"Mr. Phillips, I presume?" (Part 2 of 2).

It turned out that our erstwhile compatriot was waiting to take the overnight train to Brugge. He’d richly enjoyed his extra time in Vienna, and noted that 1516 was just a couple of blocks further down the street … and not only that, he’d had multiple pints of Hop Devil during his last session there, which had concluded only a short time before our unplanned meeting at the kangaroo bar.

Hop Devil?

Victory Hop Devil? The American IPA from Downingtown, Pennsylvania?

I thought the heat (or the alcohol) had gotten to Graham, but with mock indignation he offered to guide us there and prove it.


Sure enough, after settling the bar tab with the gracious Crossfields hostess, we strolled to 1516 and there it was: Hop Devil, originally brewed at 1516 in February, 2004, by Victory’s Bill Covaleski as part of the brewpub’s guest brewer program (a visit apparently arranged by Austrian beer guru Conrad Seidl), and back on tap just for us, so as to provide a desperately needed American hop jolt after so many days of characteristic, balanced golden lagers.

The beer menu observed that Hop Devil marked the “first time (that) whole hops was used in 1516 Brewing Co.,” and that Hop Devil was a “winner in Conrad Seidl's 2004 Bierguide.” That’s a good pedigree … as if Hop Devil needs any help. For the record, it is made with Vienna and Caramunich malt, and Centennial, Tettnanger and Cascade hops.

I celebrated by drinking three. Graham departed for the train station after a pint, and if the single biggest surprise of the trip -- and perhaps of any trip I’ve ever taken -- was coming across him at the one place of hundreds that I decided to glance into, second place handily goes to the surreal joy of drinking Victory Hop Devil at a Viennese brewpub.

There was a Mexican-style burrito on the 1516 food menu, and after so many days of pork prepared in a myriad of ways utterly baffling to the uninitiated, it proved a fine appetizer (but not up to the standard of La Rosita’s, by any stretch), happily providing the strength necessary to walk another quarter-mile to the Salm Brau brewpub.


Salm Brau’s location adjacent to the Lower Belvedere palace grounds and gardens predictably makes it a popular tourist stop, but happily, it seemed to be filled with quaffing and chatting locals during our two-beer visit.

A longer walk followed our Salm Brau interlude, and it brought us at dusk to the friendly confines of the Siebenstern brewpub, which is situated on the street of the same name, in a rapidly gentrifying 19th-century district just up the hill from the increasingly and deservedly popular Museumsquartier (MQ).


My first experience at Siebenstern came almost ten years ago, when an American pulling duty as assistant brewer at the time offered a bottle of house-brewed barley wine as evidence that flights of stylistic fancy occasionally were sanctioned by the management.

Sure enough, an IPA was on tap as Bob, Kevin and I settled into patio seats, as was a Rauchbier brewed with Weyermann smoked malt from Bamberg. Acting on the suggestion of my cousin and frequent Vienna explorer, Don Barry, I ordered a Rauchbier and a full rack of succulent rubbed and smoked spareribs. A second Rauchbier followed, and numerous forkfuls of Bob‘s transcendent side of tender, delicious sauerkraut were transferred from his bowl to my plate. A third beer, the pub’s renowned Dunkel lager, capped the meal.


Walking had become more challenging at this stage of the evening, but even so, our feet carried us to a final venue, the Bogside Inn, noted summertime hangout of expatriate Hoosiers, and an establishment that helpfully was only a short distance from our beds.

The Bogside probably isn’t the world’s most scrupulously authentic Irish pub, but it is very comfortable, boasts a youthful and intensely loyal local clientele, and plays a diverse musical selection courtesy of a massive computerized filing system. The pub provided three perfect pints of Guinness to settle the Siebenstern’s spareribs, and people responded affirmatively as to whether they could vouch for the drunkenness of Don and his colleague Randy during their July nights.

Another memorable pub crawl – and another memorable Viennese evening – came to a delightfully cosmopolitan and Irish-accented close. 

"Mr. Phillips, I presume?" (Part 1 of 2).

Our final destination, Vienna, was within an easy morning’s ride on Saturday, September 9, as the three remaining beercyclists (Bob, Kevin and your truly) assembled for breakfast following an enjoyable Friday evening in Tulln, a small and lively city on the banks of the Danube northwest of the Austrian capital.

What happened to the half-dozen original beercycling plotters?

Unfortunately, Tim Eads had been unable to make the trip, reducing the group to five from the outset. Later, having already bicycled the Greenway on a previous trip, our friend Craig Somers elected to fly from Prague to Belgium for an ale-based conclusion of his European holiday.

