WFTFT

Presidents and chancellors of greater than one hundred institutions of higher learning have signed on to an initiative to spark debate about the national drinking age. According to the AP article, the Amethyst Initiative (AI), a non-profit organization sprung from former Middlebury College President John McCardell’s Choose Responsibility organization, seeks to bring to the national level the question of whether the de facto 21 drinking age is adequate given the fact that students under 21 continue to binge drink on campuses across the country. AI asks why it is that these same students are given the right to vote and to fight for their country, and yet are not allowed to consume alcoholic beverages. Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) has not unexpectedly countered this initiative by pointing to statistics that support the idea that the number of fatal accidents tied to drunk driving have declined since 1984, the year in which the National Minimum Drinking Age Act was promulgated at the federal level (an act which, if a state did not utilize the 21 drinking age, would slash 10% of their federal highway funds, a price too high not to back Act). Of course, like any statistics, their interpretation lies in the eye of the beholder, and McCardell’s Choose Responsibility points to other social and legal reasons why it is that the number of fatalities as connected to alcohol may likely have dropped over the past twenty plus years.

This is obviously a contentious issue, one fraught with a multitude of social, ethical, and even economic issues. For colleges and universities, and particularly their administrators who are saddled with the omnipresent job of in loco parentis, if the drinking age was lowered again to 18, though the AI pointedly and repeatedly states that they are not advancing a lowering of the age specifically, a great many in loco parentis issues, often gray in nature, would vanish entirely in to the world of black and white. The AI signees might logically state that just as students are treated as adults in all matters connected to their lives in the classroom, so should they be outside of it. MADD and their supporters might fire back by stating that AI’s movement is just an attempt on the part of administrators to shirk their in loco parentis duties; if a student is caught drinking, they should be punished just as any non-student should. However, it is simply not that black and white, not yet.

There’s no question that this issue is a difficult one, and I hope that a national debate about this continues and that some fruitful dialog and ideas are inspired by it. Personally, as a former student, and one who had President McCardell as his President (although that has no bearing on my opinion), I applaud his efforts at putting this on the national agenda. I do not think 21 is the answer, although I am not sure that 18 is. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is also the thought, and it is not one I can articulate fully, that there has to be some kind of responsibility taken on the part of parents; that the majority of parents who send their children to school are more than happy with foisting the alcohol issue on to the shoulders of the schools (see in loco parentis above). Lazy.

- As a side note, Rob Tod, founder of Allagash Brewing Company, is also a graduate of McCardell’s Middlebury College. No doubt he’s sending McCardell some cash these days, heheheheh.

The cab ride from Harvard Square to Moody St. in Waltham was a white-knuckle affair. We’d found one idling outside of Charlie’s and quickly made the decision to continue our crawl in a different neighborhood, Moody St., one of Jim’s favorite stomping grounds. Jim and I climbed in back while Kumar was relegated to the front, grumbling as he got in. Things weren’t right from the start.

“Anyone smoke? ‘Cuz you can if you want,” the long haired cabbie croaked. He had the look of an old, washed out coke user, much older than he should have been, slouched in his seat, as if there were a hump in his back. He rubbed at his nose and sniffed. “Really, I don’t mind if you do.” None of us responded at first, Jim staring out his window as the madman driver blew through his second red light.

“Uhh, none of us are smokers,” Kumar stammered, holding on to the oh-shit handle above him as we careened around a corner too sharply.

“We’re all smokers in one way or another,” the driver said. Yet again, none of us knew what to say to this, not even Jim had a comeback. We hurtled around the streets of Cambridge, plunging in to Watertown, the driver fiddling constantly with the radio until he stopped on some Pink Floyd.

“So, what time does your shift end,” Kumar asked out of the blue. The driver turned to him, paused, and said, “I think you better put your seatbelt on.” Kumar stared at him for a second before doing as he was told. Once clicked in, the driver continued, “Usually when people ask me questions like that, you know, small talk, shit they could care less about, they’re uncomfortable, so I thought you’d feel better with your seatbelt on.” I watched all of this with amazement, and saw a huge grin erupt on Jim’s face. Kumar was motionless. Thankfully, we had reached our destination, Watch City.

An Indian greeted us as we entered, part of a fall display that had been set up in the entryway. It was one of those wooden Indian statues, this one holding information about the brewpub.

“That’s fucking racialist, isn’t it, Kumar,” Jim asked, a glint in his eye. Kumar didn’t even stop; he just kept walking past the hostess station, where I noticed they sold an assortment of 22 oz. bombers, and went straight to the bar.

“I don’t think he’s in the mood for any of that,” I said and noted the brewing equipment visible behind glass to our left.

