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Monday
January 29th
Austin, Texas
Iris and I spent Sunday at Chip’s home up in Cedar Park. His wife Suzie served us brunch and dinner, and in between we played with their kids, Tiger and Maggie. After spending the past two months in breweries, restaurants, and our trailer, it was nice to be in a home. But as Iris’s luck would have it, the Dig, a new beer bar, had opened up down the street, so we (I) decided to check it out.
Cedar Park is a fairly small town, and somewhat out of the way, so I wasn’t expecting much, especially when we pulled up to a small strip mall. But as I walked to the door, I could see over twenty taps sticking out of the wall. Was that a Stone handle? Actually it was two, just down the way from a pair of Rogues. The lineup also featured Dogfish 90 Minute, as well as some of the more adventurous styles from the Texas breweries, including a double ESB, from Real Brewing. There wasn’t an easy beer on the wall.
The interior had a coffee house feel to it. Clean and simple. The taps were the focus. The bottle list was small, but included some Avery. There were wines too, and grilled sandwiches. Todd Wink (where do people get these names?), the owner, was behind the bar. An avid home brewer, he had recently left his job to follow his dream of owning a beer bar. He had opened the Dig with his wife, and both of them were doing everything - pouring beers, making sandwiches. They’re both amateur archeologists, which is where the name came from.
The next day, our last in Austin, we visited Billy’s Brew and Cue, a relatively new brewpub in South Austin. The owners know the food and beverage business, having founded a successful chain of local coffee houses, one of which was next door. Billy’s was more polished than I expected. A barbecue joint (that’s what the “Cue” stands for), I was ready for something more down home. Iris and I pulled up to the bar, excited about having our first Texas brisket. In the dining room behind us, the brewer, Brian Peters, was giving the staff a beer tasting, bringing them up to date on his latest concoctions. According to the GM, he does this a lot.
The brisket practically melted in our mouths. The pork ribs, done with a dry rub, were great too. The beers were all well made, but not very adventurous.
In the end, that’s how I would sum up the Austin beer scene: it’s growing, the local beers are of very high quality, and there are a lot of great places to drink them, but for a city that touts itself as being weird and alternative, the craft beer scene is still somewhat conservative. As I said, though, all the pieces are in place, and I got the feeling Austin was ready to explode.
The craft beer scene, like everything else, will soon be big in Texas.
Saturday
January 27th
Austin, Texas
The next morning I was still feeling the effects of boys night out. Iris and I were in the mood for brunch, so we headed to North by Northwest, a high end brewpub. We had already stopped by on Tuesday, our first night in Austin, when the place was packed, with the wait for a table well over an hour. We eventually snagged two seats at the bar that night, and the brewer’s reserve, a bourbon aged stout, was worth the trip alone, though each of the beers had been blessed with distinctive flavors. The brewing system, under glass behind the bar, was top of the line, and large enough for a microbrewery. The food was fancy and a little too rich for me, but everyone around us seemed to love it. In the end, we had enjoyed North by Northwest so much we had vowed to return, if only to take some pictures when it wasn’t so jammed.
We arrived just as it was opening, and if anything, North by Northwest is even more beautiful in the light of day. The design is reminiscent of an exclusive hunting lodge, with soaring walls composed of stone and wood. Despite its cathedral-like size, the oversized rooms still feel comfortable, partly because the owners have thought of, and spent money on, every detail. I got the feeling North by Northwest was built during the owner’s mid-life crisis. He could have bought a Porsche, but instead built a multi-million dollar monument to Sir Edmund Hillary and Teddy Roosevelt. There are blown up photos of famous explorers all over the place, as well as some posters of the Hitchcock movie that bears the same name. But exploring is obviously the them here. The reasonable prices include round trip transportation to a bygone era. From the moment I passed through the twenty foot door, I felt like bwana.
The brunch was good. I had the breakfast pizza, with egg on it, a good combination. Iris loved her omelette, and ate the whole thing, something she rarely does. Of all the brewpubs we’ve been to, this was one of the nicest, and is a must if you’re visiting Austin.
That night, Chip got us tickets to the Texas - Texas Tech basketball game. Actually he arranged television passes for us, so we got to hang out in the media room before the game. Our seats were just off the court, right behind all the print reporters, including Chip. Darryl Royal, a former football coach at Texas, and something of a legend in these parts, sat right in front of me. During the game, I watched as various dignitaries came over to shake his eighty year old hand. Lance Armstrong was also there, as well as Mack Brown, the current football coach.
They had come to see the real star of the evening, Bobby Knight. Though the Texas team was ranked 12th in the country, all eyes were on the coach from Texas Tech. At this point, I think most people are drawn to Knight’s games hoping he’ll strangle a ref. He doesn’t get the players he had at Indiana, and most coaches have figured out how to stop his motion offense, so it isn’t really about the basketball any more. Bobby’s a celebrity more than anything, and an incident waiting to happen.
The game was awful. Tech couldn’t shoot, and they infected the Texas players. Luckily, Bobby spent most of the game screaming, so we had something to watch besides the band and the Texas dancers. During the second half, Texas started hitting, and Bobby’s anger lost some of its steam.
When the rout was over, Iris and I went back to the media room for the press conference. Bobby entered and the whole room tensed up. Bobby seemed worn out from the losing. He was very polite, thanking the Texas fans for the pre-game ovation, honoring his recently becoming the winningest coach in college basketball history. He mentioning how much he respected Darryl Royal, Mack Brown, and Rick Barns, the Texas basketball coach. Everything went well until my cousin Chip asked Knight why had lost to Barns three times in a row, by an average of almost 30 points.
Knight bristled. He seemed to think Chip was implying Barns was now the better coach, or had Knight’s number. Chip was of course. After a brief flare-up, Knight deflected the question onto safer ground, then got up and left.
We followed him. With Knight gone, the show was over.
Friday
January 26
Austin, Texas
Friday was boys night out with my cousin Chip. He lives in Austin, covering University of Texas sports for the Dallas Morning News. He also hosts a daily radio show on ESPN, which I was listening to as I drove downtown to Lovejoy’s Taproom. It was 4:30 p.m. and Chip wouldn’t be finished for another three hours, but I wanted to check out Austin’s downtown scene and this was my one night to do it.
I had been told Lovejoy’s, one of the few punk rock brewpubs around, was worth a visit. Iris and I had stopped by on Wednesday, but they were closed for “maintenance and cleaning.” I’m not sure what they accomplished in that single day, as I walked into one of the grungiest bars I’ve seen in a while. The friends I made in Tampa, in town for a Gourd’s concert, were already there when I arrived, including Johnny V, owner of the Independent in St. Pete, his wife Veronica, Mike Vouch of Micro Man Distributors and his wife Popey, as well as Tom.
Lovejoy’s was dark and spare, with furniture that appeared to have been smashed to pieces and then reassembled, some more than once. I found myself not wanting to touch anything for too long, afraid I might get stuck to it. In other words, it looked and smelled the way a punk bar should. A lot of people were smoking, illegal in Texas, though no one seemed too worried about it. It was a bastion of anarchy after all. As a political force, punk seems to have run it’s course, and is now mostly a fashion statement, and a good excuse not to clean and mop between shifts. Being punkers, maybe maintenance day was a chance to make the place uglier.
The bartender warned us the house beers were undrinkable. I thought that was nice of him. I ordered a couple of Live Oaks so people at our table could try them. After a couple rounds, our desire to be in Lovejoy’s had run its course, and we decided to check out the Ginger Man.
The nightlife is centered on five streets in Austin, each with its own personality. Sixth Street has been staked out by the twenty year olds. Crammed with vomitoriums, it’s similar to Bourbon Street, and a place to avoid if you’re over the age of twenty-five. Fifth Street is for people aged 25 to 30, who have reached the point where they prefer to throw up in the privacy of their own home. Fourth is for somewhat mature, down-to-earth people. Third is full of clubs, and Second has a lot of nice restaurants, which morph into hipster joints after midnight.
The Ginger Man, on Fourth, was packed when we arrived. After ordering a round, our group went outside onto the patio. Thanks to the chilly temperatures, we had it all to ourselves. As the night progressed, Johnny V ordered some high octane 750’s, and we inexorably worked our way towards the barleywines. By the time my cousin Chip arrived around 8 p.m., we belonged on Fifth Street.
Chip McElroy, from Live Oak, showed up shortly thereafter, and we ordered some of his barleywine, the Tree Hugger, aged in bourbon barrels. I began wondering where you went after Sixth Street, because that’s where we were headed. We needed food, but our reservations at Hudson on the Bend, famous for their wild game, had come and gone. Chip McElroy suggested we go to Lambert’s down on Second.
The Tampa crew headed over to Antone’s, “the” place to catch live bands in Austin, for the Gourd’s show. Chip and I said goodbye to Mr. McElroy, and headed down to Lambert’s, a well-heeled barbecue spot. The place was packed, but we found two seats at the bar. They had a pretty good beer list, and we ordered a couple of pints, and then cut ourselves off. I got the lamb two ways, and it was excellent. We wound up closing Lambert’s down, and then I drove home very carefully, not wanting to end up on whatever street the jail was on.
Thursday
January 24th
Austin, Texas
Josh Wilson, brewer and general manager at the Draught House Pub and Brewery, knows how to make the best of a bad situation. One look at his brewing system - poorly designed and incredibly inefficient - will tell you that. Or how about the fact that he used to own the Draught House, but is making more money now that he doesn’t? Clearly Josh is good at turning negatives into positives.
The downs and ups started when he graduated from Brooklyn College. Wanting to attend film school, he packed up his stuff and drove to Austin, a place he knew nothing about.
