Headlines from October 2017 on THE BEER BEAT.

Previously, I've explained why this blog has gone on hiatus, adding that my thoughts about beer will be posted alongside my utterances about everything else, over yonder at NA Confidential.

You'll find them there via the helpful all-purpose tag, The Beer Beat.

However, whenever the urge strikes -- I seem to have settled on monthly -- I'll collect a few of these links right here. Following are October's ruminations, with the oldest listed first.

Some are more topical than others. In October, there were several travel-related postings using "The Beer Beat" as a label, but not as a title. I hope this isn't overly confusing.

Thanks for reading, if belatedly.

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THE BEER BEAT: "Craft," "quality" and other beer semantics -- but independence genuinely matters to me.

One conclusion of Bryan Roth's piece on the beer semantics of craft and quality is that relatively few beer consumers as yet care very much about the ownership of the brewery so long as the components denoted by "craft" are present.

In short, whether the brewery is independent or monolithic/corporate just isn't a consideration because it tells consumers little about "quality" as this concept is applied to the denominator "craft."

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The 2017 Poperinge Hop Parade, Part One: One must pour the proper foundation for maximum parade enjoyment.

Back at the Grote Markt, there were leftover tokens from the previous day's visit to the "Lekker Westhoeks" beer sampling. As we sipped again on Sunday, the visiting band from Wolnzach in Bavaria serenaded the denizens of nearby sidewalk cafes.

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The 2017 Poperinge Hop Parade, Part Two: The procession itself, and where to dine afterward.

Poperinge's triennial hop parade seeks to tell the story of the magic cone used in the production of beer, as placed in the historical context of the Westhoek ("west corner") region of Flanders, embracing this vicinity in Belgium as well as a slice of nearby France.

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THE BEER BEAT: From Sunday sales in Indiana to garlic tastings, an overview of informative news items.

Having recently returned from fact-finding mission to Belgium and the Netherlands, and while in Haarlem enjoying enjoyed more than one session at the Jopenkerk, it's an excellent time to remind readers that there's no better use for a shuttered church than to trasnform it into a house of beer worship.

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THE BEER BEAT: The Second Annual Harvest Craft Beer Hop takes place on Friday, October 13.

Last year restaurateur Ian Hall and his crew at The Exchange pub + kitchen organized the first Harvest Craft Beer Hop. This year it's bigger and better, featuring a stellar lineup of downtown New Albany's food and drink establishments ... 13 in all.

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Out there in the fields, or a visit to De Plukker Hop Farm Brewery outside Poperinge.

Luc had decided that with the weather as yet variable, he'd use the car, and so off we went for an inspection of De Plukker, an organic hop farm and brewery.

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THE BEER BEAT: Beaumont's list of top-notch airport bars somehow prompts a Super Bock memory.

For some unknown reason, Stephen missed the Super Bock Lounge at Francisco Sa Carneiro International Airport in Porto, Portugal. Seeing as it will be the next "airport of call" for the Confidentials come February, I may have to heed the call of duty and investigate.

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THE BEER BEAT: Louisville KY Craft Beer Week VIII begins today ... in Jeffersonville.

For a dram of perspective, let's glance back at the inception of the celebration in September, 2010.

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ON THE AVENUES: I'd like nothing more than to go for another ride.

Regular readers know that Diana and I recently traveled to Europe, spending the bulk of our time in Poperinge, Belgium and Haarlem, Netherlands.

Kevin was a big fan of both these places, and when we returned to them a month ago, each bicyclist I saw pedaling past – there were hundreds in all – reminded me of the epic beercycling times we had.

It will surprise absolutely no one to learn that our acquaintance began in the late 1980s over beer, not bicycles. Kevin started patronizing Scoreboard Liquors, the package store where I worked, and after a brief lull (I believe he moved away for a short time) we met again when the Public House came into existence in 1992.

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THE BEER BEAT: "One hundred years ago, Britain nationalized hundreds of its pubs — and invented a better drinking culture."

