Winter's Brew...

All autumn long I've been bracing myself for yet another cold winter in the land where Canadian and American coins mingle without any distinction, where ice is oh so nice when it's in your glass but not spread across your driveway. Expecting a long, cold dreary season, I thought it best to retreat, to take a little respite from blogging, and to regroup. Now that January comes to a close and I am knee deep in layer upon layer, I am ready to focus on what's really important -- beer and blogging.

I am very fortunate to live in a beer town, a place that knows and appreciates a good brew. Take for instance, the limited edition of Boxing Day Bitter by Middle Ages Brewing Co., an amber ale, bittered with British and American hops. It only lasts about two months, and I made sure to get some before it runs out. Nothing says winter in Central New York better than a Boxing Day Bitter. Just what the doctor ordered.

The winter so far has been surprisingly mild and unexpectedly bearable. Maybe it's the beer or perhaps it's all the recent traveling to my dear places of Miami and New York. During a rare cold South Florida spell, nothing is better than a $4 bottle of IPA at Zeke's on Lincoln Road. Correction: free Yuengling's at Coral Gables' The Bar isn't so bad either. Nothing can top drinking a Warsteiner Dunkel out of Das Boot without trying to avoid those pesky air bubbles at the bottom!

Seriously, what really mattered most was being back home. Funny, I left South Florida a little over a year ago, and I still consider myself a Floridian. When I meet people, I naturally tell them I am from Miami, without any thought that this fact is slowly slipping away. I officially reentered the citizenry of New Yorkdom when I turned in my Florida drivers license and plates; when I began to adopt the Midwestern tinge of a Central New York accent; when I stopped calling my friends "mamitas" and no longer spoke in my choppy Spanglish. To go back to Miami is to step into a comfortable role, to spend time with dear friends, to drink out of glass boots and dance to funky vibes and try to maintain a sense of decorum. Sometimes it doesn't work out, but the scene remains the same, at least for now.

Another home away from home is New York City. While I'm sure that many people from all over feel this way, I am truly in my element when my feet step on the concrete and I walk through the city. From Washington Heights to Midtown to the Village, I walk with a smile on the inside. Nostalgia hits me when I walk in my former neighborhood and pass by my old apartment building between Broadway and Amsterdam. Since I've moved closer to New York, it's now easier for me to visit at my leisure. While I miss the Florida sun, I think I missed New York more while I was down there.

Now that I'm back, I am able to explore the nooks and crannies of pub and beer life, urban style.Looking for a place with a great draft selection and with enough televisions to watch college basketball, I found Stout, located near Madison Square Garden. I'm able to enjoy just about anything I can think of, eat a good chicken wing or two, and watch the game while surrounded by a lively crowd. I think Stout is my new 'place,' for every time I'm in the city, one way or another I end up there.

I truly stumbled upon a gem in Chelsea, by the name of Peter McManus Café. Unpretentious, seriously Irish New York, and yet again, a pretty damn good chicken wing or two. So I drank a few Yuenglings, decent beers but nothing that blew my mind. What did impress me was the bartender John, who made me feel right at home, charged my cell phone as it was dying, and even gave me a shot of Jameson's and wished me well as I was on my journey back home to Upstate. Next time I'm in New York, I'll add McManus to my growing list along with the Cupping Room Café, where that Old Speckled Hen hit the right spot and warmed me up for a Blue Point.

So as I reminisce with old friends and revisit the places where we got into trouble and dance like we used to, my connections with them take on a new life of their own, and what's old is new. As I accept the cold and dreary fact of life that is in Upstate New York, I enjoy the company of new friends over a $5 pitcher of Yuengling at a dive campus bar, eat a yummy burger and carve out a little niche that I call home. Winter isn't so bad after all.

New York...

Serendipity: an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident; good luck or fortune. Such was the theme for my recent trip to New York City, a city I used to call home, a city where I feel at peace and frenzied at the same time. This trip had a purpose -- it wasn't Fifth Avenue shopping nor prancing around in Times Square. It was a trip to reconnect with a friend I hadn't seen in twenty years, and to enjoy the company of my best friend of 19 years. While two days weren't quite enough time to make these connections, nor is it ever enough time to be in the city, I made the most of it.