“As soon as I saw Austin, I started crying,” he said. “It’s so much uglier than Brooklyn.”
Most people think Austin, a land of lakes, rolling hills, and Mediterranean architecture, compares favorably with the nicest parts of Italy. Not Josh. He would much prefer a loft in Williamsburg, next door to Barcade.
“I won’t be moving back any time soon, though,” he said. “Williamsburg is even more expensive than Austin.”
Realizing he couldn’t afford to turn back, and that he needed a job to support himself, Josh applied for a position he knew nothing about: assistant brewer.
“When I moved here I didn’t know anything about making beer,” he said. “Back in Brooklyn, I drank malt liquor. Midnight Dragon was my favorite. It was horrible stuff, but it had that great label and you really couldn’t beat the price.”
Despite his taste in beer, and his complete lack of experience, he landed a job at the Bitter End, a brewpub in downtown Austin. He fell in love with his new job almost immediately, and dropped out of film school. As an assistant at the Bitter End, he became friends with the Alan Pugsley of Texas - so called because he set up bad brewing systems all over the state - and the two of them decided to start their own place. Josh quit the Bitter End (which burned down a few years ago), just after his new partner was fired.
“We bought this place in ’95, and my partner put in the system we have now,” Josh said. “It’s modeled after the Pugsley system, which explains the brick lining around the kettle. We opened the Draught House for $42,000 - the 7 barrel brewing system cost us less than $10,000. It would have been more, but my partner had a tendency not to pay people.”
That was one of the reasons their partnership didn’t work out, and they were forced to sell. Against the odds, however, Josh hit it off with the new owners and wound up as the brewer and general manager. He now brews once or twice a week, about 400-500 barrels a year.
““I follow my muse as far as styles go,” Josh said. “For three months I might only do Belgian beers. And then I’ll go on to doing something else.”
He can go wherever he wants with his own beers because the Draught House has 78 guest taps, covering every style imaginable. He loves the variety that comes with having such a large selection, as well as the freedom it gives him as a brewer, though it can also be a curse.
“People see all those taps and sometimes don’t realize we brew beer,” he said. “My stuff can get lost in the shuffle.”
Which is too bad, because his smoked porter is one of the better ones I’ve had, and compares well with the beer that defined the style, the Alaskan smoked porter. Iris liked his coffee stout. Made with Ethiopian beans, it was less creamy than some versions of the style - more like black coffee than cafe au lait.
Josh’s beers are so good, people sometimes forget how great a beer bar the Draught House is. That’s the problem with doing two things at once. It can lead to a lack of focus, and neither part gets the recognition it deserves.
Another problem is the amount of work involved in being both brewer and general manager. “I’ve got to deal with the business side of things, paying all the bills, ordering all the beer, putting it all away, writing the emails...it’s endless. Then I’ve got to find time to make beer. And now, on top of all that, I’m dealing with the malt and hop shortages.”
Josh thinks the hop shortage in particular is going to cut down on the creativity in the craft beer world. He compares it to an artist who is suddenly told he can only paint in a few colors. Then he thinks about it some more, and, once again making the best of a bad situation, says it also might force brewers into being even more creative.
“Beer drinkers are hooked on trying new things, so we’ll have to be inventive to keep them happy,” he said. “We’ll have to go in directions we haven’t thought of before.”
If Josh could do it over again, he would reduce the number of faucets, and carry a maximum of three dozen guest beers. And given his optimistic nature, it’s no surprise the he is planning to once again have his own place. A brewing system is sitting in his backyard, all ready to go. But he’s going to wait a while, until the hop and malt shortages work themselves out. And it won’t be in Brooklyn.
“Are you kidding? I’m going to die in Austin,” Josh said. Though he was making fun of his adopted city, at the same time he made it sound like dying in Austin wasn’t a bad way to go.
Wednesday
January 23
Austin, Texas
Chip McElroy, the owner of Live Oak Brewing in Austin, Texas, loves to talk about beer. Unfortunately, thanks to his doctorate in biochemistry, it’s hard to understand half of what he says. For instance, when I asked him what made his beers unique, he said it was his insistence on using imported malts and an Old World brewing method known as the decoction mash. I didn’t know what decoction mashing was, so he explained it to me. I still didn’t know, so I asked him to explain it in a way a history major could understand. This was what he said:
“In order to get the starch out of your malt and convert it into sugar, you have to add water and raise the temperature. The mash tun has a steam jacket, and you can heat it up that way, or you can add boiling water. A third option is decoction, and it’s probably the most pain in the ass way you could think of, where you pull off a portion of the mash and boil it separately, and then add it back into the mash tun, and raise the temperature that way.”
Knowing I would never really understand what decoction was, I asked him why they did it, especially if it was such a pain in the ass. He said that back in the old days, the European malt was less modified, meaning it was less efficient. So by boiling it, you could work the mash harder, and get more out of it.
“Under modified malt doesn’t work very well but tastes really good,” Chip explained. “It’s what they use in authentic Czech pilsner, which is why we use it.”
You can make a nice pilsner using North American malts with a smidgen of Vienna or Munich malt. But if you want to make a really crisp pilsner, you have to import the more expensive Czech malts, as Chip does.
“When we boil the mash, we caramelize some of the malt, which is different from using malt cooked in a kiln,” Chip said. “That’s how we get the dry malt character in our beer. It’s the under modified malt that helps keeps it light but firm, as opposed to being sweet, thick and heavy. ”
Walking around his brewery, I noticed his tanks were laying on their sides. I asked if it was because his ceilings were so low. The answer was of course no, though I had unwittingly hit upon another reason his pilsner tasted so clean. According to Chip, Czech-style pilsner gives off a lot of sulfury smells during fermentation. The increased surface area inside a horizontal tank helps release more of the odors. Also, when the beer is spread out over a larger area, more yeast can be added, which means the individual cells have less work to do.
The horizontal tanks also improve the complexity of his German-style hefeweizen, the other beer he’s known for. I had a feeling I wouldn’t understand why, but I listened anyway.
“The esters in a hefeweizen are really volatile,” Chip said, “so much so that the CO2 bubbles created by fermentation can scrub them away. In a horizontal tank, the bubbles have less distance to travel, so they leave more of the esters behind.”
The fact that the horizontal tanks released more of the smells in a pilsner, and preserved them in his hefeweizen sounded like a contradicition to me. I guess the most important thing is that the beer tastes good. In 2007, Beer Advocate Magazine named Chip’s hefeweizen the fourteenth best beer on the planet, while his pilsner is one of the fastest growing beers in the Austin market.
Walking around the Live Oak brewery, the space looks ready for an episode of “Extreme Makeover.” The place is falling apart at the seams, which makes his well-put-together beers seem even more impressive. Housed in an abandoned warehouse, Chip calls Live Oak a “Frankenstein brewery.” I’m not sure what that means. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that all the equipment in his brewery, except his 30 barrel mash tun and kettle, were originally designed to process cheese. I do know there are statues of Frankenstein popping out of numerous doorways.
In any case, his monster needs a larger home. Despite the fact that Live Oak only sells keg beer, sales are increasing 30% annually, and there’s only room for a couple more dairy tanks. Unfortunately, Austin’s incredible popularity has led to a tight real estate market.
“This is such a great place to live,” Chip said. “The people are incredibly friendly and down to earth. The great bands come here and play smaller venues. We’ve got the University of Texas, and there isn’t a fancy restaurant in Austin you can’t wear shorts to, though they might look at you a little strangely if you wear them in the winter.”
I glanced down at Chip’s shorts. It was winter and the temperature in his brewery was about fifty degrees.
“And Austin has a growing beer community,” he continued. “A lot of people think Live Oak has been successful because we’re specializing in pilsner and hefe. But that’s not true because we can’t sell our pilsner in Houston - they just don’t get it. While here in the Austin area I can’t keep up with the demand.”
Chip has had some trouble selling his pilsner and hefeweizen to the craft beer crowd interested in more extreme styles. “There are a lot of beer nuts who’ll only drink a double extra stout made with hops picked by virgins,” he said. “They turn their nose up at a pilsner, no matter how authentic it is.”
According to Chip, his offerings appeal more to the beer connoisseur - the customer who understands a well made, well thought out beer. The success of Live Oak may also be helped by fact that the Austin area, known locally as the Texas hill country, was originally settled by Czech and German immigrants.
“Barbecue has both a Mexican and a German genealogy,” he said.
Chip continues to run Live Oak on a shoestring, self-distributing his beers, and doing a lot of the work himself, though he now has help from brewer Steve Anderson.
“We don’t have sales people,” Chip explained. “Just a driver who delivers our beer and cleans lines in-town, and one who handles our out-of-town business. One of them also makes our tap handles out of live oak trees.”
Live oaks dominate the Austin area, and are beloved throughout the Texas hill country, partly because they keep their leaves year round - as opposed to trees that lose their leaves and appear “dead” in the winter. The live oak never changes, but just goes on an on, outlasting everything around them. They can live for hundreds of years, thriving in a land others find inhospitable.
Not a bad symbol for a Texas brewing company making Old World beers that have stood the test of time, even if only a select few will ever understand why.
Saturday
January 19th
Houston, Texas
When it comes to beer bars, Houston is where it all began for me. Back in January of 1990, I drove cross country with Todd Harrington, a friend I’d known since first grade. Because of the weather, we took I-10 and eventually stopped in Houston. A friend of a friend showed us around town, and suggested we stop at a new place called the Ginger Man. I had been a bartender for three years at the Riverrun Cafe in Tribeca, so I was familiar with craft beer as it was practiced on the East Coast. In those days, recent start-ups like Brooklyn Brewery, and Dock Street in Philadelphia, received most of their direction from Europe, which had been making beer a certain way for hundreds of years.