After a post-Tabor detour to Ceske Budjovice and Cesky Krumlov, Graham Phillips arrived on schedule in Znojmo along with Bob, but decided to proceed early to Vienna (and afterward, to Belgium) by train rather than spend the originally scheduled two nights in Havraniky at the Pension Ham-Ham with the rest of us.

That left a still hearty trio, and after a combined bicycle and train ride from Havraniky to Tulln on Friday, we were overjoyed to find a pleasant weekend wine festival in progress that same evening. After clinking and sampling a few local examples of the vintner’s art, we accidentally stumbled upon a very small brewpub, Adlerbrau, and had soft, golden house lagers and three heaping platters of regional cuisine to finish off the excellent late summer’s day.



On Saturday morning we rode one hundred meters to the river and picked up the long-established Danube bike path, a veritable superhighway of the genre, cruising 40 flat kilometers into Vienna with only one ferry boat ride required. Rooming arrangements were readily made, and by mid-afternoon, we were ready for a beer … perhaps even two.

From our lodgings off Alsterstrasse near the Rathaus, we walked along the majestic Ringstrasse toward Vienna’s famous Opera House. The object of our stroll was the 1516 Brewing Company, which I dimly recalled from a previous visit in 2002 as being located somewhere in the vicinity of the Soviet war memorial, but still “inside” the Ring.

Just off the crowded Karnterstrasse shopping street, I noticed a sign for the Crossfields Australian Pub, and as is my habit, speculated in an admittedly patronizing way as to precisely the sort of tourist who’d travel all the way to Vienna just to have a beer in a theme bar of the genre – and glancing inside, I spotted the answer to my question sitting right in front of me.

Graham.

Well, of course; it made sense. Graham had traveled in Australia, and had a wonderful time while touring the continent, so why wouldn’t he stop at an Aussie pub, converse with the Aussie staff, and enjoy fine memories?

But seeing as none of us had expected to see Graham again until we’d all returned home, the surprise reunion was spontaneously joyful and fairly raucous, and included a round of unfiltered Ottakringer Zwickl lager – and for me, given my reputation as finisher of Graham’s uneaten meals, the remainder of his fish and chips as scooped hungrily from a slightly greasy paper cone.

(Part 2 tomorrow)

There'll be good beer at Harvest Homecoming this year, thanks to Bistro New Albany.

Harvest Homecoming is by far New Albany’s largest annual celebration, drawing tens of thousands natives and visitors to a variety of events ranging from an already concluded Knobs bicycle ride to a queen’s contest, and from a dog show to the always crowded “booth days” downtown.

Alas – and phrased as diplomatically as I’m capable of being – for many of the same reasons that the city of New Albany has found it difficult to reinvent itself during changing times, and has found future visions elusive, Harvest Homecoming remains firmly wedded to the lesser of common denominators.

Of course, this is not to demean the earnest efforts of those who have spent many years volunteering their time and organizing the festival’s “family-oriented” activities.

But as regular readers know, I firmly believe that in any mass market, there are underserved niches … and in the case of Harvest Homecoming, these absences have (until recently – the music has improved) included too few reflections of cultural diversity, staid entertainment options, and by-the-numbers food and drink offerings.

Specifically, there have been few alternatives to mass-market, industrial swill in proximity to downtown during Harvest Homecoming – and particularly, in the officially sanctioned beer garden.

Last year, the owners of the now defunct House of Bread restaurant approached NABC with an offer to sell our beer during booth days, and we were happy to comply. Several customers have remarked that having an Elector salvaged the day for them.

This year, with the advent of the Bistro New Albany, fest goers are guaranteed the availability of more good beer than ever before during booth days. The Daves currently are working on a plan to expand their patio by adding a “beer garden” on the adjacent parking lot. It would feature their full bNA lineup of NABC beers and guests.

We’re optimistic that this year’s Harvest Homecoming booth days will be the first of many that will see local beer aficionados stopping by Bistro New Albany for a pint before braving the sea of humanity for inexplicable elephant ears and rote political party solicitations.

There’s hope for Harvest Homecoming yet.

UPDATED: Lupulin Land Harvest Hop Festival 2006 -- coming Friday, October 13.

Today a brief break from travel vignettes, and a reminder that it's almost hop fest time.

Lupulin Land Harvest Hop Festival 2006

We’ll be exceeding OSHA’s legal limits on IBU’s per square foot of floor space when Lupulin Land 2006 begins on Friday, October 13. It is our fifth harvest hop celebration, and a good occasion for Kentuckiana’s hopheads to unite over a pint or two of America’s most bitter beer.

Residents of New Albany should note that the Harvest Homecoming Parade takes place on the previous Saturday (October 7), and Booth Days run from the 12th through the 15th.