“That’s exactly why I’m doing it,” Jim cackled. And with that we joined Kumar at the bar.

The place had a square footprint, with a rectangular bar in the middle, about eighteen fixed, swivel stools on the long sides, and a kind of cold slate top to the bar. There were four televisions hoisted up above the bar. Taking in the rest of the joint, booths ran the length of the right wall, while scattered tables and high stools and matching tables were dropped down everywhere else. The high ceiling, painted black, gave it a cavernous feel as there was little adornment throughout, a few pictures, but that was about it. Overall, the atmosphere gave off the vibe of a mausoleum, but because it was so crowded on a Saturday night, it did have a life to it.

“So, what are we having,” I asked looking up at the tap list written on individual, hanging chalk signs in the middle of the bar. Tonight they had Pie Eyed Punkin Ale, Wit’s End, Uber Oktolager, Blackdogg Stout, and the regulars. Not too shabby.

“I’m having an Uber, what about you, Kumar,” Jim asked.

“Can you believe that fucking cab dick,” Kumar asked incredulously. “I don’t need an armchair psychologist, and a fucking crank-head at that, giving me shit like that,” Kumar said. “Fuck.”

Jim was about to say something when he spied somebody he knew on the other side of the bar and sped off in that direction. I grabbed a menu off of the bar after ordering a Pie Eyed, Kumar an Uber, and noted the fairly pedestrian pub menu of sandwiches, wraps, salads, a pasta dish, and the typical appetizers. One unusual item I’d had in the past were the nachos which were served more like chips and dip, with the cheese, salsa, guacamole, you name it, all layered together in the middle of a shallow bowl with the chips on the side.

Kumar got up and said he was going to the bathroom, leaving me by myself; Jim had disappeared completely. Thoughts of previous visits here drifted through my head; I had not been here in some time. Jim materialized in front of me like a magician, with Kumar practically walking up his heels.

“You won’t believe what I just caught him doing,” Jim exclaimed. “I come out of the bathroom, and what do I find, but Kumar playing with fucking choo-choo trains!”

“For christ’s sake, I had those wooden trains when I was kid and I was just checking them out,” Kumar was almost yelling.

“What’s wrong with you, man, that area’s for moms and dads to leave their cranky kids at while they go swill,” Jim was referring to a small play area just outside of the bathrooms which had, among other things, a Brio set.

“I told you,” Kumar started but Jim put his hand up to stop him, palm up, face down. Kumar stopped, a look of incredulity spread ing across his face. Jim looked at him.

“I think you better put your seatbelt on, my friend,” Jim said.

With a final stamp of approval last week, Smuttynose Brewery was granted final approval to begin construction on their new brewery in Hampton, NH, a stone’s throw from their current location in Portsmouth. Peter Eggleston, Smuttynose president, plans to have the building, which will almost double their current size, LEED certified, which will be no small undertaking. A restaurant will be part of the new complex, which will be sure to draw visitors from across New England and even further afield. As a resident of the seacoast region, this is all very exciting news. However, it is tempered by the fact that this also represents a wasted opportunity by the folks who roam the halls of Portsmouth’s municipal offices. Eggleston makes no bones about the fact that Hampton was not originally his first choice. So what happened?

Red tape, that is what happened. And a lack of imagination on the part of a small group of individuals more interested in protecting their fiefdoms than in holding on to a productive business that draws more than simply the tourist dollar to Smuttynose. Well, and a petition against the plan by area residents. Thus, instead of being able to trumpet what would have surely been a marvel of reclamation and revitalization, the site on Lafayette Rd. will remain a blight to the eye. Rather than have a gold star in its listing of businesses, the Portsmouth Chamber of Commerce is now losing a productive member, one that gave back to the community in a number of ways. Granted, that work will continue through the efforts of the company’s sister venture, the Portsmouth Brewery, but Hampton has gained a company that will surely draw even more visitors to its streets, and not all of them will be wearing flip flops and slathering on sunscreen.

In the end, traveling an extra ten minutes down Rt. 95 will make no difference to me. Either of these locations would require travel by car. I just see this as a loss for Portsmouth, a town I have spent a considerable amount of time roaming around in. For those people who will be traveling from points south when the Hampton location opens, I would recommend getting some directions before you leave:

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In other news, the Portsmouth Brewery has announced that Kate the Great will be released again on February 9, 2009 at 1:14 p.m. No doubt the tickertrons have already booked their flights or set up schills to wade through the feet of snow to pick up bottles for them in six months’ time. What follows is a video that a media company took during the release day last June, along with some interviews with head brewer Tod Mott. You will note that once the video ends, some other beer-related videos pop up, including the one about that trader that I referenced in my earlier Kate post:

Charlie’s felt like it was in perpetual motion. From the two large rotating ceiling fans to the mirrored walls, the four televisions above the bar, throw in the garishly kitsch retro interior with pizza joint fake stained glass hanging lamps, and you got a whirling dervish of a beer joint. Kumar and I had made the quick two-minute walk from Grendel’s, basically a stumble from one doorstep to the next, and had found two open seats at the bar. Jim was still back at the Den.