Walking into the Ginger Man, the first thing I noticed was the twenty+ taps jutting out of the wall. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Then I wondered why anyone would need so many handles, since there weren’t that many great beers, or so I thought until the bartender slid me their photo-copied menu. All the beers were from the west coast, and except for Anchor Steam, I didn’t recognize any of them. The bartender, used to confused young men with eastern accents, offered a suggestion.
“Why don’t you try this new one,” she said. “It’s called Sierra Nevada.”
I sipped my first Sierra and the citrus flavors exploded in my mouth. I looked at the bartender. “What the hell was that?”
“Hops,” she said, smiling. “You like it?”
I glanced over at Todd. “I want to live in Houston,” I said. I noticed my friend had a foolish grin on his face, too.
“Have you noticed how all the women are looking at us?” He asked. “And how beautiful they are?”
I checked the room, and he was right - it was full of gorgeous women with “come hither” smiles on their faces.
“They never do that in New York,” Todd said. He was right about that too - the only time women in New York smiled at us was when we gave them our chairs as we were leaving.
“You have to taste this beer,” I said. “It’s incredible.”
“What?” Todd said. “Are you crazy? Look at them. They’re smiling. I don’t even know where to start. When does this place close?”
Todd wasn’t as into great beer as I was. But he was definitely into beautiful women who were into him.
I turned back to the bartender. “You have anything else like that last one?” I asked.
“They’re all like that,” she said.
I eyed those 20 tap handles, each one of them begging for my attention.
“This place is paradise,” Todd said.
“I know,” I replied.
Eighteen years later - almost to the day - I was back in Houston, slowly making my way back to the Ginger Man. But first, Iris and I stopped at Saint Arnold’s. Opened by Brock Wagner in 1994, Saint Arnold’s was the first craft brewery in Texas. I had emailed Brock the day before, but hadn’t heard anything yet. From the website, I knew they offered tours of the brewery on Saturdays, so I figured we’d stop by and introduce ourselves, maybe talk to Brock or set up an appointment.
We arrived just before the tour started, and there was a line out the door. There must have been about 1000 people already inside. Our tour guide was up in a tower, looking down on the milling crowd. Using a microphone, he told us the history of beer, followed by the history of St. Arnold’s. I felt like I was at one of those evangelical mega-churches, except no one was listening. Instead, they were fingering their four beer tokens, waiting for communion. After 45 minutes, the sermon ended, and the crowd surged towards the bar. We had all paid $5 for a tasting glass and the tokens, good for four beers, and it looked like everyone wanted to be saved at once.
I really wanted to try the Winter Stout and the Elissa IPA. After 20 minutes of waiting, however, we hadn’t moved an inch closer to the bar. I realized that if someone didn’t part the mass of humanity in front of me, I wouldn’t be drinking any time soon. We finally gave up and left, feeling less than satisfied.
Out in the parking lot, I told Iris it was time for the Ginger Man. We found it down by the Rice University campus, which explained the beautiful coeds all those years ago. It looked the same, minus the young women, though I was more interested in the fact that they had doubled the number of taps. They also had a hand pump featuring the Elissa IPA.
The beer was creamy, and the cask had mellowed the citrus flavors, though it left a nice hoppy taste in my mouth. Still, it had to compete with some incredible memories, and the fact that you never forget your first West coast hop bomb. I tried the Saint Arnold Winter Stout next, enjoying the taste of chocolate and dark, dried fruit. I examined the rest of the list, and realized how far I had come in 18 years. Of the 50+ beers on tap, there were only a few I hadn’t tried, including the offerings from Live Oak and Real Ale, both from Texas.
On the other hand, I still got giddy when I walked into a big beer bar I had never visited before, as happened the next day, when we watched the NFL playoffs at the Flying Saucer. They had more taps than the Ginger Man, including some winter seasonals I hadn’t tasted. I tried the IPA from Live Oak, while Iris ordered their Hefe. Both beers were very well made - the Hefe was one of the best I’d had - so I made a mental note to send them an email. I tried New Belgium’s winter seasonal, the 2 Below Zero, an extra special/strong bitter. I liked Full Sail’s Wassail better, giving me a burst of malt and spices, with a warm hoppy finish.
Iris and I had never been to a Flying Saucer before, and we both liked it. Despite being a chain, the space had a lot of character, while the staff was friendly, knowledgeable, and mostly female. I found the short school-girl skirts distracting, but in a good way. The food was typical brewpub fare, though Iris really liked the chili, which came in a bread bowl. The bar was located in downtown Houston. Made up mostly of office buildings, the city is deserted on weekends. Still, they had a nice crowd, though there were plenty of seats to choose from, even at the bar.
Houston definitely has a quality beer scene. The only problem is it’s in Houston, which is little more than a cluster of skyscrapers surrounded by strip malls, all linked some of the most dangerous freeways on the planet.
To be honest, I didn’t start to enjoying Houston until it was a memory again.
Thursday
January 17th
New Orleans, Louisiana
As we approached New Orleans, taking advantage of our campground’s free shuttle to the Quarter, I warned Iris that almost everyone had a strong reaction to the Crescent City. I had a feeling I knew what hers would be, though I kept my fingers crossed. Driving across Lake Pontrachain, then through the abandoned homes festering on either side of I-10, our driver told us how there were plenty of jobs in New Orleans, but a dearth of places to live. We finally dropped down off the highway and weaved our way through some of the struggling neighborhoods surrounding the Quarter. The restored homes really stuck out against the houses still waiting for their owners to return.
“Most of the people who used to live here won’t be back,” our driver said. “They’ve discovered there’s another side of life in the places they moved to, and it’s a lot different from what they had here.”
He took us past buildings that still bore spray painted codes from the search and rescue teams. “The numbers tell you the date the house was searched, the team that checked it, and the number of bodies they found,” our driver explained. “That was so the body recovery teams that came along later would know where to go.” Though some of the buildings had been restored, the owners had preserved the markings as a grim reminder of what had happened.
My anticipation rose as we approached the French Quarter. It was on higher ground and had only suffered some minor flooding. “If anything,” our driver said, “the Quarter is cleaner than before the storms.” I stared out the window as we passed the French Market. I hadn’t seen Decatur Street in three years, but it looked the same to me. I doubted even a force 5 hurricane could blow away the genteel decadence that oozed from every pore of the city; not for long anyway. Iris already looked like she needed a shower. Her phobia about germs was probably in hyper-drive.
Thinking about how close I was to some of my favorite haunts, I could feel the hair on the back of my knuckles beginning to rise. New Orleans has more great bars than any other place on earth. But it was only ten in the morning, so I forced myself to be patient. I was still recovering from my recent illness, and my insides were tender. Also, if I suddenly began eating and drinking like a Roman emperor, I might prejudice Iris’s opinion of New Orleans. It would be better for me, and fairer to the city, if I let my morals unravel in increments, rather than all at once.
In New Orleans, I always started my day with cafe au lait at Cafe du Monde. I usually avoided the beignets, but I knew Iris would enjoy them so I ordered some. When the square doughnuts appeared, they were only vague shapes beneath a pile of powdered sugar. Iris was still sick so she limited herself to one, along with a small cup of the chicory flavored coffee, black. It was cold out, so we had to sit inside. I told her that to really experience du Monde you have to sit outdoors beneath the dark green awning, preferably early in the morning when most of the Quarter was still sleeping off the night before.
To help get our bearings after breakfast, we visited the New Orleans Visitor Center, sponsored by the National Park Service. The city’s unique culture - there isn’t any place like it in the rest of the States - lined the Center’s walls, right down to the genealogical roots of gumbo, the perfect symbol of the melting pot we were about to explore. Having brushed up on our history, I took Iris on a more personal tour of the Quarter, pointing out some of my favorite eating spots, including the Acme Oyster Bar, Felix’s, and Antoine’s.
Bourbon Street was a lot dirtier (in every sense of the word) than I remembered and I could tell Iris was put off by it. Continuing south, I hoped Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop would cheer her up. I knew it would make me feel better. Once owned by the Lafitte brothers, Jean and Pierre, it was supposedly a front for more profitable pursuits, like slaving. Lafitte’s claims to be the oldest bar in the United States, housed in the oldest building in the Mississippi Valley. The partially exposed walls have always looked like the only thing holding them up was their 300 years of momentum.
Inside the crooked door, the original throne-like fireplace appears to be the only thing holding up the ceiling. The sole Illumination comes from candles lining the nooks of the back bar, though the light falls short of the darker corners, popular places for late-night affairs amongst the locals. I ordered an Abita amber and soaked it all in. When I visit New Orleans, Lafitte’s is always my first stop, and my last. That way I can tell people, “yeah, I wound up at Lafitte’s last night,” without having to rely on my memory. When I’m in New Orleans, my brain seems to have a more shadowy areas than Lafittes.
My thoughts were interrupted by some growling coming from stool next to mine. Iris’s stomach was backing up on her, and she was nauseous as well. We found some Gas-X around the corner, and she popped a couple of pills. The ensuing walk up Royal Street, much prettier than Bourbon, cheered her up. So did some shopping, though we didn’t actually buy anything. By 12:30 she felt well enough for lunch, and we stopped at Bacco. Iris played it safe and ordered a plate of grilled red fish, while I opted for the crab meat cannelloni submerged in an inch of butter and cream. I usually like to keep lunch under 8000 calories, but I figured I only had two days so why not splurge.