Simply stated, speaking as one who is fascinated by World War I and British pub culture and the notion of prohibition, this is a worthy digression to which I'll be returning.

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I'm taking some time off.

At the Public House.

Posting will resume circa November 27.

A few weeks ago, to celebrate the memory of the late Kevin Richards, I vowed to update and republish an account of our first ever beercycling adventure in Belgium and France. 

The year was 2000, and four (later five) of us rode substandard rental bikes around the countryside in pursuit of ale. It was a blast, and set the pace for subsequent trips of ever-escalating complexity.

I began the reboot, and I have not finished it yet. There'll certainly be a conclusion, but not until December, because we'll be out of town over Thanksgiving, and my work time has expired for now.

In retrospect, the twist in the tale that snagged me most was delving into the photographic archives -- a picture is worth a thousand words, and all that rubbish, except it's actually true.

What I didn't take into consideration while trying to organize and scan these non-digital photos was the impact of 16 years of elapsed time. It's absolutely true that Kevin was the major impetus in getting me back in a saddle, circa 1998, but what I've never really considered is the extent to which this corresponded with concurrent and often wrenching changes in my life (and also rewarding).

These may have proceeded by a glacial pace, and yet the movements engendered back then have left me where I am today, in a more peaceful and comfortable place.

I'm still sorting through it. During six or seven years of tumult, biking time was my happiest time. In essence, Kevin genuinely can be said to have assisted me in saving my sanity. For this reason, revisiting the photos proves to be harder than I thought.

I knew I owed the man a debt impossible to repay. Turns out it's even more impossible than I reckoned. Like I said, I'm still sorting through it.

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Remembering Kevin Richards as prologue to the tale of Belgian beercycling in the year 2000.

A more recent photo.

My friend Kevin Richards died on October 23, 2016. Cancer took him at the ridiculously young age of 58, and to be completely honest, I'm heartbroken.

We'd seen less of each other these past few years, but remained solid. I'm an only child, and especially for a period of 15 years or more, Kevin was what I always imagined a brother to be -- and so he will remain, forever and always.

Very different animals, Kevin and me, but in the way life often works, opposites attract. Our acquaintance began in the late 1980s at the package store where I worked, and was renewed when the Public House came into existence in 1992. He became a fixture there, and not only in my own three-sizes-too-small heart.

If the pub had a Mt. Rushmore, Kevin would be one of the four faces.

Beer obviously was a shared theme, and then a bit later, bicycles. Kevin often rode motorcycles, but human-powered transport was a better match for his innate, personal zen. Going for bicycle rides -- and refueling afterward -- suited him well. I helped get Kevin into better beer. He definitely got me into a bike saddle, and some of the best times ever.

A group of pub-going cyclists gradually came together, and one late summer's day in 1999, Kevin and I rode to the top of the Knobs via Corydon Pike's switchback grade. We stopped to sag at Polly’s Freeze, the venerable ice cream haven. An earnest discussion began. Might we venture a biking trip to Europe?

And -- heaven forbid -- have a few fine ales in the process?

The planning began. We booked hotels at three beer-oriented urban venues in Belgium, along with rental bikes for day trips radiating from each stop. Faxes (!) and e-mails were sent, and the itinerary came into shape. As the calendar turned to June, 2000, there were five of us ready to make the journey, and it proved to be a classic.

A beercycling group was born, and my European travel instincts were reborn. During all my previous journeys to the continent, I'd been dodging bicyclists while walking between train stations, never stopping to consider how much fun it might be to ride myself.

Correction: Actually, never stopping to consider that I could do it. Kevin patiently taught me the art of the possible on two wheels.

The 2000 trip proved to be the first of seven European bicycling adventures in nine years, with the last occurring in 2008. Kevin was with me for four of the seven, and without his guidance, I'd have lacked the confidence to "lead" the other ones, although in fact all these trips were genuine group efforts.

By 2003, I was able to take my bike apart and reassemble it, pack it in a hard shell case, ride it all the way from Frankfurt to Vienna (meeting friends along the way), and get the bike and me back home without incident after a month on the road.