“So that’s over, huh,” Kumar asked as we surveyed the tap lines. It looked like they had about sixteen, a Chimay, Wailing Wench, and BBC Steel Rail Pale Ale notable among them. I nodded to Kumar in response.

“Well, ok, so that’s that then,” he looked at me briefly, “I won’t ask about it ever again,” subject closed and he raised his hand at the barkeep. We both ordered the BBC and waters, and I scanned the bottles up against the back of the full bar and large mirror. There were a number of bottles, chief among them Duvel and the Chimay lineup. Good enough stuff. And some decent glassware too. Our beers arrived quickly, poured perfectly by the ink-festooned bartender, the nationality of whom was difficult to discern. I could see Kumar sizing her up out of the corner of my eye. I pointed at our water glasses. They were white opaque cafeteria-style plastic cups, large.

“Nice,” Kumar said and dipped his napkin in his. He wrung out the extra water behind the bar while the bartender wasn’t looking, and started to wipe his hands carefully. I swiveled around on my bar stool to take in the rest of the place. Immediately as you entered on the right was a large lobster tank, some crustaceans scuttling about inside, but hard to fully detect as the tank was a bit hazy. The bar ran down the right side of the long main room with about sixteen fixed swivel stools. Booths flanked the length of the left side and there were some tables in the back. There was also an extra area upstairs, as well as a beer garden out back which looked like it was being absolutely roasted in the late afternoon sun. Brewery crap and neon seemed to be the leit motif of the place, though somehow in a manner that didn’t overwhelm the senses. Indoors was where we wanted to be, close to the tap lines.

“Damn, these stools are uncomfortable,” Kumar complained and adjusted himself on his seat. It was true, the bar stools left a little to be desired in the comfort department, but their taps more than made up for this minor annoyance. I scanned the rest of the bar proper and noticed that most of the stools seemed to be taken up by blue collar workers, although the hipster douchbags were starting to trickle in from their afternoon naps, while those at the booths had the stuffy white shirts on. No doubt some Harvard geek could write a sociology paper on it. Just then we heard some yelling, or rather one voice, from outside.

“… not to reason why!”

“Oh shit,” groaned Kumar. I tried to sink as far down on my stool as I could. The voice was growing nearer.

“Their’s but to do and die!”

“This is not good,” Kumar noted. The entrance door to our right slammed open and in strode Jim, a huge grin on his face, spittle adorning his lower lip. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth then raised both arms above his head, as if signaling a touchdown.

“Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred, bitches,” Jim yelled and sauntered over to us. Most of the bar patrons stared at us, not knowing what to make of Jim. We would never grow used to Jim’s public displays of arrogant lunacy, nor would we ever attempt to explain or apologize for his lunatic arrogane. He nodded and said a “Hey” to a few of the T workers on our left, they raising their heads back.

“Nice Tennyson,” Kumar said to Jim, draining his pint.

“The fuck you talking about,” Jim asked.

“Those lines you were saying?”

“Whatever,” Jim said and raised his eyes as if Kumar were crazy. “So, you fucks are paying for my bill here since I took care of things back at Grendel’s,” Jim stated. Fair enough. “And hell, one of you should give up your seats for me; that skeskie back at Grendel’s wanted to come and spend some time with you, Kumar, but I told her you were already spoken for, you know, almost a member of my family, if you,” and Kumar stood up from his stool, cutting Jim off.

“By all means, have my seat,” Kumar swept his arm down, pointing at his now vacant seat.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jim said. He eyed the tap lines as he settled in, spied the 23 oz. Sam Adams for $4.75 and ordered one of those. He moved back and forth on the stool, testing his weight, and scrabbled a bit with his feet on the floor. Kumar was starting to chuckle quietly behind us.

“The fuck is up with these stools, they’re like frigging torture devices,” Jim yelled at the bartender. We didn’t stay too much longer after that.

“Heheheheh,” Kumar chuckled and pointed up at the sign above the bar.