Chinatown. So crowded on a Saturday afternoon I was forced to walk with the traffic, away from the vendors on the sidewalk. The streets beg you to buy a fake iPhone or Coach purse, but I resisted. I was holding out for something better -- a great meal and conversation in a random restaurant on Mott Street. I was going to have a beer later on, but the lure of the Tsingtao was beckoning me. What a great light beer with the spicy chicken in curry sauce, so good I had to have two! Caught up in the stories of adventures past, our beer ran out and the food was gone. It was time to move on.

After wandering aimlessly in SoHo looking for a good old brewpub, none could be found on the surface. I was told there was a good bar somewhere, but it reminded me too much of South Beach pretentiousness. I already lived that phase in my life, now all I wanted was a good pub to kick some back with my long lost Brit friend and reminisce about those younger years when we climbed the pyramids, thought ourselves invincible, and tried a most vile concoction known as pulque. Cold and thirsty, I could have drank a can of beer from a convenience store at that point. In the midst of my parched frustration, in the distance I saw a place by the name of The Cupping Room, which looked inviting. As we entered, my friend thought the place to be too dark and wanted to exit before even entering. I suggested that we stay just for one cold one, and then make our way to the Village.

Once in the bar, I was feeling like an IPA. The bartender suggested a brew by Long Island's Blue Point Brewing Company-- Hoptical Illusion. With a name like that, how could we say no? What could have been seen as an inconvenience turned out to be a blessing in disguise -- the bottles were not properly chilled and we had the choice to decline. Most good beer anyway should not be consumed in a frosty glass nor at the climate zone of the frozen tundra, so I was more than happy to try a cool but not cold Blue Point. The first sip was pretty good, the second one even better! As the conversation flowed, our friendly bartender put more of these babies on ice just for us. As more friends arrived, more hoppy pleasure ensued. As we sat around the bar and enjoyed each other's company --old friends, new friends, the great bar staff and management who treated us like gold -- we realized that we must have emptied out The Cupping Room's inventory of my new found top notch IPA's.

What started out as just having one, turned out to be more. It was time again to move on, to grab something to eat in our IPA haze, and to search for more bubbly goodness. We never made it to the Village. By midnight, our eyes were bloodshot, my speech was slurred and my belly was full of joy. Joy to be surrounded by loved ones whom I don't get to see often enough; but in that moment, time had stopped. Was this a hoptical illusion? No. It was serendipity.

Summing Up Summer...

Four weeks. It's only been four weeks. Four weeks since summer officially ended and autumn began, and it feels as though the upstate summer never really was committed to begin with. Regardless, I refuse to let go of it. I defy any notion of change of seasons, especially the warm to the cold ones. The day after Labor Day I wear white, just like a babalao of those steamy Miami days. As the summer limited edition brews get quickly replaced by pumpkin ales, I save a few and drink them like it's a late June day. This summer, I took some time off from blogging, which gave me the unique opportunity to partake in some interesting observations in my travels.

Take for instance, the weekend jaunt to Watkins Glen, New York, home of the Nascar Jet Set. I went to check out the local beer scene amidst the beauty of Seneca Lake. Little did I know that the weekend I chose was during a racing event, a new experience of sorts for me. Picture, if you will, hiking at the state park among the waterfalls and gorges, surrounded by immense beauty...aahhh...and then (chime in the old school record "screech!"), all of a sudden, in the crisp clean air, I get a whiff of cigarette smoke. What could it be? A wildfire? Nah, it's just a bunch of young guns, in their Nascar hats, smoking and carrying cooler totes drinking cans of Bud and Coors Light as the tourists in foreign tongues pass them by. After that nauseating scene and a good sweaty hike, it was time for a real beer break at the Crooked Rooster Pub, where our beer friend and Brewmaster of Rooster Fish, Seth, was busily making up the next fantastic batch of something delicious. I got the VIP tour, sampled and sampled away the complex and delightful libations that Seth so carefully crafts. Seth's wife was also there to greet and gave some good ole Finger Lakes hospitality. We drank, talked, laughed, enjoyed the moment, and for a little while, I forgot all about the smoking and beer can drinking on sacred land.