As a humanities major with almost no technical aptitude, I've never been more proud of myself, and eternally grateful to Kevin for showing me how. He and I wrote, orchestrated and performed those beercycling trips together, and while the cast revolved, each time out we functioned as a band of brothers (and on a couple of occasions, sisters).

Last spring, standing in his usual nook position at the pub, Kevin began prodding me in his gentle but firm manner.

Had I been riding?

Was I going to?

What was my problem, anyway?

One day, Kevin notched it up. We needed to get the band together again, and start planning a trip. It might be a simple reunion, or perhaps even a finale, but we needed to do it soon, before we got too old. The chat lasted an hour, and I went right home and told Diana it was inevitable; there'd be another ride somewhere in Europe in 2017.

Alas, if there is one, Kevin won't be there. The cosmos had a different sort of ride planned for him. At this precise moment, I don't know what any of it means, except that my thoughts turn to past triumphs.

This story of Belgian beercycling in the year 2000 was first written for the old FOSSILS newsletter, circa 2001. With a few revisions, expansions and contractions, it was posted to Potable Curmudgeon in 2007, and later to NA Confidential. This time around, I'm scanning the photos for added spice, and will be reposting the series from October 24 through November 1.

My "After the Fire" weekly columns of October 24 and 31 are supplanted.

Next: A beer orientation in Brussels, and our arrival in Tournai.

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How Rockhound Brewing's smoked hop pale ale and the Super Bowl in the year 2000 connect in my cranium.

The last time we visited Madison was 2014, and since then, several new breweries have started operations. One of them is Rockhound Brewing, located on Park Street, just a ten-minute walk from our Airbnb. It's sleek and modern, housed in the ground floor of a newer mixed-use building. Rockhound was rocking on Thursday night.

Prior to departure, I'd seen a reference on Facebook about a new smoked beer release at Rockhound called Campfire Stories, and resolved to try it. For once, I made no effort to research the beer any further; just order it, and drink.

At first, I found the results a bit odd. Not bad, just uncommon -- hops in the background and smoky nose, but something vaguely phenolic in the background flavor. At this point intrigued, I asked the bartender. She explained that Campfire Stories was a Pale Ale, with the hops smoked rather than the malt.

Only then did it hit me.

On January 30, 2000, a date verifiable only because it was Super Bowl Sunday (the Rams over the Titans), the late Matt Gould and Kevin Richards came to my garage to homebrew an idea we'd long discussed: Smoked Hop Pale Ale.

Unusually, this was my idea. One night at the bar, I drank a Schlenkerla Rauchbier, then without rinsing the glass (how often did THAT happen?) poured BBC American Pale Ale into it. I was drinking a hoppy ale and smelling smoke, hence the "eureka!" moment, comparable to the old commercials in which peanut butter accidentally met chocolate to form the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

Consequently, Matt bought whole leaf hops, and Kevin joined him in smoking them over wood that wasn't beech, though the exact type escapes my memory. Hickory? Mesquite?

My then-wife was a homebrewer, so we had most of the equipment already assembled, which actually may have belonged to the FOSSILS homebrewing club. Don't ask for details. It was 16 years ago, and these days, it's a challenge remembering what I had for lunch yesterday.

Still, I know we brewed, and I know we drank lots and lots of "guest" beers while ducking in and out of the garage to watch the game, which came down to the final play. At some point a few weeks later, we tried the beer. It was rough around the edges, though better than I expected, and it had this slightly phenolic flavor ...

By the following year, Cumberland Brews was going full-tilt, and Matt was the brewer there. He brewed the second batch of smoked hop ale at Cumberland as a seasonal specialty, and if memory serves, repeated it in 2002. By 2003, NABC's starter brewing system was on-line, and at some point Michael Borchers created our house version, called ConeSmoker, but with a twist. Smoked malt was used, as smoking the hops seemed too variable.  

That's a chunk of Kentuckiana beer history to emanate from a single pint of Campfire Stories at Rockhound in Madison, and that's what I like about the wider world of beer.

Free and unfettered association.

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