No Bud – No Coors – No Miller Lt – No Bud Lt – No Coors Lt – No Michelob – BASTA

We had made it to Grendel’s from the Thirsty Scholar in about ten minutes, not a bad walk. At 4:00 p.m. on a Saturday, the place had a pretty good crowd in its garden level area, a worn wood atmosphere. There was a single table open outside that looked out on the green, but we all wanted to be closer to the tap lines, so to hell with the fresh air, and we clomped down into the embracing ichors.

The place consisted of one large room with a circling bar on the right, X-mas lights strung up around it, with seats for ten on tall stools, and an eclectic collection of tables and benches wending their way to the far right where there was a raised area with more tables. We quickly noted that our usual spot in any of these places, the bar proper, was festooned with singles who had an empty seat between each of them, thereby preventing our ragtag bunch an opportunity to belly up. Jim immediately strode up to the guy nearest us.

“Hey, buddy, why don’t you plop yourself down a few seats over so me and my crew can rip it up a little here,” he admonished more than asked. Kumar had taken the opportunity when Jim’s back was turned to slither off to the bathroom; Kumar disliked conflict, particularly conflict that involved Jim. I took a few steps back. The man made no reaction to Jim, didn’t even turn to acknowledge him. Jim stared hard into the guy’s neck.

“Hey, d’jew hear me,” Jim asked, his voice raising. Still nothing from the guy. The woman to his left, the empty seat between them, looked over at Jim with a sad glare and shook her head. Kumar had come back from the bathroom and was hovering around in the background, paper towel wringing in his hand.

“The hell you looking at,” Jim demanded of the woman, the veins in his neck starting to bulge. I gave Kumar a quick nod to acknowledge it was almost time to cut our losses. The woman turned to look at Jim full on.

“He’s deaf, dumb ass. Leave him alone and drag your shitty routine over to one of those tables if you want to drink. Otherwise, get the fuck out of here, we don’t need you.”

And for the first time, god willing, not the last, Jim was speechless. He had just run in to a regular schooling him in the local ways, and if there was one thing Jim respected, it was a watering hole’s unwritten rules and bylaws. I could see Kumar was positively bursting with glee at this unexpected turn of events, but he knew better than to say anything. Instead, he ordered our first round with shots of tequila from the waiter who was dressed in a kilt; all the wait staff had kilts on, but Jim was so cowed by the woman at the bar, he didn’t even say anything to the waiter when he took Kumar’s order.

The table we had sat at seemed to be a wagon wheel turned on its side with mosaic tile embedded between the spokes to create the tabletop. I quietly noted that the thing could turn too. Kumar had ordered Cambridge Ambers for all of us, and I saw on the menu that they had about ten taps, with Bass, Guinness, and Paulaner Heffe and Oktober served in tall glasses among them. There was also an assortment of nine bottles, Weihenstephaner Korbinian and Kristall the most notable of the bunch. It was at that point that Kumar had pointed out the sign above the bar. The waiter returned with our drinks and asked if we were hungry. None of us were, but if we stayed long enough I’d see if Kumar wanted to split the cheese fondue, for which Grendel’s was famous. One of the draws to Grendel’s was their ½ price menu every night from 5 to 7:30 with a $3 drink minimum per person, and the same on Sunday through Thursday nights from 9 to 11:30. Good deal for college kids.

We sat for a good two hours, pint after pint, Jim slowly coming back to life, casting frequently less angry looks at the woman at the bar, until he stood up and plowed over to sit next to her, arms around both she and the deaf man. Kumar laughed and spilled his water glass over, the glass cracking slightly on the tile, a spider web lacing. The natural light that had been filtering in through the windows was starting to fade, and we hadn’t even visited our third stop yet. Time to keep the ball rolling. I got up and grabbed Kumar, leaving the bill on the table for Jim to take care of, and, not wanting to tear him away from his new friends, slipped out quietly. Jim knew he’d be able to find us at Charlie’s Kitchen.

“Man, where’ve you been,” Kumar asked me as I walked up to the bar. He was already cradling a pint, half gone, and he seemed to search the room for something else, not making eye contact.

“I’ve been busy,” I said.

“Well, time for a beer,” he replied and signaled the bartender to grab me a pint of Tremont Ale.

The Thirsty Scholar could easily be mistaken for the Shipyard pub due to the large sign hanging outside the place, but that had never deterred Kumar from hopping in here for a few drinks, a few short blocks from his apartment. We had decided on a Harvard Square mini-crawl, with this as our starting point. Entering, a snug was on the right, already full with a local group reading Ulysses from cover to cover, a Sisyphean task. I noted the red/black paint with worn wood motif immediately, and some soft rock piping through the internet jukebox. The bar proper spanned the back end of the room, seating about fifteen at tall stools facing large mirrors on the bar back. The rest of the place was composed of tables with loose chairs, tall and short, and padded benches along the outer walls. Some hipsters were seated at the tables near the large windows that opened up on the street, but the place was largely empty minus the book club. After the bartender delivered my ale, I noticed the chalkboard up on the left that listed twenty-three draughts composed of typical Boston-area Irish bar taps with Magic Hat Circus Boy, Sapporo, and Tremont as the only things of mild interest. There were also twenty-one bottles of mostly pap with Sapporo at $3 and Tremont and Murphy’s at $3.75 a pop.