In a country of contrasts, one of my next summer stops was Miami, my old hometown of eight years. While my expectations are very low in Miami when it comes to beer, I always have high expectations for an excellent time. Miami did not disappoint. It never does. What I love most about Miami is that it's aesthetically pleasing in so many aspects. Style over substance. Coronas and Cuban music in Little Havana. Stellas and Stilettos in South Beach. While most stylish bars serve the usual suspects, there are a few exceptions in the 305. The Yard House, a chain of beer restaurants à la Gordon Biersch, relatively new to Coral Gables, boasts over 130 taps, so it was on my radar. The dizzying menu is a chore to read, and a daunting task. Luckily, I know what I like, but I'm always ready to try something new. Surrounded by old friends, meeting new people at the bar and just being damn happy to be in Miami during the worst weather of the year, I tried a yummy raspberry brown ale, the name of which escapes me, but gives me another reason to go back for more. At the News Bar Lounge, I imbibed the Colorado concoction Hazed and Infused, which had a nice kick. After that, it was off to the Brazilian beats of Boteco, which screamed for me to drink some caipirinhas, which I did. However, I couldn't leave the bar without having one of the local beers, Nova Schin. Nice, clean, light, and perfect for a hot August night.

After living in Miami for such a long time, I have learned the unofficial rules to ordering beer: never order anything local. Most Floridian beers are not worth mentioning. While some are adequate (e.g. at Titanic), most are just plain blah. Find a good bar with a great selection, such as Zeke's on Lincoln Road, and the sublime Abbey in South Beach (excellent brews with music to match!). If the selection isn't the best, then make sure you have a view of the water, such as at Scotty's or Monty's; otherwise it's just another mediocre beer at a nondescript strip mall.

I know summer is over. It has been, even before it left. But as the October days pass, as the leaves morph into vivid pieces of living art, I now look back at the summer and all of its warm wonder. As I wait for another cycle of three seasons to take me to that warm place, I think for now I'll make a michelada, put on my leopard print Snuggie and watch CSI: Miami.

Summer Beer Search & Survey...

I know. I've been a bad bad blogger. A very bad one indeed. It's said that in order to be taken seriously (whatever that means), one should blog about three times a week. I'm not sure if I completely agree with the notion, but I do acknowledge slacking off in my entries. Summers in the north are brief, and if you blink your eyes, it's over before it even began. So in that vein, I have been exploring the great outdoors, enjoying the sun, fun, and always on the lookout for the next beerventure. While I would like to visit many beer festivals throughout the region, I opt for the experiences that will hopefully leave a lasting impression. I promise to write soon my dear followers, with more mouthwatering adventures for you to soak up. In the meantime, I have created a Beer Girl Summer Survey, which requires your participation. Don't you just love the interactive blog experience? So please take a few minutes to take the survey, as this would greatly assist me in my endeavors to entertain and dazzle you. Just click on the beer drinking monkey for a direct link to the survey (very clever!). Until the next time...

Beerconomics...

Everyone is feeling the pinch in today's economy. Wait. Let me rephrase that. Everyone I know is feeling the pinch, including yours truly. Lately, I have had to be creative with my cash -- eating out less, trips closer to home, hosting a pathetically unsuccessful yard sale, etcetera, etcetera. You get my point. Fortunately for the craft beer industry, business is going pretty well. Whether it's because more of us are drowning in our sorrows (organization "restructuring", Bernie Madoff, diminishing retirement funds) or for supporting the local microbreweries, seems as though we see just a few more people hanging out at the pubs on Tuesday afternoons these days.

With that in mind, I decided it was time to get creative with beer and money. I had heard about the Empire State Brewing & Music Festival months in advance, and I knew immediately that I was going to go. After getting on its website and reading every delicious detail of participating brewers, my eyes wandered to a place where they rarely go on a website: "Click here to Volunteer." I looked at those words like a confused pug who tilts his head in bewilderment, and decided to see what this was all about. It was pretty simple: fill out the form, hit "submit," and wait for the volunteer people to contact me. At first my intentions were twofold: to work a few hours in exchange for free admission (the entry fee was $50 for a five hour event) and to pour beer, which sounded like fun (not necessarily in that order). I had never really been behind a bar officially (unless you count that time at Delta Chi), and thought it would be a great idea to experience the perfect pour. I write about my love of beer, and I want to experience it in all aspects (note to self: next up is brewing). Plus, saving a few bucks would just make it that much sweeter.