The delivery timing on the three "fresh hop" ales listed for the festival (Bell's, Great Divide and Sierra Nevada) is going to be tricky, so they may not appear until later in October.

Randall the Enamel Animal will be brought back for a second appearance at Lupulin Land. Details will be provided soon.

Roughly 10-14 of these will be on tap when the fest opens, in addition to the everyday beers.

Those marked * are first-time drafts.

Microbrews from America (18).

Avery Maharaja Imperial India Pale Ale ... in house

BBC Beer Company (Main & Clay) American Pale Ale (dry-hopped; cask-conditioned) ... ordered, not received

Bluegrass Brewing Company (St. Matthews) Ultra/aka Homewrecker (dry-hopped; cask-conditioned) ... ordered, not received

*Bell’s Hop Slam Imperial IPA ... ordered, not received

Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA ... in house

*Great Divide Fresh Hop Pale Ale ... ordered, not received

Great Divide Hercules Double IPA ... ordered, not received

*Great Divide Titan IPA ... ordered, not received

NABC Hoptimus ... in house

*NABC Oaktimus ... in house

Rogue I2PA ... in house

Rogue JLS Integrity IPA JLS Release #14 (2006 redux) ... in house

Rogue Morimoto Imperial Pilsner ... in house

*Rogue Juniper Pale Ale ... in house

*Shmaltz Bittersweet Lenny's R.I.P.A. ... in house

Sierra Nevada Harvest Ale ... ordered, not received

Stone Ruination IPA ... in house

Two Brothers Heavy Handed ... ordered, not received

Imports (5).

Hitachino Nest Japanese Classic Ale (Japan) ... in house

Houblon Chouffe (Belgium) ... in house

Jever Pilsener (Germany) ... in house

Poperings Hommel Bier (Belgium) ... in house

St. Georgenbrau Keller Bier (Germany) ... in house

Year-round offerings -- on tap throughout Lupulin Land (7).

Alpha King

Arrogant Bastard

Bell’s Two Hearted Ale

NABC Croupier IPA

NABC Elector

Pilsner Urquell

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale

Happy Hour in the restaurant car on the EC-22, on 18 September, 2006.

After two rainy noontime hours were spent within the confines of Vienna’s Westbahnhof, with half-liters of fresh draft Zipfer Urtyp in hand and a roomy place at the stand-up counters at the imbiss facing the central hall, the sun magically reappeared at 15.00 west of the city – half an hour into the eight hour journey to Frankfurt, and serving as a signal to visit the restaurant car for scenic libations.

The train was making good time across the tidy and well-ordered Austrian countryside as I savored a Konig Ludwig Hefeweissbier. Wheat ale isn’t my favorite beer style, but it was a viable alternative to the pedestrian Warsteiner available in bottles or on draft (my feet rested atop a full 30-liter keg being stored beneath the high-top restaurant car tables).

The train was scheduled to make relatively few stops during the course of its long journey to Dortmund, but several of them were clustered in western Austria right around 15.45 to 17.00, prime commuting hours, and the “regulars” – mostly men – came on the train for a beer, cigarettes and conversation, then got off again further down the tracks and could be scene hopping over to adjacent platforms to switch trains and finish their trips.

All the while the vistas swept past, magnified by the oversized windows of the restaurant car. The attendant, a man in his mid-fifties dressed in an official uniform of dark pants, white shirt and red vest, regretted to inform me that the Hefeweissbier was gone, so I gritted my teeth and sipped Warsteiner, instead.

Later, when it was dark outside and the train station lunch of Weisswurst and “chili con carne” had worn away, I strolled through the six seating cars separating the restaurant (located in proximity to first class, not the bicycler’s 2nd class wagon at the rear) from my seat and settled down to a dinner of canned herring, black bread, and apricot jam, as purchased at a supermarket earlier in the day and packed for just the occasion.

Also in the picnic basket were two cans of Stiegl lager from Salzburg. They guided me into Frankfurt at 21.45, and I was in my room at the Hotel Bristol by 22.05.

Next morning, it was a quick commute to the airport, and back home.

I like drinking beer in train stations.

Airports are sleek, clean, and carefully calibrated to soothe your fears of flying by extricating as much cash as possible from your wallet while you hurry up and wait to be late.

Need I go further than a $5.90 Sam Adams Boston Lager at the Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky airport to make the point?

If you’re lucky, the European train station where you rest atop your luggage prior to departure has resisted the worst excesses of gentrification, retaining a handful of down and dirty nooks duly filled by 7:00 a.m., when the same old men queue at the concessions window that’s first to serve beer that day.

