A True Love

“Do not cease to drink beer, to eat, to intoxicate thyself, to make love, and to celebrate the good days.”

--Ancient Egyptian Credo

It is evenings like this that remind me why I am passionate about what I do.

I have an amazing series in my lap (The Sword of Shannara trilogy by Terry Brooks), some awesome music, sitting on my parent’s porch on Lake Norman, and my favorite Dogfish Head brew is in my hand.

It’s not 60/75/90/120 minute. There is nothing wrong with those brews in the slightest, but they are not my favorite brews that the amazing Delaware brewery has to offer. And it’s not Festina Peche, though that is a mighty fine little beer. And it is not World Wide, though I must say after a few years in my cellar, that beer is bloody well amazing.

No. It’s not those.

It’s Hellhound On My Ale. A 10% Double IPA brewed with lemon peel and lemon flesh and 100% Centennial Hops. I am IN LOVE with Centennial Hops. I would bathe in them if it weren’t completely socially awkward.

No, it isn’t the “most popular” Dogfish Head brew. I’m perfectly okay with that. And I don’t give a damn if you don’t agree with me. Do you want to know why? There’s an amazing little answer.

Beer is subjective.

Completely and utterly subjective.

That’s why I love this industry—what my favorite beer is is not necessarily everyone else’s favorite. And I don’t try to make it anyone else’s favorite. Because I’m not in charge of everyone else’s taste buds; I am simply in charge of my own.

Let me share something with you, you know, one drinker to another. Yes, I sell beer for a living. For an amazing brewery. And most beer reps will, of course, tell you that theirs is the best out there. We’re biased. But unlike what most people think, we’re not with the companies we are with simply for the money. We’re with these breweries because we BELIEVE in them. They are our families. And the most popular beer that brewery may have may not be that beer rep’s favorite. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Because beer is subjective.

Too often I hear, “I hate that beer,” or “That brewery sucks,” or “They don’t make anything good.” I’m not talking just about the brewery I work for—I’m talking about every brewery out there. For people that understand and appreciate quality, I am often astounded at how utterly negative some people can be about breweries. Local or non-local breweries. That goes for both craft beer enthusiasts and beer reps. I’ve heard it from both sides. A ton of negativity for a small market segment. We do what we do because we love it and are passionate for it. At least, I’m speaking for myself. I hope people drink what they drink because they believe in and love it, and I sincerely hope beer reps are in the game for the right reason. I do hope that.

But I am tired of the negativity. We should be a brotherhood of love for what we do. We mostly are. But I think people forget about how we’re fighting up a very large hill: we are a sliver of the market segment. Five percent of the sales for beer in the country. Five percent and growing, but unless we have true believers, true “brand champions,” we won’t be able to do it.

I want to share a few quotes from an article I read today online.

I read r/beer. If you don’t know what that means, then you don’t know when the narwhal bacons and you probably think I’ve lost my mind. If you do know what I’m talking about, good for you and we’ll just go about this anyways.

So r/beer (a forum, let’s leave it at that) tends to be more for the people discovering craft beer. You’ll see “I just discovered Delirium Tremens,” or “My favorite MI beer is Hopslam,” or “Why is Dark Lord so hard to get?” People are learning there, and by no means do I discourage that.

Recently on r/beer there was an article posted where the writer picked the “best” beers from each state. On the forum, I posted a few opinions of my own. The writer found that out of all the states, and the popular votes on the forums, that 24 of the “best ofs” changed. North Carolina’s changed. But besides my favorite NC brew becoming the top vote (ORF, oh dear god pappy barrels, marry me), what I love most about the article was how the author was awed by the NC posters. How no one had ANYTHING bad to say about any brewery in NC. No bashing. No hatred. No snide comments.

Take a look at what he had to say about the choices, and below what he had to say about the states:

“Unlike the Ohio natives (which you’ll see in a bit), North Carolina’s commenters weren’t willing to actually bash my selection. In fact, I don’t think I read a single negative comment about any beer brewed in North Carolina. Like I said, they LOVE their local beer. While the Jade got lots of great comments, there was also a lot of support for a variety of brews from Duck Rabbit (particularly their Baltic Porter), Foothills Sexual Chocolate, Olde Hickory’s Event Horizon, and a bunch of beers from Fullsteam and Highland.”