Having polished off the “Gout Special,” we stopped in at the Carousel Bar in the Hotel Monteleone. Truman Capote claimed to have been born in the Monteleone, though he only lived there. Over the years, he brought enough famous authors, including Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, that the Carousel is now an official literary landmark. It’s also one of America’s first revolving bars, and looks like a circus carousel without the horses. The gilded seats make a complete revolution every fifteen minutes. Climbing aboard two of the fixed stools, we had a great conversation with the bartender. Marvin has been living in the Quarter for 20 years and still loves it, though he said Bourbon Street had degenerated since the storms.
“Guys like Larry Flynt (founder of the Hustler empire) took advantage of all the government money available after the storm,” Marvin said, “and we’ve got over a dozen strip clubs now. Bourbon used to be risqué, like burlesque. Now it’s more like pornography. But it goes in cycles.”
I asked him about the three Abita beers he had on tap. Marvin said there had always been two Abita lines, and the bar added a third after Katrina. “They all move really well. People want to drink something local, and help support the people who are living and working here.”
As we circled around the room, Marvin had to move to keep up with us. He said the Abita Saison had been very popular, as well as the Nut Brown and IPA. Right now he had the Alt beer on, as well as the Amber and the Light. Most of his business was still in cocktails, but the beers were holding their own, particularly during the day when people wanted something lighter.
He suggested we head over to the Crescent City Brewpub. I hadn’t had much luck there in the past, but said we’d check it out, after a walk down to d.b.a. Marvin was a big fan of d.b.a., saying he went there for both the beer and the music. “For locals like me, Frenchman is probably our favorite area. d.b.a. opened at just the right time. Now everyone wants to have a place down there.”
We walked down Chartres, past St. Louis Cathedral, and, just before it, my personal shrine, the Napoleon House. I told Iris we had to stop there before we caught the shuttle back to our campground. All she said was, “You sure are drinking a lot.” Her comment caught me off guard. Compared to previous trips, I hadn’t really started.
Turning onto Frenchman, the situation turned bleaker - d.b.a didn’t open until 5 pm, still two hours away. Most of the bars didn’t get going until early evening. In fact, getting a real feel for the Quarter during the day was a challenge. We didn’t have much choice, however. Our shuttle made the return trip to our campground at 5 p.m. If we missed it, our only way home would be a $50+ cab ride.
We trudged back up Royal. Iris looked ready to call it a day. It didn’t help that she wasn’t feeling well. New Orleans is about eating and drinking, then stumbling off to hear some great music, followed by more eating and drinking, until it’s time to set your cocktail on the piano at Lafittes and sing along with whoever is playing. In the morning, it’s coffee and a paper at Cafe du Monde, breakfast at Mother’s, and a light lunch of Gulf Coast oysters washed down with some Abita bock. Following my usual schedule, I rarely slept more than a few hours, but never felt tired. The dark energy steaming up from the bayous gave me the staying power of a college freshman.
New Orleans was having a negative effect on Iris. Thanks to her bad stomach she couldn’t eat or drink much, and the music didn’t get going until later. Casting a pall over my own experience, I was having trouble explaining why I loved New Orleans so much. I could no longer say it was the kind of place you had to be experience to appreciate. She was experiencing it.
The Napoleon House nearly saved the day. Even Iris loved sitting at the tiny bar surrounded by the 200 years of history peeling off the walls. It was the first time she had come alive since our arrival. And then it was time to go, and we were riding over Lake Pontrachain in the fading light, past the derelict neighborhoods that wouldn’t be rebuilt. By the time we made it back to the campground, I realized I didn’t want to go back the next day. We had seen enough of New Orleans for this trip. You can’t do the Crescent City halfway. You have to stay in the Quarter and let it swallow you whole, for better or worse. Maybe some day Iris could come back and try again, when she was feeling better.
New Orleans would still be there. A couple of storms weren’t going to wipe away all that debauchery masquerading as history.
Tuesday
January 15th
Abita Springs, Louisiana
After Hurricane Katrina hit, Dave Blossman, the owner of Abita
Brewing, wasn’t sure if his business would survive. New Orleans, which
drank 70% of his beer, was basically shut down, and no one knew when it
would be open again. All his employees survived the flooding, but a lot
of them lost their homes. Before the storm, Abita was growing 25%
annually, and Dave was about to start construction on a major
expansion, including a large tourist center. The next thing he knew,
Abita was closed for two weeks while he reassembled his staff. In the
aftermath of the storm, everything was put on hold while Dave
concentrated on just keeping his business above water, literally.
“As you all know after 9/11, the worst brings out the best in
people,” Dave said. “People around here showed their true colors. We
all banded together and helped out those who needed it, and started
rebuilding. But there was a lot of uncertainty.”
Rather than wait for New Orleans to come back online - a big
unknown at the time - Dave pushed sales in the rest of Louisiana. The
move paid off as the company experienced 100% growth in Baton Rouge,
Lafayette, and their own backyard, the north shore of Lake Pontrachain.
Now sales in New Orleans are back to where they once were, and growing
20% annually throughout the state, making Abita bigger than it was
before Katrina.
Some of this newfound popularity has to do with one of the first
moves Dave made following the storm. “Katrina hit on the last day of
August, and by October we had launched Restoration Ale. It usually
takes six months to get a new brand into the market. We did it in 35
days, which we’re real proud of. During the last two years, we were
able to raise over $550,000 in hurricane relief through sales of the
beer, which is a lot for a small company like ours.”
Restoration Pale Ale, now one of Abita’s flagship beers, became a
symbol of the brewery’s determination to bounce back. It also produced
a tremendous amount of good will towards the brand.
“We’ve gained a lot of market share since the storm,” Dave said.
“We’re the number two beer on tap in New Orleans. If the trends
continue, we’ll pass Anheuser-Busch in about a year, and become number
one.”
This year they’ll sell about 75,000 barrels. When the brewery
expansion is finished, they’ll have the capability to produce 125,000.
Dave’s also adding a new warehouse and cold rooms, as well as a waste
treatment facility, and a slew of new tanks. For Dave, however, the new
visitor center is the chief symbol of Abita’s rebound from some dark
days.
“It meant a lot when we were finally able to build the visitors
center and tasting room,” Dave said. The new complex, with offices
upstairs, are designed to resemble a street in the French Quarter,
complete with gas lamps beneath a wrought iron balcony. There’s a
fountain in the brick courtyard, along with a fancy outdoor grill.
Beer geeks will be interested in Abita’s new cask room, built for
long term aging, which will allow Dave’s brewers to experiment a
little. He wants to do single batch brews as well as bottle conditioned
bombers, the first of which will feature the Andygator, his barleywine,
followed by an 8% abbey ale. Abita has always been fairly conservative
as far as its product line goes - they’re a southern brewery after all,
with a mostly southern customer base - but they’re already making a
dry-hopped IPA that clocks in at 50 IBU’s and 6.5%. Called Jockimo, I
found the beer smooth and clean, with a nice snap at the end. Dave
hopes to have it available in New York City fairly soon.
Seeing Abita restore itself is a heartening experience. According
to Dave, the city of New Orleans is going through a similar rebirth,
though it’s still only about half the size, population-wise, of its
former self.
“There are large parts of the old New Orleans that are still
abandoned,” Dave said. “And to be honest, they shouldn’t be rebuilt. We
don’t have the infrastructure to be as spread out as we were before.
The city needs to be about half the size it was in order to survive.”
When a planning commission said the same thing, they were sharply
criticized and sent back to the drawing board. The Crescent City might
want to emulate what Abita did. When the storm blew away the brewery’s
customer-base, Dave and his staff put all their expansion plans on hold
while they retrenched and focused on building up a new business model,
one that was much more diversified, and less vulnerable, than the old
one. Abita is no longer so dependent on New Orleans, and is a much
stronger company. In the end, thanks to a lot of perseverance and hard
work, Katrina wound up strengthening Dave Blossman’s brewery, rather
than destroying it.
Maybe some day we’ll be able to say the same thing about the city of New Orleans.
Sunday
January 13th
The Florida Panhandle
I should have known better than to eat raw oysters at a pirate theme bar, where the chief sport was drinking the eight drafts in a single sitting, known as “Walking the Plank.” Quite a few people were playing the game, and they had reached the point where ordering a beer made them laugh. The list was mostly imports, and by the time I finished eating my fateful meal, the afternoon crowd was having trouble staying aboard their stools.
Then again, I had been playing my own version of “Walk the Plank” since leaving New York, so it might not have been the oysters, or the equally “fishy” fish and chips, but a simple case of my body deciding to mutiny. Whatever the reason for my sudden illness, springing a leak in my lower decks certainly livened things up at the Ho Hum Trailer Park, our home away from home on the Florida panhandle.
Only one thing could have made things worse: Iris coming down with a similar ailment. She did, of course, a couple days after me. Imagine the two of us sardined on a 48” bed, our insides turning to liquid. The rumbling in our intestines left Cinnamon cowering under the dinette, the same way he does during thunder storms. When we no longer had the strength for the run/walk to the public bath house, we tested the digestion of the head in our trailer. What followed gave new meaning to the phrase, “Hey honey, this trip will be a great opportunity to get to know each other.” Thanks to our plumbing issues, we didn’t spend much time exploring Florida’s “Forgotten Coast,” a sweeping curve of white sand beaches hugging the Gulf of Mexico. Somehow we managed to check out the Gibson Inn in Apalachicola. Owned by a husband and wife team, the restored turn-of-the century inn is famous for its tasteful renovation and its high quality cuisine. The husband spent time at the French Laundry in Napa, while the wife is a renowned pastry chef from Chicago. Neither of us had any interest in food, however, or its painful aftermath. What we really needed was an I. V. drip. I can tell you the Victorian bar, where I managed a few sips of Affligem Tripel, was an old world mix of green wainscoting and dark brown mahogany. The route to the bathroom was decorated with old pictures of the inn, though I was moving too fast to examine them closely.