Rest assured, they didn’t come to eat … although others did, and somewhere, sausages will be roasting. In smaller cities, the train station’s full service restaurant just might remain a cherished local meeting place even if the days of elegance have passed.

Since my first European travels more than two decades ago, the enjoyment of having a beer or three at the train station hasn’t diminished. There’s something about the contrast between my own stationary absorption and the motion of people passing through – their laughter and conversation, their bags and backpacks, the music of languages and announcements over the loudspeakers – that is enduringly fascinating.

Although the beer selection is seldom large, it’s no worse than an airport, and price gouging customarily is kept to a minimum.

Back in the 1980’s, there was an imbiss directly in front of Track 16 in Munich’s central station. It has since been displaced by major renovations, but in its prime, I looked forward to the opportunity to stand at one of the huge barrel-like wooden tables and drink a cool, crisp Hacker-Pschorr served by one of the workers from the back of the stainless steel and tile work areas.

An added bonus was the luscious Leberkase (a bologna-like meatloaf), served warm with mustard, and an assortment of sausages priced only a bit above those offered by nearby restaurants.

Along with cousin Don, I’d watch as commuters would stop for a quick one before catching the train home – and often, before going to work. Note that these were not the ubiquitous and almost always harmless vagrants. They were perfectly normal folks with briefcases, shopping bags and rolled up newspapers or magazines.

Most were passing through, and yet they never seemed to be in that much of a hurry. Perhaps the knowledge that their destinations could be reached without driving automobiles relaxed the tension and made the beers taste better. 

A beer or two while waiting for the train.

On the day that Kevin and I decided to bypass a stretch of the Prague-Vienna Greenway and take the train, we were required to change at the tiny Moravian junction station at Okrisky.


That's the Country Bar to the right. Soon after these photos were snapped, the proprietor ran out to urge immediate consumption, as his wife/girlfriend was approaching, and he was preparing to hang a "gone to lunch" sign on the door.


The beers were from the Hostan brewery in Znojmo, which we'd soon be observing atop the town's hill.


The train from Okrisky to Znojmo included two seating cars and an engine, with the cars being drawn from older rolling stock, but as you can see, there was a pleasant area for storing the bicycles.

Stay tuned next week, as the series of beercycling trip remembrances will continue. 

Hopping over to the Zatec hop festival -- another view.

Here's the biking group during our visit to the annual Zatec hop fest. From left to right: Bob Reed, the Curmudgeon, Graham Phillips, Kevin Richards, Libor "Czech Beer Man" Vojacek, and Craig Somers.

Notice a degree of drinking with two hands ...

Hopping over to the Zatec hop festival.

Zatec (ZHA-tets) is a small, recovering city located northwest of Prague. It is the Czech Republic’s one-stop center for hop production, with a processing plant, research institute, museum, recently upgraded commercial brewery and an annual festival, all rolled into one easy package, and accessible from the capital by train or bus.

Seeking greater efficiencies of time, on September 2nd our group of five beercyclists parked the two-wheeled conveyances for the day and climbed into a van hired from Mike’s Chauffeur Service – and driven by Mike himself – for the hour’s drive to Zatec and a visit to the hop festival.

Having noted the city’s degraded condition during a previous visit in 1999, I was pleased to see that redevelopment is gradually radiating out from the central square, while not unexpectedly, the back streets haven’t yet benefited from what will be a long-term process of rebuilding after forty years of Communist neglect.

The festival was a delight for all of us. It is a celebration not micro-designed for beer enthusiasts in the geeky sense, but instead a pleasing community-wide street party with many different beers available for sampling, ample entertainment on multiple stages, and plenty of food – especially sausages, which were smelled cooking on grills throughout the central square … and a few of which were happily consumed.


23 Czech breweries were announced as participating, although we never found StaroBrno and Herold. Most had more than one beer for offer, so it’s likely that somewhere between 75 and 100 brands were present.

Most were of the standard strength or lighter golden lager styles, but there were dark lagers, unfiltered beers and a sprinkling of others, among them innovative brews from the Chyne microbrewery near Prague. Follow the link and read a report written by the Czech Beer Man, who was at the festival and provided us with invaluable insights into the Czech brewing business during a brief chat.

Chyne’s ginger-infused beer was not present at the Zatec festival, but we’d tried it the night before, as provided by our accommodating campground restaurateur, and I can state without exaggeration that it was the best such spiced beer I’ve yet tasted, with the ideal balance between the ginger flavoring and the amber, malty backing.

None of the beers consumed during the hop festival were bad, and the system for reclaiming used plastic cups was especially creative.


It’s also hard not to like dogs in hop garlands, which were being plucked from a trellis apparently grown just off the square for the express purpose of festive silliness during the annual weekend.