“So, you talked to Jim recently,” I asked Kumar. He tugged at the label on the back of his t-shirt, a red welt having already formed where it was needling into the back of his neck at the hairline.

“Yeah,” he gave up on the label and flicked a piece of napkin off the bar. “A bunch of us went out last weekend, Jim, some of his co-workers, his sister,” he said quickly, “we would have called you, but, you know,” and before I could start busting his balls, he changed the subject, pointing at a picture up on the wall to the right of the bar.

“Jesus, that is insane. OSHA would have a field day with that today.” The framed black and white photo showed a bunch of iron workers taking a break on an I-beam tens of stories above a seething metropolis, with nothing tethering them to the beam.

“Hah,” I grunted, “you would never catch me on one of those things.” My fear of heights was legendary. I downed my ale in an attempt to stave off the willies and ordered two more for us. The bartender was just attentive enough, not hovering, and put menus in front of us without assuming necessarily that we wanted to eat; we’d have to give the nod if the mood struck us. I wasn’t hungry, and nothing beyond the usual pub grub jumped out at me from the menu. Apparently, Kumar was also satisfied with just a few pints before our next destination.

“Fucking yeah,” Jim, hollered as he entered the pub and walked past the snug, taking note of the group of men there with books, eyes widening when he saw some of them had water or soft drinks instead of alcohol. Kumar painstakingly kept watching the Sox game up on a flat screen.

“The hell are those fucking idiots doing over there? Having a quilting party,” Jim asked in exasperation. He noted our two full glasses and ordered a pint for himself, along with three shots of Surfers on Acid. “Time to get this day rolling,” he hollered as he slugged back the shot, egging us on. As he was draining his pint, he stopped suddenly and exclaimed, “I don’t like those things,” jamming his eyes in the direction of what looked like a camera up above the right end of the bar. There was a second one at the opposite end too, though they both could have been mics, or speakers, or something. “Nobody better be tracking my movements, god da…”

Just then David Ortiz cracked yet another walk-off hit to end the game. Kumar lunged up in excitement, nearly spilling our pints. Jim looked at the television with glee and said, “Big Papi is so clutch, car manufacturers are now referring to that third pedal in standard cars as the ‘Papi.’,” and downed his pint.

Kumar grinned and added, “I also heard he’s going to be a late-entry in to the Olympics. Papi will be the first one-man team in history, playing under the flag of Papistan, and he’ll win.”

And with that, the evening started off on a good note, miraculously, with Jim and Kumar actually agreeing with one another. As we headed off to Grendel’s, Jim continued the banter.

“Big Papi is so clutch that Mr. T. doesn’t pity him, but instead he pities all pitchers and hapless baseballs that have to cross paths with Big Papi.”

“John, shut the hell up,” Nate slurred. “You were whooping like a rabid hyena, end of fucking story.”

Somehow, we managed to find ourselves in The Field after a walk down Mass. Ave. from the People’s Republik. This was the seventh stop on our crawl, and things were getting dicey with blood having finally been drawn prior to our arrival at The Field, which was absolutely packed at what must have been 10:00 p.m., maybe later.

The denizens of Central Square were out in full force. Mixed with the constant blare of Friday night horns, bubbles of light, and women dolled up in garish lipstick, it all painted a grotesque tableaux that my alcohol-soaked eyes took in, barely aware of the attack that Little John and Nate threw at John who had been speaking with a man of the streets prior to the ambush. A series of Greco-roman holds and half flung haymakers ensued, with Aaron walking quickly away and entering the bar, while the boulevard bard John had been engaging with shuffled off, protectively cradling a bottle shaped paper bag. John let out a keening wail as he thrashed around wildly, outnumbered, when Jim stepped in with a loud, “We’re wasting time here,” and separated the combatants. And as if nothing had happened, we all entered the bar, finding Aaron already with a pint, leaning against one of the columns that separated the bar area from the six or so tables that lined the padded bench wall towards the back and the restrooms.

“Now wait just a second,” John turned to me, his martini floating a naked toothpick, “Mr. District Attorney, would you agree with that statement?” I stared at him, uncomprehendingly, and simply nodded, noticing one of our gang was gone.

