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.