Twinned Belgian hoppy city Poperinge boasts the great parade during its hop fest, which takes place every third year, but the atmosphere at the yearly Zatec bacchanal is uniquely its own, and well worth a visit, perhaps during the 2007 group beer trip by motor coach that’s beginning to take shape in my mind.

 

She may have forgotten to charge us for one or two.

Well, you’d look a bit dazed, too, if the three beers on the table were the 32nd, 33rd and 34th of our trio’s recent eight-hour session on the patio of the Pension Ham-Ham’s restaurant. Joining me were Bob Reed and Kevin Richards (Moose is shown above).

The locale is Havraniky, a village eight kilometers outside the Moravian wine city of Znojmo. The Austrian border is a few minutes to the south. The beautiful and rugged Podyji National Park is just as close, as is an unusual, isolated moor that Kevin and I rode our bikes through on a dirt and stone path when first coming into the village.

Grapes are growing in all directions, and there is an abundance of inexpensive local wine, which we copiously sampled when appropriate.

However, sometimes you feel like drinking beer, and as is the case with all the golden, pilsner-style lagers brewed in the Czech Republic and tasted on the trip, Litovel has a pleasant, full body and a crisp, lightly hopped finish.

Litovel uncomplainingly accompanied three heaping platters of meat-laden local cuisine and a side of delectable fried cheese, took the place of dessert, and kept coming back for more as closing time approached and we paid our bill – which came to $25 per person, including tip.

Prices like that are why Austrians come across the border for a cheap night out. With the Czechs now members of the European Union, and the Euro set to replace the Crown in two years, we must enjoy the value while we can.

And did.

The English-speaking waitress was amused as we answered her frequent request of “more beer?” with varying responses:

Why not?
Of course.
Sure.
We suppose.
Maybe just one more.
Naturally.

To be honest, my efforts to say “indubitably” were about as conclusive as Daffy Duck’s, but she understood.

Undoubtedly. 

Teaser: Beercycling is concluded for now, but the stories should continue to grow as the months pass.

The beercyclers prepare for a session at Bamberg's fabled Schlenkerla tavern in this photo from early in the expedition. There'll be more to come as soon as I get my bearings and collate the information gathered in the most recent escape from New Albanian reality. 

We'll be back after this brief hiatus ...

The Curmudgeon is on a beercycling holiday until mid-September. It’s possible that there will be periodic postings during this time, but more than likely not.

Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you on or around the 20th.

(Photo credit ... Bob Reed must have been taking the picture, but it was Tim Eads's camera. We were in Poperinge for the final leg of our 2004 Tour de Trappiste -- in route to Westvletern -- and were being filmed by a Belgian television crew)

Stylish NABC 16-oz and 20-oz pint glasses debut -- and you can buy one (or more).

The long-awaited NABC signature glassware line finally has materialized (thanks, Judy).

Pictured at right is the 16-oz “mixer” pint, as captured at the Bistro New Albany and filled with NABC Croupier. We also have 20-oz English imperial pint glasses (not pictured).

Both boast the NABC logo in white on the front, with the phrase, “Brewing with a human face” in white on the opposite side.

They can be purchased (empty) at Rich O’s Public House and Sportstime Pizza for $5 each, or $17.50 for four. 

End of an era: Keg box swap.

I’ve been given the go-ahead to purchase a new keg box for the bar at Rich O’s.

It will replace the very first pre-owned keg box we ever bought (“used” is an understatement) in 1992 for $300. The keg box housed Guinness, the first draft beer at Rich O’s, which was later joined by Carlsberg (soon usurped by Pilsner Urquell) and a “middle tap” that rotated. The first “middle tap” was Oldenberg Outrageous Bock, followed by (literally) a hundred others.

Sierra Nevada Porter was pouring from the “middle tap” when the beer writer Michael Jackson visited Rich O's in 1994.

Some time in the late 1990’s, the compressor died and was replaced, and my friend Kevin put a rectangle of sheet metal on the floor to augment the encroaching rust. Unfortunately, and surreptitiously, around this same time a leak developed in the drip tray, and several years of beer slowly leaking into the insulation exacerbated the aging process and has made necessary the box’s removal.

We think that the our heirloom keg box will remain functional if used only occasionally, and so we’re moving it into the back of the Prost special events room to be deployed when helpful to serve gatherings, parties and receptions.

The new keg box likely will have space for three full-size kegs, but it is my intention to outfit it with five spouts instead of three, so that during festivals, the steadily proliferating sixth-barrel keg size will permit us to have extra taps (two will fit in the space taken up by a customary American half-barrel keg). When the new box installed, we’ll have increased to 35 total taps.

