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!

Mondial Part I...

I'm sure that I was one of the many Americans who decided to cross the border into Canada to partake in one of the best beer experiences of the year -- the Mondial de la Biere. Exhausted from extensive travel of recent weeks, I could have easily changed my mind, canceled my hotel reservation, and not gone. Mon dieu! I must admit the thought crossed my mind for a nanosecond, and then I slapped myself silly for having such a contemplation! Sick with a nagging cold, I brought my Kleenex and recently acquired tee from the Karl Strauss Restaurant & Brewery in San Diego. I was armed and ready!

Having been to a few beer festivals, I realized that the only consistent thing to expect is to drink great beer. Other than that, I had no idea what I was in for. Beer festivals are as diverse as the regions they are in, so for all I knew, I could have been sampling some poutine flavored ale (although there was maple wine)! The best thing is to expect nothing, drink, and enjoy.

After a scenic drive up Interstate 87, as I crossed into Canada, I could almost smell the hops in the air. I had arrived! Luckily my hotel was within walking distance to the festival (no drinking and driving!) and it was a glorious, sunny Spring day. With trusty map in hand, I could not find the location itself. Bonaventure? Windsor? Which was which? Was it outdoors? Indoors? Hidden in a cave? Did I need a secret password to enter some large stony structure? After about ten minutes (which seemed like forever) of walking in no direction, I encountered some New Yorkers from Orange County with the same predicament. You could almost feel the panic. Two angelic Quebecers, with empty glasses in hand, guided us to our destination. I could hear the trumpets in the distance, for we had arrived to Heaven. Beer Heaven, that is.

Like a kid in a candy shop, I wanted to run up and down the aisles and sample everything until I got sick. I was eager to just get on with it already. After the somewhat treacherous trek, I had forgotten to exchange money, my ATM card was not working, and I had to buy tickets. Panic again. There were hundreds of booths, both indoors and outdoors, and I had to pick a place. I was overwhelmed -- the people, the smells of beer, sausages, and my empty glass. There were no self-imposed rules except for a few: no beers I already knew (Unibroue, Sleeman, Boreale), and no foreign big time beer (Dos Equis, Sol, etc.). I would sample what I could with no discernment, pure chance. Beer made from chestnut flour? You got it. Beer named after a little boy? Sure. Beer served by Goths? Game on.

Burlesque and Beer...

While some may not regard Syracuse in any way, shape or form, as has been proven by the media when it is solely referred to as "Upstate New York," let me assure the reader that there is more to it than the NCAA. I'll be the first to admit that winters suck. They suck hard. The four months or so we must endure of ice scraping, snowblowing and skin chafing may sound like a bum deal, but the other eight months are sheer bliss. Syracusans are a tough breed -- they drive under treacherous conditions without flinching, work hard, and certainly play hard. The evidence can be seen in the serious business of fun and beer, in all of its glorious forms.

I recently had the fortune to enjoy some brew and entertainment, my favorite combination. First, the obligatory colleague send-off at hotel bar near work. Not my idea of a great beer story, but I have to start from the beginning. Maybe I have been living in big cities for too long, so much so that I was compelled to get a pitcher of Miller Lite for six bucks. A good starting point -- cheap, light beer for the colleague happy hour. I usually don't mix business with beer, but as is with most send-offs, it's either a kick out the door, or a bon voyage brew. After a few chuckles and glasses, it was off to my next destination...the REAL happy hour in downtown. Syracuse's Armory Square is one of my favorite places to hang out and appreciate beer in the U.S. and happens to be tops on others' minds as well. I was set to meet another colleague and her posse who were waiting for me. Now was the time for the mouthwatering Boddy's and good conversation, making new friends. There was talk about a burlesque show...it was featured in the local New Times (I hadn't read about). At first the talk was exciting -- a burlesque show? In Syracuse? What an oxymoron. Syracuse is a beer and party town, but I wouldn't call it a sexy place.