Then there’s Ohio, and while he finds joy in the contention and passion, I find people that I wish could just embrace the community life that beer has to offer:

“For a moment last week, I almost thought my selection of Columbus Brewing’s Bodhi might break the internet. Ohio’s Aleheads were appalled. Ohio’s Aleheads were elated. Ohio’s Aleheads called me an assortment of unfortunate names. No state elicited more commentary or debate than Ohio on the craft beer forums. I can see why Ohio is such a swing state in Presidential politics…Buckeyes are apparently a contentious lot. What’s interesting is that, unlike North Carolina, Ohio natives seem to have no problem bashing their local breweries. I was told in no uncertain terms that the Bodhi absolutely sucked. And then when another suggestion was thrown out, the new beer was said to be horrible too. I love the rough and tumble world of Ohio craft beer. There’s a lot of excitement, anger, passion, and insanity there.”

Why would people so passionate about their beer be so mean at someone for simply having a different opinion? I elated in the NC responses. Everyone was in love with their choices. And everyone had their reasons. And there wasn’t bashing. I didn’t personally like the rough and tumble, the anger, the bitterness, and the hatred about beer that I read in those Ohio responses.

Because beer is subjective.

And whatever anyone else likes, and whether or not it is to my own tastes, I know one thing above anything else:

I am in love with craft beer.

No, I don’t like dunkel-weizens. Cloves in my beer freaks the HELL out of me. I don’t know why. I also don’t like the word gastronomy. Or moist. And who cares? No one should. Because they have their own opinions that are just as important to them as mine are to myself.

I am in love with craft beer.

I am in love with every brewery that comes to this state and opens here. Whether or not I am in love/like/lust with their beer. (Yes, you can lust for a beer.) I don’t mean that in a negative way. I simply have differing tastes than other people. But what I love most is that for every single pint that those breweries and homebrewers and craft beer enthusiasts drink and make, we bring notice to this wonderful industry. We develop chemistry for it. We develop community around it.

That means more to me than anything else.

I am in love with craft beer.

And that’s the most important thing to remember.

When Philly Beer Week Kicked My Ass

“Philly Beer Week was a blast, but parts of me hope it's in another city next year. Mostly organ parts.”

–-Joe Gunn

If that quote from Joe Gunn, owner of Jose Pistola’s in Philly, doesn’t wrap up how I felt after Philly Beer Week ended, I don’t know what could.

Don’t get me wrong. Philly Beer Week was singly the BEST beer week I have ever been to (and I got to be a part of it), but there’s no way in hell I will EVER do more than three nights in Philly for PBW again. I spent practically a week in the city and the burbs doing events, having fun, eating god knows how many late night cheesesteaks and food in general, and drinking my liver into utter submission.

If you even want to begin to understand how PBW works, get the app. Or go to the website. But when you see the little red dots EVERYWHERE in Philly on the app, your mind is blown. Literally EVERY bar is involved. With unreal beer. And unreal events. I don't even know how the city itself functions during that 10 day period. The paper is full of events listings, and stories of the previous night's shenanigans, and the city revels in the drunken ridiculousness. I know the taxi drivers had to be in heaven.

But here it starts...

The first night, after a 10 hour drive, I met Dr. Joel, my boss, at Boilermaker’s. Y’know, because there’s nothing better than getting off of the road than drinking a bitter and a shot of whiskey. Then came the first round of food (hot dogs and 3-4 apps), followed by the trek to Pistola’s for the one and the only Joe Gunn Late Night. Like Joel said, it’s like watching a better Jay Leno but with multiple bottles of Jameson. And no TVs. And with really good beer.

 Dr. Joel is from Philly, and damn if you know it. Not only was he brought on stage by Joe Gunn, he had three drinks in his hands in a matter of 10 minutes. (see pictures) I was extremely busy making it my personal mission to drink the bar out of Russian River Supplication, which was on draft, and sadly, kicked far too quickly for my own taste. And we’re not done yet. We hopped on over to POPE, walked in at 1:55am (bars close at 2am), only to order the most sessionable beer in the bar.

I’m kidding. We all ordered Backwoods Bastard on draft and proceeded to practically chug the beers just to get out of the bar in time.

AND THEN came the cheesesteaks.

AND THEN came the flooded streets around my hotel, where Joel had to walk me to the hotel from the cab because the cab driver couldn’t get onto the streets.

And that’s all in the first night.