Special thanks to handyman and NABC employee Troy Banaski, who came in very early last Saturday and artfully undid the work originally performed by the inimitable Barrie Ottersbach, who built a bar to last, and firmly embedded the keg box inside it in the process.

On hating megabreweries and the trade rags that glorify them.

Recently I had the ill fortune to receive in the mail one of those incredibly annoying “beer market” magazines, in which people like SAB-Miller’s international division chief prattles through endless paragraphs about “positioning” Italy’s dreadfully boring Peroni beer alongside other fashionable signature Italian brands like Gucci and Versace (like I know anything about fashion), but of course never delves into how much like every other international golden lager it really is -- how utterly forgettable, but "placed" on the menu at every Italian restaurant in the world, as though it has something to offer Italian cuisine.

There also was an in-depth analysis of the top 25 imported beers, and scanning the list, roughly half were Mexican, with perhaps two in all that I would drink before dedicating the contents of the cans to pet shampoo or drain cleaner -- but whaddaya get at every taqueria ...

Somewhere in the text of one of the articles was a grudging acknowledgement of heightened microbrew and craft beer sales, but in the main, most of it was cheerleading for multinationals, and the accompanying inbred Philistinism that makes it so difficult to locate a higher-up in the benumbed land of industrial brewing who knows or cares a jot about beer apart from extraneous factors attached to it.

Damn it, I want to taste smoked beer with enchiladas, and IPA with antipasto. Is it too much to ask?

End of rant.

Is it vacation yet?

Fifteen years is enough.

I’m retiring my favorite beer glass.

It was purchased off the shelf at the Prior department store in Kosice, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia) in September, 1991, and taken to my room at the “hospital hotel,” where I resided during my months teaching English. Fortunately, an enterprising privatized neighborhood grocery was within easy walking distance, and I carried returnable bottles of Czech and Slovak lager back to the pad on a daily basis.

The mug got a workout and survived the journey home in 1992, taking up service as the preferred receptacle of choice within the walls of the five houses I’ve lived since, and throughout the lifespan of my business.

It now will occupy display space with another heirloom, the 1/3 liter Plzensky Prazdroj (Pilsner Urquell) glass given to me by a taxi driver in 1987 after we completed a session at the now demolished pivnice across the street from the brewery in Plzen.

That’s another story.

The "Incider" No. 2 ... Rocky Meadow orchard news.

We'll return to Bob Capshew's orchard revival project from time to time as he draws ever closer to delightful fermentables. Here's an update to remind us of how much work it takes before one can relax on the patio with a glass of perry.

----

The Incider
August 2006, No. 2

Time for another update on the project to restore the Rocky Meadow orchard to productivity:

Like a summer drizzle, the picking has started. A few varieties have reached their respective ripening dates as this newsletter goes out. Many more, including the larger plantings in the orchard will be ready around Labor Day which should turn the harvest into a downpour. The Chojuro pears are now glowing orange globes. The Korean Giants have surpassed all others in size. Two broken Magness (a superior tasting European pear) limbs yielded ½ bushel of pears! So far no sign of codling moth worms!

The last six weeks have been a time of thinning pears for size and limb handling ability. The poison ivy, wild blackberries, honeysuckle, wild roses and grass have been tamed by the mower and string trimmer.

The crop will have a ready-made home this year. Thanks to Brian Kolb, the walk-in cooler is working again! The walk-in allows the pears to be stored at the proper temperature until their final disposition. The finer pears will be stored in two layer boxes with 40 to 60 individual compartments per box. The second quality pears and those damaged in the harvest will be stored until they are ground and pressed.

The hydraulic motor for the press has been mounted onto a steel frame with casters. Maureen has replaced the canvas chute with cordura nylon. Parts have been ordered to complete the wiring according to electrical code. The press will also be available for pressing grapes if anyone needs it.

Labor Day Weekend
Come out and pick some pears! We plan to be at the orchard all weekend. Stop by for a couple of hours, camp out, or whatever suits your schedule. We’ll have the smoker going, maybe some chili, and any additional food will be welcome. Our camper will also be there. If picking is not your style, you can still help with sorting, grading, etc.

Directions – I-64 west, exit Corydon, go left (north) on 135 for 2.8 miles. Turn left on Sival Road then bear right onto Rocky Meadow Road. Turn right and go 0.8 miles past Apple Valley Greenhouse to 360 Northwest (not Northeast).