On to the next pub for the obligatory and silky Beamish. I will never tire of it -- NEVER! I observed a yawn, and some hesitation from one of our party members, who might have changed her mind on a dime. I wasn't ready for the night to end or for the beer to stop flowing, so went we did. Not many atmospheres intimidate nor phase me, but I didn't know what I was in for. The show was not in trendy Armory Square, but in a townie suburb by the name of Mattydale. The place was called Mac's Bad Art Bar. Was there bad art in the bar? Who is Mac? Would there be quality beer like at the Limerick? I quickly found out, after a $5 cover charge, that there was bad art a la black velvet paintings; I don't know who Mac is; and their best beer was probably a Bud. I didn't bother to find out if they even had a beer menu. It was getting late, my belly was full from the Beamish, and I wanted to stay awake for the show, so I opted for Bud Light Lime. A good way to end the night and not get trashed. Although I was out of my element at Mac's since I didn't have a mullet, a frizzy perm, or a guy on my arm with a black Harley leather jacket, I was relatively comfortable. I was staying for the show dammit!

As I nursed my beer, we had to endure the painful sounds of a cover band from Utica. As if Syracuse wasn't small enough, I had to hear a band from an even smaller place! This would have been a perfect time for a tequila shot, but I had to keep my vision in focus for the show. I have never in my life experienced a band who "sang" Billy Joel, Twisted Sister, and Blue Oyster Cult's "Godzilla" in the same set. After I wiped the blood from my ears, it was time to sip on some more intoxication and watch the show unfold before my eyes. A burlesque virgin but no stranger to the biker bar and mullet mix, I strangely felt in my element. Maybe it was the sixth beer.

As much as I like to drink the meaty and malty microbrews, I think that the tame and sometimes lame light ones justify the occasion, such as the colleague "get me out of here" happy hour or the burlesque "don't weigh me down now beer" show. As the men were camera happy and the girlfriends and wives were thinking of new ways to use a chair, a top hat and a lolipop, there I was, sippin on my suds and just enjoying it all.

Of Myths and Micheladas...

Just like other holidays that have been whored out and watered down, Cinco de Mayo is no exception. As I went grocery shopping this evening after work, the Tostitos were on sale, as was the Old El Paso salsa that you mix with some Velveeta cheese, pick up a case of Corona Light, and say you've celebrated "Cinco de Drinko." I cringe. That's how most Americanos celebrate a holiday they know nothing about, and drunkenly shout out, "Happy Mexican Independence Day man! I love you dude!" For starters, Cinco de Mayo is NOT Mexican Independence Day. It marks the Battle of Puebla, where the Mexicans defeated the French in 1862. Not a large holiday in Mexico, it has somehow become the Mexican version of St. Patrick's Day. While I'm not one to scoff at a reason to party, I am one for accuracy.

Take, for instance, the michelada. Someone recently asked me, "what is a michelada?" So here I am, on the eve of the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla, here to explain a little bit of Mexican and beer history. This beloved Mexican beverage has become my favorite beer cocktail. Sure, there are times to savor straight up beer (99% of the time), then there are the times to squeeze a lime in your Corona (summer time). Michelada time can be anytime -- whenever the mood strikes.

The first time I had a michelada was in the early 90s, in Mexico City's then-trendy Zona Rosa. My cousin Ady ordered it for me and promised me that I would like it. I was hooked instantly. Even as I write now, my mouth waters in a reflex just thinking about the beer-lime-salt concoction. Fast forward to 2007 or so. Mexico City, random bar in Polanco, one of the city's now-trendy areas. Same cousin, but now orders a michelada Cuban style. I was thrown a curve. What had happened in the span of 15 years? I thought a michelada was beer with lime and ice, with a salt-rimmed glass? Seems that there are different versions of the beer drink, and they are all yummy. You can have it simple, or with Maggi sauce, tomato juice, and/or hot pepper sauce.

Sounds crazy. It is. It works. It's a symphony for the tastebuds. True beer afficionados in those snooty blogs condemned Mexican style beers like Miller Chill, Bud Light Lime, Bud Light Chelada (Bud Light pre-mixed with Clamato and lime!), and Michelob Ultra with Cactus Lime. Sure, they are catchy, appeal to women watching their carb intake, and not true beer drinker's beers. I agree. However, these are pretty good beers to make a michelada. Trust me on this one. Unfortunately, I am unable to get Bud Light Chelada in Upstate New York, so whenever I'm in South Florida I'll stock up. There are so many ways to prepare the michelada, so I'm including a decent recipe from Saveur, and some historical info and recipes from Wikipedia.