“Where’s Kumar,” I asked nobody in particular.

“When we reached the Square he said he was going to go get my sister and her friends at the Phoenix,” Jim yelled over the din, starting to make his way through the crowd to the bar. “And more power to him, he can deal with those skeskies,” and with that he reached the bar and slapped Little John on the back who had set up shop by himself, nursing the cut lip he suffered at the hands of John, or Nate, or himself, who could tell?

“John, you had gone into full-on cornered raccoon mode before Jim stepped in, the fuck,” Nate said, glancing around quickly to see where Jim was.

“Whatever, Nate,” John replied slurping at his glass, “you idiots rudely interrupted my repartee with that guy out there. I’m going to finish my talk with him when I finish this drink,” and with that John swilled the rest of his concoction and stormed outside while the rest of us settled in a bit.

The bar proper ranged down to the back and sat about fourteen. Cape Cod and Lays “crisps” were up behind the bar, fighting for space with the usual Irish bar kitschy stuff, as well as a large fish net strung up and pictures of friends of the joint here and there. The kitchen was located down at the far end of the bar, somewhat open with a pick-up window. Always nice to be able to see what the cook is up to. There was another room off to the left of the bar area we were in that had a pool table and some darts, but I turned my attention to the taps nearby. In total, there were about fifteen, including Circus Boy, which is what I was making disappear, Buzzard’s Bay Lager, some Sam Adams and Harpoon offerings, Stella, and whatever else, not worth noting. The full bar seemed to be receiving equal attention from the mixed crowd of hipsters, ex-pats, and scholar-tick-tocks, while the crap-topia bottle selection (with perhaps the exception of Czechvar) certainly had its adherents. Still, the vibe was good, with drinks draining away imperceptibly, and some good rock pulsing in over the PA, though mostly drowned out by the raucous crowd. The taps, although not extraordinary, offered something to everyone, and the atmosphere of the place, not overly contrived, pulled you in and welcomed one and all. This place would do on a Sunday hair of the dog just as it would a throw down on a Friday night, which is what we were currently involved in.

“Oh shit,” Aaron sputtered, almost spitting out his ale, “that’s Goat Boy over there,” he said pointing over at one of the tables in the far corner. “Seriously, I think that’s Jim Breuer.” And although the guy had an uncanny likeness to him, he was too young, and his eyes weren’t bloodshot enough to be the comedian. I decided we needed to regroup, no sign of Jim or Little John anywhere. They must be in the game room.

“Hey, I’m going to go get Little John and Jim,” I said, “you guys go out and round up John.” Jim was holding court with Little John and they were apparently running the table as a team, lots of general scowls darting in their direction.

“We’re off,” I told Little John as Jim was busy lining up a shot and talking smack with his opponents. “Meet us at Miracle of Science.” As I stepped outside into the cold air, Jim potted the eight ball and yelled, “Yeah, you fuckers, that’s a hundred bucks, what do you have to say to that, fucking chooches!”

Beer reviews encompass all types of forms, and are written by many types as well. Some are written and kept only as private notes for the reviewer, perhaps something to examine at a later time when trying to recall a certain favorite flavor profile. Alternatively, those same notes might help one avoid making the same mistake twice and not purchase what is sure to be a drain pour. I have read over-the-top reviews that wax poetic about the various aromatic, visual, and flavor qualities of a beer. Some use elaborate analogies in their reviews (women are a favorite, it seems). Others simply use bullet points, hammering out the facts with little flair or creativity. To each their own. A personal favorite of mine was for Dogfish Head’s World Wide Stout, a review I wrote over four years ago:

Images of Geiger, Lovecraft, and Crowley ran through the schism in my mind as I made my way fitfully through the waking dream (or was it a nightmare?) of the World Wide Stout 2003.

Needless to say, this is one for sipping, not a session ale. It is something that should be enjoyed on a cold, snowy, New England night with the electricity out and a pot of stew warming on the Vermont Castings. The howling you hear may not be just the wind outside.

Like this one, most of my reviews had some kind of tongue-in-cheek quality to them. Over time, I simply grew weary of writing beer reviews. I guess I just don’t have the bug. I also felt like I was falling into the inexorable ticker tar pit, and didn’t want something I enjoyed, hanging and sharing beers with friends, to become a soulless, and solitary, quest for the next best tick. Not that I see anything wrong with written reviews, it’s just not for me at this point.