Homebrewers’ Offer
As a way of thanking all of you that have helped, I am starting a list to sell barrels of pear cider (perry) and possibly apple cider. If you and your friends would like to reserve a 50 gallon barrel, I will provide the juice, barrel, yeast and storage. You will provide some labor to help press and pay $250 per barrel ($1 per 750 ml bottle). We’ll keep your barrel in the insulated walk-in during the winter. In the spring you may bottle or keg the cider as you wish. If you would like to bottle in 750 ml bottles, I have a contact for a group price. Let me know if you are interested. The availability will be based on the harvest and may lead to the purchase of some second grade apples if demand is sufficient.

What a talented and generous group of friends I have to thank – Jim Isbell (pressure washer), Kevin Richards (angle iron), Dennis Stockslager (mechanical work), Rick Buckman (boxes), Joel Halblieb (crates), Jim Frazier (molding), Leah Dienes (graphic art), Buck & Sarah (freezer), Doug (carpentry), John & Marlene and my wife Maureen (office converted to tasting room).

Cumberland Brews celebrates six years on Monday, August 21.

If you're in or near the Louisville metropolitan area, it might interest you to know that on Monday, August 21, Cumberland Brews will be celebrating its sixth anniversary with a commemorative pint glass promotion that begins at 7:00 p.m.

Owner Mark Allgeier notes that supplies are limited, and that the purchase of one of brewer Matt Gould's fine beers is required. Some hardship! Cumberland Brews is Louisville's smallest brewpub, but possesses character writ very large; if you're a beer lover and live in this area, you have no excuse for not patronizing the establishment when visiting the Highlands (the brewpub is located on the 1500 block of Bardstown Road).

It depends on what "beer" is.

I saw this story several places, but since my family sawbones took note and posted on his NA Health blog, read it there: Miller not beer.

Is it beer according to the popular definition? Sure. Has the popular deifnition been twisted and perverted by decades of megabrewery dumbing down? Of course.

As for me, I don't tough the stuff ... Miller, that is. That should make my physicians happy.

REWIND: PC '96 - A Day at the Fair.

Each year at the Kentucky State Fair, the LAGERS home brewing club (Louisville) runs the fair’s home brew competition, and it sponsors the home brewing information booth. The FOSSILS (Southern Indiana) club helps staff the booth.

I’m stunned to note that the following was written in 1996. On several occasions since, I’ve taken time to pull a shift at the booth, and they always seem to play out the same way.

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On the morning of the gorgeous summer Wednesday that I had chosen to man the LAGERS information booth at the Kentucky State Fair, I awoke to that irritable feeling of discomfort that many people describe as a hangover.

I was shocked and appalled. As a trained, professional drinker of fine ales, I have "hangovers" about as often as I find Beluga caviar next to the Star-Kist tuna at the Dairy Mart down the street.

Anyway, what had I done the previous evening to even merit the mention of a hangover? I’d only had one Old Rasputin Imperial Stout ... followed by an abbey dubbel ... and a couple of Sierra Nevada drafts to ease my aching feet ... and a nightcap of Old Foghorn to chase down an evening meal of one and a half cold breadsticks and thoroughly coagulated garlic butter.

It must have been some kinda allergy, ‘coz it simply couldn’t have been a hangover.

To prepare for the rigors of the day, I ate two doughnuts and drained three cups of black coffee. Thusly fortified with sugar and caffeine, I was off to greet the fair going public.

I was driven to the fairgrounds and deposited at the first Crittenden Drive gate near the I-65 exit ramp. I stepped from the gasping car into a cloud of sweat-laden dust raised by the University of Louisville football players who were practicing nearby in the shadow of the former Mt. Schnellenberger, which has been reduced to the status of mere knob in the collective memory of University of Louisville football fans. It was a little after 10:00 a.m. when I paid the admission fee at one of the auto booths, and then produced my ticket for the next bored employee a few yards further on, who looked at me incredulously and said, "a walk-in?"

I headed for the third base side of Cardinal Stadium, took advantage of the pedestrian crosswalk through the horse promenade, joyously filled my lungs with the accompanying Bluegrass ambiance, navigated the east concourse of Freedom Hall, and emerged on the South Lawn, to be greeted by Freddy Farm Bureau. Freddy was too busy ogling the scantily clad young schoolgirls to bother with me, but I had spotted a Courier Journal booth and decided to ask if I could buy a newspaper to keep me company.

"No, we don’t have any newspapers," yawned the woman on duty, turning grudgingly away from her telephone conversation about the dating habits of fellow office inhabitants. "But there’s plenty of free maps of the fair! You want one of those?"

Sure. It had a nice recipe for pie, and a reminder that our one metropolitan newspaper was always there when it’s needed.