As the weeks grew closer to the event, I got more and more excited with the anticipation. What would it be like? Would I pour beer for a local New York brewer, or pushing the corporate stuff? A few days before the event, I went to the volunteer meeting at the Empire Brewing Company not knowing what to expect. I arrived, was given my volunteer outfit, and drank free beer and ate yummy grub while I waited for the meeting to start. I met some other beer aficionados and knew that I was in the right place, at the right time. The meeting was more of a pep rally, "rah rah rah!" and I loved it.

The day had arrived and I was ready. In the morning, I received my assignment and in a split second, my excitement transformed to utter disappointment. It read: "hand out maps." What??? I had map duty? No beer pouring? My heart sank. However, I decided to grin and bear it, since I was volunteering, and in that spirit, had to accept my fate gracefully. It was for the greater good, I told myself, to help the lost beer drinker find that perfect hefeweizen. BUT, just as in Montreal, the angels intervened, and at the last moment, I was assigned to a brewery that had made a last minute entry to the festival. The gods were listening! The words "Rooster Fish" had never sounded so divine to me until that moment. A local brewery in Watkins Glen, Rooster Fish is a small operation. I had never heard of them, and was very happy to meet Seth, the brewmaster, and his wife. I poured hefeweizen and pale ale to lines of parched partygoers, got smiles and thank yous. I ran into people I knew from college, from work, from life. I met Ashley, the funky "Alebassador" from Magic Hat. I sampled beers galore from all over the Northeast and Canada, from Buffalo to Brooklyn. It was pure and simple pleasure that attacked all of my senses.

In my quest to save a few pennies (5000 of them), I truly got more than I bargained for. Not only were the sponsors ever so grateful for the volunteers (they fed us and gave us bottomless beers again after the event), I really felt connected to the community (local and beer) and met some amazing people along the way. I look forward to my next volunteering gig, and regardless of today's economy, that's priceless.

Of Arrogant Bastards and Moose Drool...

Last weekend I was in the quaint and quirky upstate town of Ithaca. It had been at least ten years since my last visit, and decided it was time for a return. I was meeting up with some old Florida friends, reminiscing about the Miami mayhem of years past, how we miss it yet at the same time we're glad to have moved on from it. Just seeing "C" is enough of a memory trigger for me to feel as though there is a small piece of Miami in my upstate world.

After sharing a bottle of yummy wine for dinner, it was time to get serious. Ithaca is home to the Ithaca Beer Company, voted 2008 Best Brewery of New York State. Who voted for this brewery I knew not, but it didn't matter. I wanted to try some of this Ithaca stuff in Ithaca. Sure, Syracuse is an hour away and I can get Ithaca beer easily, but somehow it just tastes better at the source. (Corona tastes ten times better in Mexico -- trust me!) I was feeling fun, flirty and fruity, so I wanted to drink beers that would reflect my mood, and beers I had never had. After two glasses of wine, I didn't want to jump right into a porter or stout. That would have been the end of the night for me. Instead, I opted for an Apricot Wheat. Light, fruity but not sweet, I liked this one. Not a pounding kind of beer, I sipped it slowly and enjoyed the conversation. Next bar, I wanted something bold. Something with a funky name and feel. Like the beer festivals I attend, sometimes the best choices are random, whether chosen because of the name, the label, or for no reason at all.