Mexican beers are great for making micheladas too (such as Modelo, Tecate, Dos Equis Lager), but I much prefer to drink those solo or with a squeeze of lime and salt right on the lip of the can. Just the way my parents did it when I was a kid. The memory of sampling beer with lime and salt from a can, on the beaches of Acapulco as a small child, breeze running through my hair, smell of ocean and coconuts -- little did I know that was my first michelada.

Beer Girl on Twitter...

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Definition of a beer girl...

As I was thinking of a topic for today's blog, the thought came to me: "what exactly is a Beer Girl??" She could really be any number of things to different people. She could be the German looking blonde girl with the braided pigtails holding a stein in one hand, and pushing up her bra with the other. She could be that fat girl at the frat keg parties who could drink all the guys under the table and do marathon keg stands. She might also be the beer afficionado who likens herself to the wine world's sommelier. Or, she could be the girl who is wearing a cute outfit with a beer logo, handing out keychains and t-shirts at a bar or nightclub to those patrons who will buy a particular beer of choice.

So you see, there is no one true definition of a beer girl, but I will try my best to explain why I gave myself this moniker. While I never dressed up as a St. Pauli type girl for Halloween, nor was I ever fat, I did many a keg stand as a collegiate hobby of mine. Didn't matter the beer -- for all I know it could have been the near beer that our colleges' new president was rumored to have served for the above 21 undergraduate crowd. But I digress.

Besides loving beer, how could I give myself the name of "Beer Girl?" Google it, and you'll find tons of sexy pictures of girls drinking beer, or the intelligent woman's blog that sounds like mine but spells it in a snooty way (Bier Girl). In any case, I used to be a real beer girl, or as the promoting world calls it, a promotional model. Living in South Florida, I took a part-time gig with girls 10 years or so my junior, to put on the tight and sexy clothing that the promoters made us wear, and then went out to the hot spots of the time in South Beach and Ft. Lauderdale.(Click here for photos.) It was easy money, and it was fun to dress up, talk to people, hand out freebies and get to hang out in the clubs that had people on the other side hoping that they were on the guest list.

As a promo model, I also worked for cigarette (yuck) and liquour companies. I went wherever, and promoted for Kool, Bacardi, Warsteiner, Beck's, Presidente, Sam Adams, Corona, etc. I only worked for cigarette companies a few times, and there's not much interesting to write about. If there were, I might have named this blog "Tobacco Girl." The only thing that sticks out in my mind is at a nightclub in Hollywood, I was working for Kool, and this girl walks up to me and says, "You're selling CANCER!!" Not Kool.

In any case, it was during my beer promo days that I learned a lot about the beers I was promoting -- I had to memorize Cliff Claven-like factoids to make the product more appealing to consumers. If that didn't work, then we promo models would entice the inebriated with whistles, beads, keychains and the like. It worked! We were never allowed to chew gum or drink while on duty, but once our shifts were over, like hard working construction men, we would pull up a chair and drink a few cold ones with the distributors. Aaahhh. I'm getting thirsty.

Syracuse made a beer list...

OK I know I've been lax about writing here, but I am going to try my best to crack my knuckles and prepare for some major carpal tunnel syndrome in the upcoming weeks, so stay tuned. In the meantime, I found something of local interest...

Read this about the top 125 beer places to go before you die...my hometown made the list twice (#s. 48 & 97)

Just in time for green beer...

I truly believe that in one of my past lives I was a Celtic warrior. Just like in Braveheart. What else would explain my affinity for the frenzied fiddling at the Dubliner in D.C.? Entranced by the Irish dancers at the Festival of Nations? That's the only way to explain it. It just comes from within, this innate sense of je ne sais quoi with regards to the Emerald Isle. I laugh at those Capital One credit card commercials with the Viking looking, vague Brit accented dudes and their brutality. Deep down I get it. That was me! I shiver when I hear bagpipes, but in a good way. I feel nationalistic all of a sudden, but to what nation?