Let me break down the next crazy few days, all documented by pictures in the attached album until I quite literally gave up on taking them. At my final event, I didn’t even take any pictures. It was an awesome brunch, but I was on a whole new level of dysfunction that I doubt that I could have operated my camera even if it were necessary.

Ginger’s Log, Day #2 of PBW:

I wake up to a text from Joel, “I feel like a million bucks. Seriously, I just woke up and I feel like a damn champion.” I note to him the lingering funky taste in my mouth and he’s like, “Yep. We ate at Pat’s last night.” Oh lingering cheesesteak fat, why??!

He gives me a time to meet him in Old City (where my hotel was located) at Han Dynasty (Szechuan food that is ungodly amazing. See pictures.), and I get ready and start walking. I normally cannot stomach that much food, but it was so delicious I literally could not stop eating. Joel was going to introduce me to the idea of 2^nd lunch, but even he stuffed himself too much to even think about conquering a second feast.

We hopped on the train and headed to Theresa’s for our first event of the day. We walk in, and the next thing I know, I have a shot of our original “gin” (juniper brandy), a drink of Kuhnhenn’s port, and some Michigan White Grappa sitting in front of me. (HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?) Followed immediately, by a Black Tulip, one of my favorite New Holland brews.

Holy mother of alcohol above, what was I thinking? Well, after directions from my bartender to finish off all the drinks he poured, I went to my favorite method of drinking beer at events: I order by the half-snifter. Just give me a half of a snifter of whatever the hell I order. Unless it’s whiskey. Then you give me MAYBE two ounces... usually only one. Especially if it’s Zeppelin Bend.

After the next round of food, which, mind you, Joel squirreled off and I had to go steal the remainder of the cheese from, we had to get a move on. We had another event to go to.

Late Night Palooza at City Tap House. With a 3L of Dragon’s Milk. So. Much. Beer.

Oh, and by the way, I accidentally flashed my bum twice that day. Before I had even started drinking. My dress and I weren’t agreeing on modesty, apparently.

To save you from the moment-by-moment insanity, I’m going to rush this and just give you a bulleted list of the ridiculous shit that happened from there on:

• ·         Visited the Liberty Bell with the Bell’s Brewing crew.
• ·         Russian River Consecration and mussels at Belgian Café.
• ·         Karaoke at Varga with Avery. One of our friends sang the following, “If you like Pina Coladas, and getting fu**ed in the ass…”
• ·         My first use of Uber, an awesome taxi service that picks you up using an app. Oh, by the way, they contract out with limo services, so you actually have a driver and it rivals taxis in cost. Not to mention, it’s charged directly to my card so I don’t have to worry about cash.
• ·         Barcade. My attempt to show some guys the moon in Rampage. $10 of quarters and 83 in-game days later, the bar is shutting down. Damn.
• ·         Cheesesteaks. Again. Peppers so spicy that hilarity ensues.
• ·         Prohibition Bar in the morning. More drinking.
• ·         Walked to Kite and Key. A bird literally flew into me. Everything in this city is either still drunk or ridiculously hungover.
• ·         Drank Sofie, and Lolita, and ate one of my favorite food combos: tomato soup and grilled cheese.
• ·         Had an awesome event at McCrossen’s Tavern involving food, Hatter Days beers, and amazing cheeses from DiBruno Bros.
• ·         Chiriboga blue cheese from Bavaria is singly one of the best cheeses I have ever had.
• ·         Tripe is not really something I enjoy, but pig’s tongue and fried chicken livers rock.
• ·         Varga Bar again. Helped pump a Troeg’s rep full of whiskey. Many “you don’t even know me”’s ensue. Hilarious. Then I started taking shots. I disappeared from the bar like a ninja, and crawled into my king sized bed and cuddled 8 pillows.
• ·         Wake up in the AM. Italian Market. AMAZING. Six cucumbers for a buck, an amazing visit to DiBruno Bros. If they had cots, I’d live there, and then eventually I drove to Horsham. I had an event at Iron Abbey that was awesome, and some sort of recovery in my liver began. It doesn’t get to last long… Mad Hatter on cask is delicious.
• ·         Magic Gardens in the City in the morning.
• ·         Eulogy where I eat mussels, drink Gueuze Tilquin, introduce some guys to Dragon’s Milk, and then end up drinking a bottle of 50/50 Grand Cru Eclipse with those guys. Hot damn.
• ·         Varga Bar for my event that night. Aww, yeah. Michael Jackson Hatter, good beer, amazing ravioli, and a damn good time.
• ·         Drive to Exton, PA. Sleep well for the first time since I got to PBW, and wake up to the FINAL event. Brunch. Delicious.

