of their own, they decided to take the most hideous and outdated clothing they could find and wear it as publicly as possible because "Haha, aren't I funny and clever and please oh god look at me." Since wearing ugly clothes is easier than actually being interesting, and neon hats from 1992 were cheaper than water, it caught on. Then everybody found out about The Cobrasnake and now the landscape is littered with "Aren't I cool for not looking cool but really that's what's cool about it but I'm too cool to acknowledge I actually really think this is cool." It's the Inception of pop culture trends, and somehow beer got caught up in it. I'm sure PBR doesn't mind that every idiot with an ironic mustache and Ladyhawke on their iPod has to have a Blue Ribbon tallboy in their hand, but this is the acid reflux disease of trends. It was ugly the first time, let's not have it again. Let's try something new, and let the revolution start with beer.
On October 21, 1805, Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson lead a British fleet against the combined power of the French and Spanish fleets miles off the coast of Trafalgar, Spain. Napoleon wanted a French hegemony in Europe, the British, not so much. Nelson had twenty seven ships at his command against thirty three in the Franco-Spanish fleet. By the end of the battle twenty two ships would be destroyed and Nelson would be dead. Twenty eight ships would eventually sail on to England - every single British ship, plus the French flag vessel Bucentaure, and its Admiral, Villeneuve. The British hadn't lost a single one. As for Admiral Nelson, his body was placed in a barrel of "spirits," likely rum, and Nelson became one of the biggest heroes in British history. The story goes that when the barrel was opened back home it was found to be empty of liquid - the sailors had drilled a hole and drank it all. Thereafter rum was given the nickname "Nelson's Blood" on ships of the Royal Navy. Honestly though: this column has almost nothing to do with any of that. I just like the story. Shall we?
Oktoberfest is the most popular town fair in the world. The town, in this case, is Munich, and the party attracts about five million people, yearly. Oktoberfest started when Crown Prince Ludwig of Bavaria married Princess Therese of Saxony in 1810. That party has been repeated ever since - 201 years as of last week - and continues through the first few days of October. Only beers brewed inside the city limited of Munich are allowed in the enormous tents constructed on the Theresienwiese each year, but thankfully we have no such restrictions in the 203. Let's dive in.
It's only fitting that we start with an actual Munich Oktoberfest beer like Paulaner.
One does not generally drink a turtle, but there I was. The time was last Friday night, and the place was the beloved and reborn Georgia Theater in Athens, Georgia. The night's entertainment was the newly formed Chris Robinson Brotherhood, and the beer was alocal Terrapin. The confluence of warmth, fellowship, location and good brews was that delicious kind of overload which tends to put one in a trance like state. Trances are not conducive to note-taking. Er, sorry about that. But do try a Terrapin or a Dale's on the rooftop bar at the Theater next time you happen to come-to in Clark County. You won't regret it.
Imagine yourself in a favorite summer spot. You might be slowly swinging in a hammock in the cool, green shade of sunlight filtered through leaves. Maybe you're rolling through the waves in a kayak, putting a final coat of wax on your car, or clustered with friends in a horseshoe of beach chairs, pushing sand beneath your feet and turning your face up: squinting your eyes closed in the welcome glare. Keep that feeling. Hold onto the details of it, because fall's on the way, and we want to make this summer last as long as we can. Let's take a look at a few more seasonals to keep within our reach as we hold onto the summer.
Holy Mother of God, do I love IPAs. Hops are as important an ingredient of beer as water, in my opinion. Without any hops you may as well put a plate of dry barley and yeast in front of me - I guess I could do something with it, but it's not really worth the effort. Hops are the spice of beer, I've said it before, and as such India Pale Ales occupy the same space in the temple of my mind as Thai and Mexican food. I will shoulder your grandmother out of the way if she comes between me and a kaeng phet. This week we're going to roll around in IPAs like a freshly bathed dog in a questionable pile of dirt. My tongue's already hanging out, but don't worry, hop-shy readers: there's something for you, too.
Does everyone still have all their fingers after Monday's festivities? You do? Great, because we should really play some catch. Baseball's midsummer classic is coming up, and those of us so inclined are by now completely engrossed in America's pastime. Even those who don't like the game can't escape the news of Derek Jeter's impending 3,000th hit, and everyone should go to Cooperstown: home of the baseball hall of fame and Brewery Ommegang.
Ommegang is an American brewery which specializes in Belgian style beers. They're pretty damn good at it, too, having taken top awards from Belgian brewers in Belgian beer contests in Belgium.
"I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. ... It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more." - John Adams to Abigail Adams, July 2, 1776.
That's right, the Continental Congress voted in favor of independence two days before they voted in favor of the profoundly important Declaration. Our national celebration should actually be held two days before it is. Friday Froth: come for the beer nerdery, stay for the history dorkism. Feel free to bust both out at your cookouts on this king of three day weekends.
Every once in a while you just have to splurge, and this means different things for different people. For Mikhail Dmitrievitch Prokhorov this means playing underwater polo using solid platinum submarines off the Dalmatian coast, or the Beluga caviar high-dive, but non-oligarchs must find other avenues of diversion. This week we're going to dive into golden luxury like Scrooge McDuck taking a swim. These beers may not be kilt-wearing Scottish royalty like Ola Dubh, Tactical Nuclear Penguin or the clan Bruce, but if they're not members of the country club, they at least lunch there often.
As I crash back through the figurative doorway of this site, dusty from the road, clutching a crumpled and beer-stained notebook and shaking the spiders from my clothing, I can only hope that this column's absence has made your hearts all the fonder. Although when I tried that line on a female acquaintance of mine some years ago she quipped that the sentence was not complete, and should have ended with "of someone else." Live and learn. Our triumphs and tragedies make us who we are, and sometimes intermingle. Such is the case with Lagunitas Brewing Company, and their Wilco Tango Foxtrot "Jobless Recovery Ale."
Last spring we told you about Bereket, an tiny authentic Turkish eatery tucked behind a gas station in Bridgeport. This fortuitous find primarily offered takeout, but if you were lucky enough to get one of the 3 small tables, you were served food worthy of an Ottoman emperor. While we loved hiding out behind the Citgo station, we were pleased to hear that owner Selahattin Cinar had moved his very reasonably priced menu and talented cooks to a much larger space in Blackrock (the old Helados Vazquez). With an upgraded interior worthy of the excellent fare, Selahattin can now focus on the customer experience...and a more gracious host you've never seen. Warm up your car for a quick departure to Bridgeport.
It's been 24 hours since I left Bereket, a tiny hole in the wall Turkish restaurant located behind a Citgo station on Bridgeport's Main Street. As I write this I wonder, is it too soon to go back?
Bereket has been dubbed by people in the know as Fairfield County's best kept secret, and I finally understand what all the fuss is about. Mind you, this place is not fussy. Hidden beside of the gas station's mini mart, Bereket's small dining space has only 3 tables and boxes of Turkish beverages and pantry staples lining the walls. But what this single room Turkish delight lacks in ambiance, it makes up for in the quality, freshness, and flavor of the food.
Owner Selahattin Cinar has been in business for 6 years, and chats with customers while holding court in the kitchen preparing a steady stream of take-out orders. He greeted us warmly as we walked in, and we were relieved to find that he spoke enough English to answer questions and help us navigate their extensive menu. When we asked what was good, we were led to a display case filled with cold mezes (appetizers) and kebabs awaiting the heat, and simply told,it's all good. And it was.