Two days later, we dragged our sore asses to Lillian, Alabama. We had heard about a brewpub called McGuires in nearby Pensacola, which wound up being a disappointment. An old Irish joint - the stereo played every sappy Irish ballad ever recorded - the dark interior was wall papered with 30 years worth of dollar bills. They’re also famous for a 10% barleywine called “I’ll Have What the Gentleman on the Floor is Having.” The gentleman on the floor must have drunk it all because it wasn’t on tap during our visit, and the rest of the beers were bland. They did have a bowl of navy bean soup for 18 cents, the same price they charged when they first opened in 1977. It tasted like a soup that had just celebrated its thirtieth birthday.
Returning back to the trailer, I spent another day in bed, watching the Giants beat the heavily favored Cowboys. Seeing Jerry Jones look the way I felt boosted my spirits. We were scheduled to be in Phoenix, site of this year’s Super Bowl, the first week of February, and I wondered if the Giants might be joining us.
Curling up in the fetal position, I told Iris I would avoid oysters and clams the rest of the trip. And in honor of Florida’s “Forgotten Coast,” we both agreed to forget what we had seen and heard in our trailer over the past three days.
Monday - Thursday
January 7-10
Cedar Key, Florida
Though our trip has had a lot of fun moments, it’s been a lot harder than either of us would have ever imagined. As people constantly tell us, we’re living the dream, visiting one great brewery after another, tasting a lot of great beer, though, for me, the best part of the trip has been the people we’ve met. But packing up and moving every couple of days isn’t easy. Trying to keep up with the blogs, take all the pictures, and shoot the videotape is tough too. Not to mention all the logistics involved: finding campgrounds, grocery stores, and whatever else we need to keep moving forward.
Living on the road, you’re exposed to one new experience after another: people, places, bugs, flat tires, deep fried food, Corona. And except for fried food and Corona, nothing ever becomes routine enough to achieve the comfort of familiarity. The adventure is relentless. Unlike at home, there’s no place to hide when it all becomes too much. Consequently, we hit the wall once in a while. Those are the days when the smallest thing sets you off, and nothing makes you feel better. You’re pissed off at your hitch and you have no idea why, which makes it even worse. Even Cinnamon hits the wall, the days when he doesn’t stare at you with pleading eyes while you’re eating, and he’s too tired to fertilize the campground, which has become his life purpose since our trip began.
Luckily, none of us has hit the wall at the same time, and having all been through it, we try to be supportive, and if that doesn’t work, we keep our heads down until the anger subsides, usually by the following day.
In any case, without really knowing it, I think I’ve been searching for the wall’s opposite, a place that makes me feel great for no good reason, a place where I can lay down and rest in peace, where I might even want to be buried some day, though hopefully not in my trailer. While I’ve seen quite a few places I’d love to come back to, I hadn’t found that special special spot that made me want to dig a hole, jump down into it, stretch out, and tell Iris to start shoveling.
Well, I think I may have discovered my happy hunting grounds - Cedar Key, located just below Florida’s panhandle. According to the local paper, the nearest stoplight is thirty miles away, and it’s blinking. The town is on a small island at the end of a causeway, and the minute I saw it I knew I was somewhere different, though I couldn’t quite figure out what it was that put the unblinking smile on my face.
Sure the town hasn’t changed much since the 1950’s, or even the 1850’s, when Cedar Key was built. And there isn’t much to do besides watch the locals dry their clamming nets on the side of the road, or maybe spend the day figuring out if the tide is coming in or going out. There are some great raw bars, most of them on stilts, and a dozen oysters or clams pulled up from the surrounding flats will only cost you $8. The Island Inn, which was the first commercial structure in Cedar Key - it started as a brothel - also has a great little bar that serves Sam Smith Oatmeal Stout. The foods good too, especially if you love butter. Periodically, various guests pull up to the piano in the lobby and start playing for no apparent reason. I guess they just feel like it.
Everyone looks like they’ve been through a few hurricane’s too many - people around here just tough them out, though they’re only two feet above sea level - but they’re all friendly. Andy, the Island Inn’s owner, called us regulars after Iris and I flip flopped into his bar three evenings in a row.
The roads are all short and full of potholes and speckled with bird shit, and nobody strays too far over the 30 mph speed limit, though there was only one police car and it always seemed to be parked in the same place, with no one in it. Maybe people aren’t in a hurry. After four days on the island, I had trouble getting my truck up to 25. My Tundra and I were that relaxed. At night, you’re far enough away from the city that you can see just about every star. There aren’t any condos on the island, and there hasn’t been any development, though there are plans to build some sort of club and spa, with homes around it. Something tells me it won’t happen, though. Not in Cedar Key. Everybody’s too busy toasting sunsets over the Gulf.
I’ve been here a few days now and I still don’t know why I like it so much. Every time I think I’ve got the reason, my mind wanders off and I forget what it was. It’s hard to stay focused in a place like this. In fact, I can’t remember what my point was. Oh well, I guess it’s time to open another beer and hit the rewind button.
Later that day...Saturday
January 5th
Tampa, Florida
I met Bob Haa at Mr. Dunderbak’s, a German beer bar/deli/restaurant/marketplatz in a dying mall in Tampa, near South Florida University. We drove around back by the sheriff's office, and went in through the kitchen. Dunderbak’s is owned by J.B. Ellis, who takes good care of all his customers, particularly his local home brewers, the Tampa Bay B.E.E.R.S., who hold their official meetings here.
Unofficially they meet whenever the mood strikes them - or they’ve got a new batch to unveil - and a table of B.E.E.R.S. was waiting for us when we arrived, including Tom, Tony, Mike Vouch and his wife Popey. J.B.. took me on a quick tour of the place. He’s got 25 taps and a 200 foot bar on one side, and a deli counter and store opposite, as well as some tables.
Dunderbak’s is a 35 year old institution, though it’s only open until nine p.m. , like the mall - except for home brewers and J.B.’s friends, who come and go out the back. That includes the sheriff's department. J.B.. takes care of them and they watch his behind, as far as his hours go. Dunderbak’s was packed while we were there, and according to J.B.. it usually is, but he’s in the process of finding a new location so he can stay open longer.
Back at the table, Tom cracked a growler of a vanilla porter he had recently made. I liked it, but some at the table thought the vanilla was too pronounced. Mike Vouch, who works with Bob at Micro Man, the boutique beer distributor, opened a bottle of his Prestige clone, in which he had added some bourbon. I thought it compared well with the real Prestige, until he opened a second batch, in which he had added wood chips. It was even better.
Mike and Popey had just been up to New York City and they had visited the Tiger. Of course they walked by it three times before they found it. I guess we have to get a bigger sandwich board. They had a great time, though. I told him he was the first person I’d met during our current travels who had ever heard of the Blind Tiger, let alone been there. For that, I toasted him and Popey with another glass of his Prestige clone.
J.B. started dropping off German food and pints of beer. I had the double IPA from Left Coast, the Cappuccino Stout from Lagunitas, along with sausage and sauerkraut, freshly made potato pancakes, goulash, meat loaf with gravy, home fries with cheese...the food just kept coming.
Tony, another member of our table, is in the midst of opening a beer bar and restaurant in Oldsmar. He’s planning on 25 taps and a lot of bottles. The space is 1800 square feet, and he hopes to be open in three weeks. The whole build-out is costing him about $150,000. I choked on my goulash. That was what we paid twelve years ago to build the old Tiger, and it was less than half the size. I didn’t want to think about what the new Tiger cost, or the fact that you had to walk past it three times before you could even see it. I decided to drink more of Mike’s 10% Prestige clone to make myself feel better.
We finally asked for the check before J.B. could bring us any more food and beer. My bill was $9.74. I could have sworn I had three pints, a lot of home-brew, and four plates of food. I immediately programmed the back entrance of Mr. Dunderbak’s into my GPS, so I could find it again. I also told J.B. to call me with the new coordinates when he moved, and to let me know when he was heading to New York.
Our group headed for Ybor City in Tampa, about a fifteen minute drive through a maze of freeways. I just followed Bob’s Ford Ranger. Ybor used to be nothing but derelict cigar factories, until the city decided to revitalize the old warehouses with lofts, hip restaurants, and stores. They gave the commercial tenants sweetheart deals. According to Bob, the Tampa Bay Brewing Co., our next stop, wasn’t even paying rent. They had about five thousand square feet, plus a large outdoor bar. The interior was dark and stylish. We didn’t eat, but their kitchen has a great reputation. We lucked out on the beer - we got the last glass of their rauch beer, and it was really smokey. The porter was pretty good, but my IPA was terrible. Bob thought maybe the yeast had mutated too much. Just what I needed - some mutant IPA.
We headed a few blocks over to the New World Brewing Co. They no longer make beer, but they’ve got a large tap list and a huge number of bottles. They also make the best thin crust pizza around. Joe Raguckas was behind the bar. He seemed to know about our mission, saying Iris and I were living the dream, traveling around the country, visiting breweries. What could be better than that? Thinking about some of the trailer parks I’d showered in, I could think of a few things, but I just laughed and ordered a beer. I don’t remember what I was, but it tasted good. We ate a couple of pizzas and then everyone lit up cigars. Except me. I just sat there, looking around at the decor. The New World had done a great job finding antique signs from Ybor’s past, as well as other elements from Florida’s history. The space had a really unique, old Florida feel to it.
I sat back, inhaling the warm, smokey air. Maybe I really was living the dream. Of course it always feels that way at the end of the night...