To put it lightly, I don’t know how I survived. After Joel left the 2^nd night I texted him asking, “How do you survive?!” He says, “You just close your eyes, keep drinking your beer, and hope that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”

He was right.

That light was me hightailing it to the brewery in MI.

The bad news?

The tunnel was a lot longer than I expected.

But the story of the New Holland Brewing 15^th Anniversary party is a story for another time.

Cheers.

The Truth at Twenty-Three

“We're all different.... But there's something kind of fantastic about that, isn't there?”

 –Mrs. Fox, Fantastic Mr. Fox

I’ve always wondered where I would be at 23.

When I was 18, I had this grandiose dream of being with my “true love,” graduated from college with a corporate job, living the most predictable life. At 23.

It’s funny how it all worked out. In fact, it’s just kind of funny.

Two of my best friends I’ve had since 5^th grade were recently talking with me about how our lives worked out. We laughed at what we thought when we were 18. And we talked about how we ended up. One a biomedical engineer who is finishing building a house at 22, one a personal trainer in a serious relationship she is incredibly happy in, and me—a sales rep for a craft brewery, traveling the East Coast.

Despite not living up to our 18 year old selves’ dreams, I think we all did a damn fine job and are happier for how we did end up than if we had simply “played it by the book.”

For a very long time, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I was terrified to admit that to anyone, but it was a truth I lived with. Even after graduating from college (I was 20, geez), and on my way to law school, I had absolutely no idea. I knew that the economy was in the toilet, and I knew that there were things I did like doing—cooking/baking, discovering craft beer, reading books, playing video games—I had no idea how my life was going to turn out. I had barely any money to my name, and I was about to go into close to $50,000 of debt for a single year of law school. I was in a relationship that I thought was the end all be all of relationships in my life, I was moving away from my home city and my family, and to be entirely honest, I was absolutely scared to death.

The good news was that, despite that debt, and that one year of law school I was miserable in, and that relationship dissolving very shortly after my move… I finally figured out what I wanted to do. I had never been so sure about anything in my life. I walked out on that fear and uncertainty and walked into a whole new world: finding a job. 

And after eight months of searching, and stress, and utter fear that I wouldn’t ever get my dream job, while working full time as a waitress, and living hand to mouth… I got a call to go to final interviews in Michigan.

Traveling to Michigan for the interview bankrupted me. I had gambled with the last of my savings to interview for my dream job. But I went up to Michigan with one thing in mind regardless: be myself no matter what, because I was tired of being anything but that.

When I returned home, I knew that if I didn’t get that job, that I would likely have one soon. Because I was lucky enough to be surrounded by one of the best communities in the world—the NC craft beer community. I had learned so much from my peers that I knew, eventually, it would happen. Someday it would happen… it was just a matter of time.

When I got the final call, I was walking into my apartment complex’s office to turn in the utility bill. It was, almost quite literally, the last money I had. I had $14 in my pocket, and that was it. The end of the line. When I was invited to join the team, I almost burst into tears on the phone. I had never felt such relief and happiness and a rush of adrenaline like that in my life as in that moment. When I called my Mom after, I could barely even talk. I bawled like a little baby while she did the same on the other end of the phone, because my dream was finally coming true. I had found my brewery—my second home and family.

A little more than four months later, I turned 23. I was living my dream, with my dream job. That was the “true love” I should have seen when I was 18. The industry I worked in. The passion for the craft.

That’s one of the most beautiful things about life: you have to live it to actually find out how your story will go.

I do not have a significant other. I have not for almost a year. And 18 year old me would have been freaking out about that. But I’m not. Eighteen year old Lindsay is the not the same as 23 year old Lindsay, and I am very happy for that.  

I’m lucky to have figured out my passion this young. I’m lucky to have the support of friends, family, my company, and of peers in the craft beer industry. Without them, it simply wouldn’t be the same.

So thank you, to everyone who has been there for me and who helped make 23 possible. I simply cannot thank you enough.

But also, thanks to 18 year old Lindsay, who became 23 year old Lindsay, and was so much better off for it.

 

Cheers.