Take for instance, my recent choices based on name alone. Arrogant Bastard Ale, thumbs up. Moose Drool Brown Ale, thumbs down. I never know what I'm going to get, even if it sounds scrumptious at the onset. Without overthinking it, I ordered a Flower Power, a most hoppy and earthy IPA goodness. I MUST find this at my local beer store because this one's a keeper! A potent (8%) and spicy, almost floral like brew, this is the stuff I dream of! After the flower afterglow, it was time for a radical choice. I was intrigued by one beer in particular on the menu, Banana Bread Beer made by Wells. I had never heard of the stuff, and the server assured me that it tasted just like banana bread! If he was trying to sell it, this was not the manner in which to win me over. There is never a time that I crave a fruit bread and a brew at the same time. Never. However, after a convivial evening with dear friends and interesting drink choices, I threw caution to the wind and ordered bread in a bottle. Surprisingly enough, I didn't spit it out nor did I curse the server for suggesting such nonsense. It was a refreshing and fruity beverage, but not one I would order again. Sometimes, the novelty of a particular beer is just that -- a novelty. I am usually not swayed by dancing fruits or psychedelic labels. This was not one of those times -- this time I channeled my inner fruit.

Mondial Part Deux...

As I contemplate my recent travel to Montreal, so many thoughts, scents and memories cross my mind, it's hard to know where to begin. I guess where I left off would be a good start. Arriving at the Mondial was like arriving to the new wing of an airport -- pristine white booths, floors, numbered stations, and lots of people. In order to get on board, all I had to do was buy my tickets and take off. Each ticket cost $1, and most samples were between $2 and $5. Very reasonable in today's climate.

Glass in hand, I was armed for a plethora of sampling. The majority of brewers were from Quebec, and I rapidly noticed a heaven/hell medieval theme: breweries with devil logos, tarot card looking labels, beer girls dressed as wenches, and beer names like "Don de Dieu." It was like being at a Renaissance festival, sans the big turkey legs. I was waiting for a scene from Men Without Hats' video "Safety Dance" to start.* No such luck.

Instead, I was treated to some fine, and not so fine Quebec born beers. Case in point: at one booth, I oohed and ahhhed when offered a beer made from chestnut flour. The taste, however, was not my cup of tea. I was also disillusioned when I orded the red or "rousse" beers, expecting the sweet smoothness of a good old Kilkenny. Instead, my tastebuds were shocked and confused -- the red tasted more like the trappist stuff, which is probably my least favorite flavor in a beer. Just a few miles across the border and red takes on a completely different meaning!

I was quite impressed with the Canadian hospitality I was given. In my maze-like travels in and out of different aisles, lanes, booths and stands, I was drawn to a chic, South Beachesque area that was crowded with young, hip beer samplers. What was this place? Did I have to pay an extra cover charge just to sample? While chatting up the beer boy at this French outpost --Brasseurs de Saint-Sylvestre -- he introduced me to the son of Stéphane Roy, VP of Canadian Operations. David was his name I think -- a handsome young man from Montreal, who looked bored out of his gourd that he was sitting at his father's station all day. Is this what it feels like for children on "Take Your Kids to Work Day?" I sampled their Brassin D'Hiver, which was quite the tasty beer. After David humored me with his graciousness and good looks, he introduced me to his father, who gave me the royal treatment. You would think that I was some big time beer critic from The Beer Advocate. I was given a complimentary glass and sample of Gavroche, named after the little boy from Les Miserables. I was not blown away by the beer, but gratefully drank it. I think I'll stick to French wine.

What impacted me most at the Mondial was the sincerity of the Quebecers, from angels on the street leading the way, to every person I encountered that was at the festival in a variety of capacities -- from the intimidating and Gothic looking but soft spoken crew at Hopfenstark who had the tastiest IPA from a cask I've ever had, to Chloe at Les 3 Brasseurs, an unassuming quiet little booth amongst the rowdier ones. Then there's the cutie from Brutopia, who served me decent maple beer and a sublime raspberry blonde. After serving hundreds, if not thousands of sloshed festival goers, he remembered my name on my visit the next evening, and gave me extra samples. I was also thankful for the girls at the Argintinean empanada booth. Not only did these ladies smoothly flow in and out of English, French and Spanish in one breath, they fed me the most delicious beef pies.

As day two was nearing the end, the drunk revelers took over the place from the beer afficionados, and chanted the soccer anthem in unison..."ole ole ole ole...OLE OLE." I was definitely not in the U.S. and absolutely loved it. In the midst of this Canadian haze, I closed my eyes, devoured the empanadas imagining them a big turkey leg, and did a little pirouette. Sheer bliss.

* Text in red is a hyperlink. Right click it, open in new tab, and see the wonder!