I don't feel this way as the date nears the 17th just because I am --like everyone else --bombarded with all things green. Noooo, not me. I don't fall for those gimmicky holidays that are just an excuse to spend money, get drunk, put on a sombrero or buy some stale chocolates in a fuzzy heart shaped box. I tend to stay away from those things, and FAR away as I possibly can. St. Patrick's day, however, is a bit different. It always depends on where I am. When I lived in Washington D.C. in my younger years, the place to be was the Dubliner. Oh, the times to be had there, green beer and all. Hangovers the next day at work were the norm. At that time, nothing mattered, not even (dare I say?) the beer. Not even the beer. I can't believe I'm even typing these words now, but it was true. While my love for beer began as a seedling, my deep appreciation and affection for the simplicity and complexity that it possesses did not truly begin until much after my D.C. days.

In Miami, celebrating St. Patty's day was a completely different animal. South Beach has The Playwright, and while I never visited it on the 17th, I can say that this was one of my favorite pubs in South Florida. My outings in Miami on SPD were usually in Coral Gables, where one of the most uptight communities closed down the streets and partied hard. Beer a-flowing, bands-a playing, and young Cubanos a-drinking. Somehow it didn't feel authentic. Could it be the 85 degree weather? The Spanish language spoken all over the place? The people dancing salsa to a pseudo rock band? I don't know, and I really don't care. I had a blast though, and it was all about the Smithwick's and the amigos who were all Irish for a day.

This year, I am in Syracuse, New York, which holds one of the largest St. Patrick's Day Parades in the country due to its large Irish-American community. I grew up with it, and even had a brief stint as a flute player in my high school marching band, pseudo-playing around the parade route. My fingers were too cold to actually play, and I knew the trumpets and trombones would take over the songs anyway. Unfortunately, I will not be able to attend this year's event, but will be there in spirit.

To commemorate St. Patrick himself, I may go to Coleman's. Or to Kitty Hoynes. Perhaps I'll have a delicious Beamish at the Limerick Pub. There are so many wonderful Irish pubs to choose from in Syracuse on any given day, not just the 17th. I make no excuses to go out and have a beer, and I don't need one. We'll see where the day takes me this year. Who knows, I may just go home and quietly celebrate by making my own green beer and dream of the days of my warrior past and think about my next beer conquest.

How it all began...

How did my love for beer begin? It all started at about the age of five, when I tried my first sip of the working man's juice. My father, who worked hard to provide for his family, would always drink a can of a cold one after a hard day's work. I would always ask what beer tasted like, but was unable to try for myself. My dad occasionally would indulge me in letting me think I was doing something when I really wasn't. For instance, on numerous occasions he would let me "drive" the family car by sitting on his lap, and with my hands on the wheel, I would pretend to drive. I really thought I was driving! Really! In that same vein, he would let me take a sip of beer. Now before you start to think that Child Protective Services should have been called on him, let me assure the reader that I was not a five year old getting drunk and smoking cigarettes like those smoking and drinking monkeys or little kids.

My little taste buds didn't know whether I liked it or hated it, but I was certainly intrigued. On a hot summer day, those little sips of OV splits sure satisfied something in me! Side note: For those of you not familiar with OV, it stands for Old Vienna, a Canadian Lager. To this day I still have that catchy tune from the '70s in my head:

Just say "OV"
Add an "L"
Add an "E"
And you've got LOVE
LOVE OV
Love that Old Vienna Lager
Old Vienna Lager beer
There's a reason
It's so pleasin'
It's GREAT Canadian beer...!

I'm not even sure if OV still exists, but those splits sure were cute, and maybe the inspiration for Coronitas. I wonder... But I digress. That little girl loved those little moments with her father; the beer was secondary. However, it was how it all began! Thank you Papi!

The Time Has Come...

Well it's about time I write something here! After some major relocating and generally getting my sh*t together, today I am officially starting this blog. How did I arrive at this point? Well, about a year ago, I was searching for some beer afficionado blogs written by women, and I found a handful, but they were of the typical sort -- beer reviews, and often delivered in a snooty way. Sure, I get some good information from these "cervezaliers" but I never came across a blog that praised the nectar of the gods and told a good story. So here I am, in 2009, with lots to share, some funny, some tasty, all BEER related. I really hope you like this blog and welcome your feedback!