Restaurant, food, and wine reviews have had their experts and groupies for years, dating back decades prior to the internet’s growth. Although beer was present in the print media (Zymurgy, Yankee Brew News, Ale Street News) before the advent of the internet, with the introduction of the great electronic equalizer, beer reviewing, and reviews of the bars and restaurants that support good beer, have found more than a foothold online. Reviews have exploded in forums devoted to beer (ratebeer, beeradvocate), food boards (roadfood, foodgawker, chowhound), or personal blogs. And with the growth of streaming video and such sites as youtube, reviews are escaping from the notepads and keyboards of drinkers in quotidian fashion. Here is one that is done the right way:

Yeah, it’s just beer. Get over it.

There were three immediate problems when we entered the People’s Republik, having just washed down Mass. Ave. from the Plough. The draught lines were down, the place had darts, and Jim was already there waiting for us. Having no draughts meant trying to find something in bottle that wouldn’t cast ridicule on anyone, while the darts were more of a theoretical problem; not an immediate issue, but a tool by which friends could quickly devolve in to enemies. And Jim had called Kumar on our short walk to the bar, so we had been warned of his presence, but it was still a shock to face the realization that we had no choice but to deal with him, considering things had been relatively smooth before then.

“Hey, what’s with all this commie shit? And what took you fucking pinkos so long,” Jim yelled from the other side of the square bar that took up the middle of the dim room. The bar looked like it had room for about twenty-five patrons.

“Time to swill! And look, they have darts,” Jim gestured with his bulbous Red Stripe at the Plexiglas protected darts area behind him.

John strode towards Jim, mouthing his drink order at the punky barkeep, and replied, “So I hear your sister’s here? Where is that sly fox?” And things just crumbled down around us from that point onwards.

Given Jim’s proximity to the darts, the bar was relatively unoccupied around him so our group managed to spread itself out like a suppurating wound, Kumar and Nate setting themselves up with the darts, John and Jim trading stories like old friends, and Aaron gazing angrily at the incapacitated tap handles. Little John was nowhere to be seen. Beyond the fake wood Formica bar top, and the eerie red glow cast by the tube lights under the bar, the surly bartender approached and asked us what we wanted. With the taps down, which would have consisted of about twelve with Magic Hat’s HiPA, Circus Boy, and Odd Notion, as well as a Harpoon seasonal, I was a bit non-plussed and decided to throw down with Jim and have a bottle of Red Stripe. There were about nine bottles/cans with PBR (spelled “ribbin” on a chalkboard) and Duvel among them. Aaron just shook his head, and said, “Well all right, an opportunity to do a little rubbing of the shoulders with the proles,” shoving his arm out at the whole bar, nearly clipping John, “how appropriate.”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Karl, and drink some fucking beer,” Jim replied around John’s back, eying Aaron a little crazily. Aaron took his beer and went off to sulk over at the darts while Nate sidled up to get drinks in for he and Kumar. Over all, the place had a dark feel, with black and red hues the main motifs. Soviet-era posters and some Che Guevara stuff grew like mold on the greasy walls, while a large bomb hung from the rafters near the street windows. Nate pointed at the tail end of a piñata that had been attached to the wall opposite us.

“Jim,” John asked sipping from his Manhattan, “where the heh-ell is your sister?”

“Oh, she’s going to meet up with us later in Central Square with a bunch of her friends. They’re getting shit-plowed at the Phoenix right now,” Jim answered, looking at the piñata. “I wonder if that thing still has candy in it,” he said and got up from his stool.

Kumar had wandered over from the darts, giving up his spot to Little John who had come out of the bathroom. His eyes widened slightly at the news of Jim’s sister and he gulped down the rest of his Sam Adams like a wheezing consumptive, quickly ordering another. He plunked down next to me and started nervously shredding the label off the bottle.

“Shit, I may have to bypass that whole thing,” he said watching Jim. “But he’ll never let me go, so I just have to keep an eye on what she’s saying when he’s around.” I just shrugged, glad that I wasn’t in Kumar’s shoes. The bar was pretty full by this time, with John talking up some grizzled, older locals next to him. Along with the insiders there were a good number of up-and-comers trying to make their mark on the world, and each other, but for the most part the scene was pretty low key with the turned down lights and sedate décor. Really, the only reason why I would consider returning was if it was a pit-stop on a crawl, which was in essence what it was being utilized for this night, as the tap lines did not distinguish themselves, and I am not sure I would trust the food coming out of the kitchen; I like to be able to see what I am eating. Fine for a quick beer and some local color though.

“Umm,” Aaron came up and tapped my shoulder. “I think it might be time to go,” he said and pointed at the Plexiglas. Little John and Nate were reenacting the visiting room scene from Midnight Express, with Little John’s shirt pulled up, his chest pressed against the Plexiglas, while Nate pretended to lick from the other side. Yep, definitely time to go. As I hauled everyone towards the exit, an angry growl escaping from John’s lips, I saw Jim leaping above the crowd trying to hit the piñata with an umbrella. If there was candy in there, by god, Jim was going to get it.