Saturday
January 5th
Tarpon Springs, Florida
Ever wonder what would happen if you hooked up a red wine fermenter to a bunch of dairy tanks, then crossed it with a skateboard, a pump, and some PVC pipe? You’d wind up with the Saint Somewhere brewing system. In fact, Bob Sylvester, the proud owner of Saint Somewhere, doesn’t have a single piece of equipment that was originally designed to make beer. And yet he does make beer. Some truly excellent Belgian-style saison and amber.
His most impressive invention has to be the Sponge Bob skateboard he mounted with a reconditioned pump bought from a friend who also happens to be a sales manager for an industrial pump company. He pushes it around with a flag pole he mounted on the back.
The cheapest invention is his sparge, which is basically some water-grade PVC he shaped into a square and fit with four sprinkler heads. It cost $15. Then there’s his glycol system, which is really a freezer chest with a keg stuffed inside it. He rigged it with some tubing and a thermostat and called it a day. Cost: $200. Bob is clearly the person you want around if you’re marooned on a desert island and you still want some bottle conditioned beer.
For Bob, the jury-rigging all began when he started home brewing about eight years ago. He immediately became obsessed with it, especially the Belgian styles.
“Of course they don’t really have styles,” he said. “If it turns out well you call it something, and if it turns out bad, you dump it out. I threw out all the recipes pretty early on when I realized the really important stuff hadn’t been written down.”
Instead he began fooling around with different combinations of malt, yeast, hops, and various spices. For the Lectio Divina he wound up using pilsner malt, some wheat, caramelized sugar, and his saison yeast. He didn’t want to label it as any particular style, but the government insisted, so he calls it a Belgian amber.
For the Saison Athene, he took the pilsner malt and added some rosemary and black pepper, which play off the spicy flavors of the yeast really well, and then threw in some chamomile because it helped the whole concoction blend better, while giving it a fragrant nose. After he’s finished boiling this brew in his dairy tanks, he moves it in an open fermenter, which he bought from a winery.
“Winery equipment is cheaper and it’s more suited to the saison style than most of the brewery equipment out there,” he said. “My bottle filler is from a winery too.”
He doses the bottles with brettanomyces to give his beers some funk and help dry them out. Both his beers finish dry compared to many other saisons.
Bob had bottled his first seasonal the day before, and we opened some to try it out. Basically he added some hibiscus and Palmetto berries to his amber. The result was much different from the Lectio, as the Palmetto berries added a roasted, nutty flavor, and the hibiscus gave it undertones of dark fruit.
I asked Bob how he came up with the name for his brewery. “I’m a native Floridian - there’s about two of us left. I’m also a parrot head. I knew I wanted to do Belgian beers, so Saint had to be in the name somewhere. Then I was listening to Jimmy Buffet’s song ‘Boat Drinks,’ and he started singing about flying to Saint Somewhere. It just clicked.”
He took his beer to a Buffet concert once, and started handing it out in the parking lot. His fellow parrot heads got the name immediately. Bob was nervous, however, because Buffet has a deal with Budweiser, which makes his beer, Landshark.
“I was worried a black van was going to pull up and a bunch of guys in dark suits were going to jump out and take us all away. Nothing happened, though.”
In homage to his home state, Bob’s labels are from old posters the Florida Immigration service made up when they were trying to lure people south. “These days I think we might want to turn those posters around and start sending people away.”
His label for the Saison Athene is a tribute to Tarpon Springs, which contains the second largest Greek community in the country. They came here to fish for sponges in the Gulf. Bob chose Tarpon Springs for a more mundane reason: the rent was cheap.
Bob’s goal was to set up his entire business without going into debt. He did it. When I asked him how much the whole system cost, he guessed it came in around $50,000, which is incredibly cheap considering the cost of brewing equipment, even used, in today’s tight market. Still, when he rolls out the skate board pump, it looks like it cost a lot less than that. Then again, the price tag didn’t really matter, since his beer tasted as good, or better, than the Belgian-style saisons being made on state-of-the-art systems. It just goes to show you - it isn’t the equipment, it’s the brewer that matters. Bob could probably make great beer if you gave him a jug of water and a ball of twine.
Now his main goal is to quit his day job selling suits at Brooks Brothers. He has no desire to be rich. He just wants to make beer full time. The rave reviews he’s been receiving in the beer press lately should help make his dream a reality soon. In the mean time, he’s just happy to be brewing professionally...working on one of the most unprofessional systems you’ll ever see.
Friday
January 4th
Downtown St. Petersburg
After spending the entire day getting my truck serviced and the windshield replaced, I needed to visit Johnny V at the Independent, a beer bar in downtown St. Pete. I used to know Johnny V when he was selling Stella with Jim Picket up in New York. He moved to Florida a while back and became the first sales rep for Micro Man, the boutique beer distributor. He eventually left that job - and was replaced by Bob Haa - so he could open his own place, with his wife Veronica, on North 3rd St.
The day before, when I had spoken to Bob Haa on the phone, Johnny had been standing next to him. He got on the line and asked when I was coming down. I told him I’d be there the following night, and he said great, he’d be there. Then he recounted everything we had ever done together, including a steak dinner followed by a snowball fight. I could barely recall any of it. But I don’t have a photographic memory like Johnny. Of course, according to Bob Haa, Johnny's memory is only great when it comes to remembering the distant past - he can still recite all the phone numbers of all the bars and restaurants he used to call on - but not so special on a short term basis, like hey, did I pay any of my bills this month? Luckily for him, Veronica’s recollection works well in the present.
When Iris and I arrived at the Independent, Johnny wasn’t around. Apparently he had forgotten we were coming. Veronica apologized and said she had just called him and he was too hung over to get off the couch. Some friends were in town, and he had been out with them the night before. We told her not to worry, we’d catch him next time. Bob Haa was there, with his girlfriend Crystal, who’s a rep in the wine business. They met at a wine event, where Bob was manning the lone beer booth for Micro Man. When people got sick of spitting wine out of their mouths, they went to Bob. Crystal kept coming by, asking him all sorts of questions. She didn’t know anything about beer, Bob said, “but she had plenty of enthusiasm.”
Now, between the two of them, they’ve got their favorite beverages covered. When they go out to dinner, they figure out what kind of night it is - beer or wine - then they discuss their food options.
Bob used to brew for one of the Hops brewpubs, as well as St. Sebastian, a Belgian brewpub that recently closed. Not because of Bob. The Belgian owners had built their restaurant in Spring Hill, a nearby retirement community. They thought the spot would be a gold mine in about fifteen years or so - maybe when everyone died off and a younger generation moved in to replace them. Whatever their reasoning, they didn’t last six months. Bob’s much happier now.
“I got tired of the brewer lifestyle,” Bob said. “I also got tired of the money.” Or lack thereof.
He showed us around the Independent, which didn’t take long. It’s a rectangular room only a little bigger than the Tiger. The ceilings are a lot taller, however, and the sound echoes. We were all shouting at each other.
“Wait until later,” Bob said. “This place will be packed. You won’t be able to hear a thing.” Veronica rolled her eyes, thinking about it. I was glad the Independent was doing so well - Bob said it was his busiest account in St. Pete - and that while Veronica had to stay and work, we didn’t. In the mean time, we enjoyed the Cappuccino Stout on draft, along with bottles of Dupont’s Saison and Biere de Miel (Crystal’s favorite). We wanted to order the St. Somewhere Saison, so we could do a comparison, but it had just come in and wasn’t cold.
Bob pointed out the artwork high on the wall, asking what I thought of it. The half dozen brightly colored paintings reminded me of the stuff people did while dropping acid and listening to heavy metal back in the late seventies. He told me to look again. When I still didn’t get it, he pointed out how the hidden designs formed pints of beer. Johnny V came up with the idea, and worked with the painter. I think it would have been easier to see if I had been on something illegal.
Feeling hungry, we headed over to an English-style bar/restaurant - they carried Bob’s beers and Crystal’s wines, so it was an easy decision - known for its curry. The waitress fired out the specials in an annoying rapid fire voice. I didn’t want to hear her speak again, so I stuck with the red curry and a bottle of Xingu.
The curry was rich, thick, and spicy - the best I’ve had since visiting London. After we finished, Bob and I wanted to keep going, but Crystal had to get up for a trip the next morning. Iris was already thinking about our forty minute drive back to Dunedin. Bob said he would take me around Tampa the next night, after my visit with Bob Sylvester at St. Somewhere up in Tarpon Springs. Iris rolled her eyes. I hadn’t had a night off since Jacksonville, and she was getting exhausted just watching me.
I wasn’t. Like Johnny V, my short term memory was gone, and I could only see what was ahead of me, which is the best way to do a trip like this. If you think too much about what you’ve done...well, I don’t know what happens. I’m trying not to think about it.
Thursday
January 3rd
Dunedin, Florida
After setting up camp in the Tampa Bay area, we headed over to the Dunedin Brewery, which we had heard both good and bad things about. Luckily for us, their fortunes were on an upswing and the new brewer was talented. I really liked his Imperial Pilsner, Farmhouse Christmas, and IPA. The place looked like it had been built in a former garage composed of two large bays. The weather was cold while we were there - and cold in the brewpub too - so the garage doors were down, but I imagined it must have been a great spot during the warmer months. There was a stage area set up for a band - they feature music Weds through Sat, and host a drumming circle on Tuesdays. They also serve a Mexican menu.
I had parked the truck illegally across the street - their lot is tiny - so when a a couple of spots opened up in front of the brewery I ran outside and took one of them. A guy with a pony tail pulled into the other, and I noticed him eyeing my license plate. We ended up beside each other at the bar, and he asked where I was from in Vermont. I told him I had a cabin in Barnard. It turned out he was from Lebanon, New Hampshire and knew the Woodstock area well. His name was Tony and he had moved south about ten years earlier, when he got sick and tired of shoveling snow. Now he worked as a waiter at Kelley’s, a restaurant in Dunedin. He said we had to come by for breakfast - it was the best in the area. He was working Saturday and Sunday, and I said we’d stop by and see him.