I turned toward my destination, only to be jarringly confronted by a beer tent that trumpeted the availability of Budweiser beers, those fine premium products from the House of Busch -- in this case, the Outhouse of Busch, where carbonated urine enriches the Busch family as it impoverishes the collective palate of the nation, which in turn worships the swill barons like medieval peasants groveling in the presence of the local nobility.

To conquer swill, you only have to think ...

The LAGERS booth was right where it was supposed to be. I assembled the free handouts (LAGERS, FOSSILS, BBC, Silo, Tucker Brewing, Nuts ‘n’ Stuff, Winemakers Supply) on the long table, surveying the sparse crowd wandering through the exhibits in the South Hall. It occurred to me to keep a log of sorts. Here are a few hours of it.

10:30 First of the very accurately billed "heartburn" specials -- loaded Chicago-style hot dogs from the stand out front of Freedom Hall on the South Lawn.

10:35 First "hey, you givin’ out samples?" question from a passer by.

10:47 First "I remember my dad’s/granddad’s/uncle’s bottles of homebrew blowing up" story, this one from a woman who now lives in Pittsburgh.

10:53 I quit trying to count the number of Kentucky Wildcats ball caps bobbing past.

11:45 Sincere man about my age (36) asks me "do you think there are any places at the Fair where I can get a specialty beer to drink?" My answer: "Do you think Auggie Busch drinks his own swill?"

12:00 (noon) Lengthy country music cerebral torture begins emanating from a stage somewhere in the distance. One Patsy Cline number was tolerable, but the remainder utterly inane.

12:05 Ball cap on ambling, tank-topped redneck reads "tell me now before I spend $20.00 on drinks."

12:10 Pleasant older gentleman asks me if I know the best way to filter red wine vinegar.

12:15 Sudden burst of energy has me out of the chair, trying to work the crowd.

12:20 Energy subsides.

12:30 First hot fudge sundae at booth on the South Lawn.

12:40 "My granny used to make it. My daddy used to make it. We’d just sit on the front porch and listen to it explode."

12:50 A teenager asks me a question. His country accent is so thick that I’m unable to understand him. I tell him I’m sorry, but I just moved here from France and I haven’t picked up the language yet.

13:15 An older man tells me stories about his late father, a rural physician in a dry county, who’d send him out for soft drink bottles to use for the homebrew, which "he’d make out of anything he could."

13:35 Mark, one of the owners of the Liquor Barn in Lexington, stops by to chat.

13:55 Idle speculation: Why do old men dress the way they do -- dress shoes and socks, knee-length shorts, golf and polo shirts? It’s like some sort of AARP-mandated public uniform, which I presume they can purchase at a discount at Wal-Mart.

14:00 Wanderlust. Off in search of TARC schedules, having concluded that I could take a bus to get to Bluegrass Brewing Company after my shift, and meet my friend Buddy Sandbach there.

14:15 First ostrich burger.

14:26 Back to work.

14:35 First gyro from booth on the South Lawn.

14:51 Fifteenth request for samples. Make that sixteen.

14:53 Seventeen.

15:10 The band in the South Hall lobby tears into an inspired rendition of the theme from "The Brady Bunch." People actually sing along. Women with babies in strollers go past me again. A cooking demonstration gets under way. Men in town for the Veterans of Foreign Wars convention wear political buttons, some Gore/Clinton, many more Dole/Kemp. I find that I’m very thirsty, but although there are leftover homebrew entries hiding in the back of the booth, one wrong move could yield a smoked spruce. So I wait.

At some point before 17:00 (notice how fond I am of the 24-hour clock?), FOSSILS Supreme Brewmaster Dennis Barry arrived to commence the night shift. I headed off in the direction of Crittenden Drive with the aim of finding the bus stop, but there was a taxi stand by the side of the Redbirds (remember, that’s the local baseball club that lied to the world about its intention to have good beer at ball games -- you don’t think the Curmudgeon would forget such a slight, do you Dale Owens?) ticket office. What the hell, I thought. I’m thirsty.

The efficient, professional cabby regaled me with stories of convention traffic, noting that religious conventions are particularly good for business, with numerous fares requesting to be picked up a block or two away from the convention hall, to be taken to "whiskey stores and tittie bars." The best of all, according to my driver, were the visitors to the annual farm implement show.

"Man, those farmers raise hell!" he exclaimed.

As we pulled into the BBC lot, I was telling my driver about ways of hailing cabs in the old Soviet Union, when you could stand on the street corner and hold up a pack of western smokes or toothpaste, and then watch the competition for your patronage. He was extremely amused by these anecdotes, and he vowed to tell his fellow drivers.

I slipped him a twenty, went inside, ordered a Dark Star Porter, clipped the end off a Punch Diademas, and relaxed, finally among my own.