“Hey, do you think they have wormwood,” Little John asked me and pointed at the Cambridge Natural Foods store across the street. We had just left the Cambridge Common and were headed towards Harvard Square. I was determined to steer us clear of the Square proper, as I knew one or more of our group would want to take on the role of Matt Damon and ask somebody how they liked them apples.

“What in hell is wormwood,” I asked.

“You ever had absinthe,” Little John responded, but before I could question him any further, pandemonium broke loose in front of us. Nate must have attempted a second, failed, alcohol-inspired attack on Aaron because he was clacking quickly up Mass. Ave. and ducking into the Law School campus, Aaron hot on his heels with John cackling like a hyena, and Kumar clinging on to a light pole, looking back at us for help. We’d only been to four places so far, and Jim and his sister hadn’t even joined us yet. It was going to be a long and wicked night.

By the time we stumbled in to the Plough and Stars, Aaron’s fury had abated. Nate assuaged him further by buying the first round. It must have been about 8:00 by the time we arrived for our photo shoot, and like all rock stars, we were intent on causing as much trouble as possible without getting the heave-ho. Of the eleven stools at the bar, only one was free, which is where we all crowded around, oblivious to whether or not any of the regulars were put off by our brash campfire gathering. We all got our drinks served up, an imperial pint of Brooklyn Lager for me, and despite our volume, everyone seemed to take us in stride and we soon found ourselves sitting on the bench that swung around the right perimeter of the place, a safe distance, though still close, to the bar. From my perch, I was able to take it all in.

The whole place seemed to have been refinished since the last time I had been there. What was once dingy was now full of light wood, stringed colored Christmas lights hanging on the trellis work dropped from the ceiling, and pictures both behind the bar, mostly of soccer clubs and musical performers, and on the wall behind us that stretched the length of the right side. These pictures, mostly ink or pencil, seemed to be of regular patrons, and as I stared at some guy with huge glasses behind my right ear, Kumar pulled my shoulder and pointed at a man sitting in the small ell of the bar near the Mass. Ave. windows, covered by dirty yellow drapes. It seemed he was the artist in residence. Kumar staggered up and went over to him, getting lost in the cozy crowd. Truly, this was a neighborhood place as there seemed to be hand shakes and hugs all around as the trad group came in and started to set up in the back, the Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home,” almost drowned out in the background of the drinking buzz. On the board I could make out that they had about eleven draughts on, including the Brooklyn, Smithwick’s, and at one time, the best pour of Guinness in the area. The true selling point was that the draughts were served in 20-oz. imperial pints, and my lager was an affordable $4.

Despite how busy it was, Aaron managed to spot the peanuts dispenser just beyond the bar and he trudged off, pint in hand, to buy some quick and cheap sustenance. There were some chips and other bagged items for sale behind the bar, as well as sandwiches for sale, but I didn’t see a food menu anywhere and wasn’t interested in asking for one. I noticed the lone television up above the fray in the back left corner was off and laughed remembering how I had come here regularly to watch soccer on Sundays until they started charging a $10 cover for the privilege. Our group hadn’t come to watch television or to eat, though. Rather, we were there to imbibe. And the sign behind the bar that said, “Respect Your Bartender,” was a tenet we tried to uphold, as long as it was a two way street, and in this case, it certainly was because no sooner had I easily ordered up another round of drinks, but the bartender offered to give Aaron a free bag of chips and his money back from the peanuts machine which had apparently eaten his loose change, a personal affront to him. I thought we might be able to settle in for a while, but I should have known better.

As I came back to our area, Kumar materializing out of nowhere with a sketch of himself, Aaron greedily devouring his chips, we were quickly reminded of just how ridiculous we all could be when John, with eyes agog, pulled back from us, martini glued to his fingers, and pointed at Nate’s shoes. We all made a circle to see.

“Jesus, you’re still wearing those dingo boots around?” John yelled. It was true, Nate was wearing the same old, scuffed penny loafers he had been wearing one night when we were all out at the Cove. Hardly the traditional definition of the dingo boot, but it created a laugh-inducing image for all of us, with the exception of Nate. Out at the Cove that night, Nate was slipping and sliding all over the rocks, due in no small part to his shoes having no traction on the treacherous outcroppings, although the booze probably hadn’t helped any either. And of course John had been on him all night about it.

“John,” Nate said, “unless you want me to drop you on your head again, shut the hell up.”