My sister Laura lives in Safety Harbor, about ten miles south of Dunedin, and we had told her to meet us at the brewery a little after five. She still hadn’t shown up by 6:30, and Iris and I were both cold and hungry, so we left a message on her phone and took off. Troy Barfoot, of Micro-Man Distributors, had given me the phone number of Bob Haa, his counterpart in the Tampa area. When I called Bob and asked where we should eat in Dunedin, he had recommended either Casa Tina - his favorite Mexican spot - or Kelley’s. Having finished our beers, we headed for Casa Tina, a small, somewhat rundown place on Main Street.
As it turned out, Casa Tina has been so successful they’re building a new restaurant next door, which will open soon. We ordered Negra Modelo’s - they didn’t have anything else - and continued to wait for my sister. Eventually, we gave up on her and ordered a wild mushroom quesadilla, and the grilled fish fajita for two. Casa Tina is owned by a Mexican and Gringa couple, and it showed in the food. The tortillas were freshly made and still warm, and the fish was grilled just right. The salsa had a great roasted flavor, and the guac was really fresh. It was a great - and cheap, $35 for two, with beers - dinner.
My sister finally called. She had gotten a late start, and left her phone at home. By the time she reached Dunedin Brewery, we had already left. Eventually, she borrowed someone’s cell, and tracked us down. She told us about a bar restaurant called Bellini’s down the street. It was a beautiful place, with a large mostly empty bar. Laur told me they used to be packed every night thanks to a Spanish guitar player. When he asked for small raise, the owner fired him. He replaced him with a woman wearing dark, oversized glasses and what appeared to be a wig. Laur said it looked like she was in the witness protection program. Her voice was good, but she apparently didn’t have the charisma of the Spanish guitar player. No one was paying attention to her.
The owner had won his argument, and saved a few bucks, and now was in the process of losing his business. The places change, but the stories remain the same.
Wednesday
January 2nd
Deland, Florida
Iris and I arrived at the Abbey at 3pm the next day, only to discover Todd’s beer cooler had broken down, so he couldn’t take us over to Knightly Spirits. Instead, once his compressor was working again, he showed us around Deland. We stopped for a Lagunitas Censored at Cafe de Vinci, a live music venue owned by some friends of his. They had a punk band playing that night. Iris wandered out of the bar and into the architectural salvage store next door. On the other side of the bar was a 3000 square foot garden patio that left both Todd and I salivating.
At six we drove over to Todd’s to pick up his wife, Rosie, as well as some beer for our dinner. Larry, the beverage manager at the Ravenous Pig, had agreed to let us bring our own bottles as long as we shared. Todd showed me his home office - one wall was stacked with wine he was aging, and the other contained his collection of vintage beers. In the middle of this incredible display was a desk with a computer on it. Talk about inspiration. Or temptation - probably both. And this was just his personal stash. Back at the Abbey, he had rented a nearby apartment now stacked with cases of aging beer. In a couple of years, he’ll have one of the best vintage lists in the country.
He began pulling bottles off the shelf, asking if I’d tried such and such before. If I hadn’t, it went into a cooler with wheels on it. In high school, Todd must have been voted “Most Likely to Be Prepared.” I added the Weeping Radish Christmas, as well as some tripel from the Mash House.
The two month old Ravenous Pig, located in Winter Park, was opened by a couple of chefs who met and got married while they were studying at the Culinary Institute of America. Though they both wound up part of the fine dining scene - she as the Waldorf - they really loved the Spotted Pig in the West Village. Eventually, after moving to central Florida, they created their own gastropub, with a menu heavy on meats - they do an incredible roast suckling pig - backed by an extensive beer selection.
Brent and Troy, along with their girlfriends, were already at the table when we arrived. Larry gave us a brief history of the place, then started bringing our beers out one by one, along with plates of food. Since there were eight of us, we tried just about everything on the menu. I hate to say this, but I’ve forgotten many of the beers we had, probably because we had so many. I remember the New Glarus Enigma, Surly Brown, Bison Farmhouse, a Binchoise, some Polish mead, a Belgian apricot beer with a pink label, along with at least a half dozen others. It was an all star lineup, and the food - flatiron steak, suckling pig, venison, rib eye, shrimp and grits, roasted quail, house-made sausage, and all the desserts - was up to it. Definitely one of the finest meals of the trip.
Iris and I didn’t want to leave the Ravenous Pig because we knew when we did, we’d be that much closer to abandoning our new friends and moving on to Tampa. Todd is a big fan of Ommegang, and I told him we all had to go to their festival in July so we could hang out again. If that was too far, I suggested the Carolina Beer Championships in April. And if that didn’t work out, well, Iris and I would do our trip all over again...in warmer weather.
As we said our goodbyes, I realized central Florida now has great beer, and great places to enjoy it. Even more important, the people behind this up and coming scene know how to take care of each other, as well as the people who visit.
Tuesday
January 1st
Deland, Florida
It had been ten days since I’d been to a discriminating establishment, so I was looking forward to the Abbey in Deland, Florida, located just down the road from Daytona Beach, the most hallowed ground in Nascar Nation. In this neck of the woods, you wouldn’t expect to find a Belgian beer bar with Duchess de Borgogne on draft (along with 14 other options) or the Madrugada Obscura in bottle (just the tip of a list that includes 14 Trappistes and about 90 other quality choices). You also wouldn’t expect to find a large wine list, panini sandwiches, and dark velvet couches.
The man behind this operation is Todd Carpenter, and if you read the mission statement on his web site, you realize he’s committed. Or about to be. According to his signed statement, the Abbey’s purpose is “to promote and support those who seek enjoyment from or through their consumption of food, wine, and beer...To help them to enrich this side of their lives in an affordable and value-driven manner.” The typical Nascar fan probably hasn’t read Todd’s mission statement, or they might have enjoyed running over him a few times for implying their lives needed affordable improvement.
“I didn’t really think about how crazy I was when I opened the place,” Todd said. Then he laughed. “Now I think about it all the time.”
Iris and I arrived at the Abbey unannounced on New Year’s day. I had sent an e-mail telling Todd about our trip, but hadn’t heard back, so I wasn’t expecting to see him. Rip, the bartender and Todd’s nephew, said his uncle might be stopping by soon. In the mean time, he asked if we had tried Ommegang’s Chocolate Indulgence. We hadn’t so he opened a bottle. We also ordered the smoked turkey pesto sandwich, the grilled ramen noodles, along with the hummus plate.
We were enjoying the food and our second bottle of the evening, the Saison Athene from St. Somewhere, when Todd came through the door. Rip sent him over and we introduced ourselves. He had read my e-mail so I didn’t have to explain what we were doing there. I told him how unexpected the Abbey was, with its motto of “Noteworthy Wine and Adventurous Beer.”
Todd said, “When we opened, people didn’t know what to make of all the special beers we had. They’d pull me aside and ask if we had anything a little less adventurous.”
While we were finishing up our food, he asked if we had ever been to the Red Light Red Light over in Winter Park. I said no, this was our first time in the area and I’d never even heard of it. He looked at his watch.
“I’ve got a turducken in the oven. How about I meet you back here in an hour and a half and I’ll take you. It’s kind of hard to find if you’ve never been there.”
I hadn’t even finished my second beer, and Todd was already offering me a ride to see someone else’s place. In the two days I spent in Deland, those were the only beers I had at the Abbey. Todd didn’t care. He was focused on making sure I had a great time.
After Todd had polished off his turducken (and I’d dropped off Iris at the Clark Family Campground, saying I’d be gone for a couple hours at the most), we made the forty minute drive down to Winter Park. Along the way, Todd called Brent Hernandez, the owner of Red Light Red Light. Brent was enjoying a rare night off, but said he would meet us there.
“Brent keeps his prices really low because he wants to make sure everyone can afford great beer,” Todd explained. “Unfortunately, that means the bar doesn’t make as much, so he survives off his tips.”
Using his cell phone again, Todd called Troy Barfoot, who works for Micro Man, the distributor responsible for most of the great craft beer in Florida. Five guys cover the whole state, and Troy is one of them.
“I’d never say it to Troy’s face, but he’s one of the main reasons there’s so much great beer in central Florida,” Todd said.
Finally putting away his phone, Todd told me about himself. An army brat, he was born in Japan but grew up in the States. After college, he got his masters in Hotel and Restaurant Management at Cornell, where one of his professors told him the most important thing was making an emotional connection with his customers. If he could do that, everything else would fall into place. Not surprisingly, Todd is a big fan of restauranteur Danny Meyer, the man who turned customer relations into an art form.
The more we talked, the more it seemed like Todd didn’t think it really mattered where the Abbey was located, as long as he kept providing his customers with positive emotional experiences, making them feel better about themselves in the process. I certainly felt better, though I had no idea where I was or where I was going. It didn’t matter. I knew Todd would support my enjoyment. What I didn’t expect was that he would do it until three in the morning, or that we’d put over 100 miles on his Camry that night.
He was right about the Red Light Red Light. It was hard to find. Lurking between a fancy bakery and an even fancier, French restaurant, was a well worn door with the word “Bar” scrawled above it. Other than that there wasn’t even a hint of what was waiting at the top of the stairs. Climbing the steps, I left the monied world of Winter Park behind, and entered the dim, reddish domain of Brent Hernandez.
Brent’s home away from home was once a dorm for servants. Now it’s a classic dive that made me nostalgic for the old Blind Tiger. The interior isn’t designed to elevate your senses. It’s more about keeping you focused on the real reason you’re there: the 70 bottles overflowing the shelves behind the bar; as well as the seven rotating taps - and a hand-drawn cask - all carefully chosen by Brent. He won’t let you drink anything he wouldn’t want himself, and he has great taste. We started with a pint of Shipyard from the hand pump. I’m not a big fan of Shipyard - they use the dreaded Ringwood yeast - but the porter we had was good - nicely conditioned and served at the perfect temperature.
As we were finishing up our pints, Brent showed up. Moments later, he was opening special bottles for us to try. I enjoyed St. Somewhere’s other beer, Lectio Divina, a Belgian-style amber, and then tried the Holy Mackerel, a Belgian-style golden ale also made in Florida. Todd and Brent are big fans of both St. Somewhere and Holy Mackerel as proof that Florida’s brewers are capable of making great beer.
Troy Barfoot joined us just as Brent was breaking out some of his home-brew, a weiss beer made with purred watermelon. Though it didn’t sound very promising, I wound up impressed. Todd told me Brent had also made an incredible kumquat beer. It kind of made sense that a Florida home brewer would look at tropical fruit and think, “What the hell,” before tossing it into his fermenter.
Todd was in the bathroom, so I told Troy his friend thought he was one of the main forces behind craft beer in central Florida. Troy laughed in surprise. I said I was surprised to find a place like the Abbey so close to Daytona Speedway.
“When he placed his first order, and he said he wanted over fifty cases of specialty beer, I tried to talk him out of it,” Troy said. “But he wouldn’t listen. It turned out he was right.”
Todd wandered back. He, Troy, and Brent started talking about the other places I had to check out before I left. A new restaurant, The Ravenous Pig, was number one on the list, and we all agreed to meet there the following night. The next thing I knew, Todd was ushering me out the door, and Brent was handing me a bottle of the Bison Farmhouse Ale - I’d told him I’d never had it - before sending me on my way.
Todd and I sped off, heading back towards Deland. I thought we were done for the night, until we shot past our exit and continued towards the coast. My phone went off - it was a text message from Iris, wondering where the hell I was. It was already midnight. I wrote back that I didn’t know, and I wasn’t in control of the situation. I also said I might be a little longer than originally planned. A half hour later we pulled up at Tir Na Nog, an Irish bar in the shadow of Daytona Speedway. Todd said they had a great beer list. Unfortunately, they were closed, so Todd made a couple more quick turns through the deserted streets of Daytona, until we pulled up in front of another Irish place, owned by Robbie McConnell.
They also had a great beer list, which I slowly worked my way through. I think I had a Bell’s Batch 8000, and some Belgian beer. Then I ordered a Sierra Celebration, to cleanse my palate for the ride home. Somehow Todd got me back to Deland. As I was leaving him, he was still making plans, telling me to meet him at the Abbey at 3pm the next day, so he could take me over to Knightly Liquors, a great beer store.
I think Todd would have taken me right then and there but they weren’t open. Luckily nothing was, so he let me go home.
Monday
December 31st
Still in Jacksonville, Florida
Our bathroom is beginning to smell like a swamp. Iris noticed it first. I told her either the heat and humidity were having a bad effect on our blackwater tank, or the foul smell was coming up through our sewer hose, from the Flamingo Lake cesspool. We flushed a deodorant grenade into the tank and hoped for the best.
When I bought some ice at the front desk, the man asked if we were going to the Flamingo Lake New Year’s Eve party that night, over the recreation hall. Tickets were only $7, which included a band. I told him we’d have to think about it. I hadn’t seen anyone under the age of 60 in the campground, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to ring in the new year with a couple hundred grandparents.
Iris and I went back to Apple and it was still packed. Bob, our salesman, was yet another grandfather in his sixties. He had started working for Apple after retiring from a sales job. He and his coworkers were crowing about Apple stock hitting $200. It turned out Bob had bought hundreds of Apple shares at $25, and was now waiting for it to split. He also had a 100 shares of Google. He was thinking of getting into Dell and some of the other technology stocks because his broker said they were about to take off again, “but they’ve been saying that since the crash,” Bob said, laughing.
I took my Macbook, along with my old laptop, over to Sprint. Ray, a salesman there, had said I could use their wifi to transfer all the stuff from my old computer onto the new one. I also wanted an aircard and Ray said he would download the software and set it up for me. The transfer took about an hour. While we waited, Ray told me about his family over in Karachi, Pakistan. The whole city was shut down after Bhutto’s assassination. When I asked if he was worried about what might happen, he laughed and said it was always like that in Pakistan. Ray was majoring in micro-finance at a local college. He wanted to eventually help third world countries, as long as he didn’t have to live there.
Leaving Sprint with a new computer and an air card, I felt like I had finally solved at least some of my telecommunication problems. Hungry we headed for the Cheesecake Factory, one of Iris’s favorite mall restaurants. Unfortunately there was an hour wait. Instead we wound up at an Italian restaurant chain. They were blowing up balloons for the party that night, and all the bartenders were already wearing their party hats. When I asked if they had any craft beer the guy gave us the local mantra - “Bass, Guinness, Stella, and Peroni...”
Later that night, while Iris cleared five years worth of debris out my old computer, I kicked back on my concrete patio. Opening one of Zach Hart’s year old tripels, I toasted the new year. That beer was followed by a 60 minute IPA, then a Duckrabbit Baltic porter. Feeling lonely, I opened my phone and started calling people. Nobody picked up so I left messages, trying not to sound too desperate. Tom Baker called back. He sounded exhausted from the build-out on his new brewpub, though he said people had been coming down to help with the work. I really wished I’d been able to chip in.
What the hell was I doing starting off a brand new year in Jacksonville, anyway?
Sunday
December 30th
Jacksonville, Florida
We went to the Ragtime Brewery down at the beach, a brewpub now owned by Gordon Biersch. Featuring a large bar and brew house on the left, a dining room in the middle, and another bar down at the other end, the handful of people inside had plenty of room to spread out. Opting for the bar in the brew house, we sat down and examined our menus. Only a couple of people were drinking beer. The rest were having cocktails, or taking advantage of the “Build Your Own Bloody Mary” Special they were running in the other bar.
Iris ordered the sampler, while I asked for the seasonal reserve - a pale ale. It’s time to get a new brewer when the pale ale is your special reserve and all the customers are building Bloodys. Judging by the thinness of the beer, it might not have been all the brewer’s fault. Maybe Gordon Biersch had seen their malt and hop bills and decided to focus on making craft water instead.
We left the Ragtime and headed for the beach, where a couple were tossing bread crumbs to the seagulls. They were surrounded by hundreds of birds, all of them swooping in for the free handouts. It looked like a dangerous way to spend your Sunday. Iris, who has a phobia about birds, freaked out and ran off the beach. I took a couple of pictures and followed after her.
I found her in what must be one of the last independent bookstores in Florida. The new translation of War and Peace was in the front window. I’d heard about it on NPR - it was supposed to be much better than the one I’d read ten years earlier. The translation I read had been one of the greatest soap operas of all time. Clocking in at 1215 pages, I figured this trip might be the perfect time to reread the world’s longest book.
Driving to the other end of the spectrum, we visited one of the biggest malls I’ve ever seen. With its carefully landscaped streets and hundreds of stores and restaurants, it felt like a small village. The only thing missing were the homes.
We parked near the Apple store. Iris and I had been fighting over the computer, so we were thinking of getting a second one. Mine was old, and the screen was cracked (I had left it in the trailer’s desk drawer between Savannah and Jekyll Island, and it had wound up down by the bed). Still, the only way I could justify spending the money was by telling Iris she could have my old computer, while her niece and sister would get the two computers we had at home.
This was fairly complex rationalization, so I decided to think about it over night.
Saturday
December 29th
Jacksonville, Florida
Arrived at our first Florida campground, the Flamingo Lake RV Resort. Just down the road from the largest nuclear power plant I’ve ever seen, with clouds of steam billowing out of the two concrete stacks. It was a nice change - RV parks are usually located under high tension lines, beside power plants, or downstream from sewage treatment facilities. Flamingo Lake had paved sites with concrete patios, so it felt like we were tailgating at Walmart. They did have a lake with a small sandy beach. It was about 80 degrees, so Iris and I walked over, hoping to catch some sun. We were both pretty pale beneath our winter clothing. As soon as we got comfortable on our chaise lounges, the sky filled with clouds. Were they coming from the nuclear reactor? We decided to do some food shopping instead.
The closest market was a Walmart superstore. I was right, our campground was like one of their parking lots, except the blacktop at Walmart was nicer. You can camp at Walmart. Wanting to encourage business from RVr’s, they’ve got hookups in the parking lot. The supermarket inside looked like it had been built in the 1950’s, when preservatives were good for you. But everything was cheap. If you didn’t mind out of date food, you could eat pretty well. We really wanted to grill some fish but it appeared to have been in the back of someone’s freezer for a long long time. The bottled water looked good, and I found some heavy duty aluminum foil at a great price.
We decided to make pasta.
Friday
December 28th
Jekyll Island, Georgia
Have you ever wondered what the Vanderbilts and the
Rockefellers did during those cold Fifth Avenue
winters? I always knew about their summers in Newport,
but what happened when the snow came and the wind
blew? Did they put on long johns and drink more barley
wine like you’re probably doing? No, they got the hell
out of the city and headed south to Jekyll Island off
the coast of Georgia. Having spent a few late December
days here, I can tell you William Rockefeller was not
only very rich, he was smart too, even if he did call
his 12,000 square foot winter home a “cottage.”
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