The Champagne of Blogs

December 31, 1998. I’m shy of my 21st birthday, but I am carrying an ID that says I was born Christmas Eve, 1975. I’m visiting Madison, Wisconsin for the very first time, courtesy of my roommate Brian, a Wisconson native. After the requisite dinner with his parents, the two of us and a few of his friends and/or the younger generation of his family adjourn for more alcoholic waters, landing at one of Brian’s favorite Madison watering holes: the Essen Haus. It’s New Year’s Eve, it’s snowing, and I have no idea what I’m in for.

We enter from the parking lot, through the heavy double doors serving as the main entrance. My first clue that this is an unusual bar comes with the blast of heat cutting through the winter chill, and my heavily-insulated ears detect what sounds like … polka?

I am a native Iowan, composed of equal parts Swedish and German heritage, but of that uniquely American kind that contains not a trace of its original ethnic roots. The closest I ever got to ethnic food as a kid was when we ate pizza. We rarely had bratwurst, let alone spaetzle or some of the other German foods I’ve since come to savor. But I am getting ahead of myself …

The music, which we’ve now confirmed is polka, increases in volume as we near the bar, and it feels as though we’ve walked into a party in full swing. A serious party. There is beer EVERYWHERE … in mugs large and small, in pitchers, and … in boots. Glass boots. BIG glass boots. “I want one.” My genes are tingling.

As we settle into a long table near the musicians, a waitress approaches in full German barmaid costume. “Is this heaven?” Again I feel my heritage stirring. At least I think that’s my heritage.

We pony up for a boot of something alcholic, liquid, golden and German, but we have to fork over an $80 deposit before they’ll leave the container in our raucous trust. Doing some quick calculations, I decide that my checking account is probably up to the challenge, as is my liver. I don’t recall running into “the bubble” encountered in the movie Beer Fest, but things became a little blurry after downing the two liters of alcohol that tradition dictates must not touch the table.

The blurrier things got, the more at home I felt. The accordians! The feathered caps! The beautiful blondes in cleavage-enhancing dirndls! This was my long-lost heritage! I was home!

As bar closing approached, I grew alternately happier and sadder. I loved this place, but I was going to have to leave it, to return who knew when? I began to contemplate a souvenir, something to remind me of my newly-discovered Motherland. As the alcoholic fog set in, boldness descended, and I realized there were souvenirs EVERYWHERE. On the walls, above my head … everywhere I looked there were hundreds, no, THOUSANDS of mugs. Surely they wouldn’t miss one, right? But one mug would be lonely, right? Perhaps one mug might like a friend to keep him company in my cupboard, so far away in Iowa.

I removed two mugs from the wall as surreptitiously as my impaired limbs would allow, tucking one under each arm beneath my heavy winter coat, seemingly designed specifically for this task – I had found my heritage, and my coat had found its special purpose! When my friends were ready, I led the way, striding carefully toward the door just 10 feet, 8 feet, now 6 feet, now BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!

I hadn’t noticed the retail store-style metal detectors on the way in, but I was aware of them now, as was everyone else in the bar. I rushed out the door as fast as I could, but as my feet reached freedom, my shoulder was slowed by a strong arm trying to keep me in the door. Momentum carried me outside, but I was followed closely by the doorman, who didn’t look happy.

“If this were anything but New Year’s Eve, I would have your ass in jail right now.”

“Uhh, sorry.”

“Give me the mug.”

I carefully removed one of the mugs from beneath my coat, handing it to him sheepishly.

“I never forget a face, and you are NOT welcome back here. If I ever see you here again, I will call the police.”

As he turned his back and re-entered the bar, I spun and took a step in the opposite direction, my heart beating double-time, feeling proud of my apparent misdirection. So smart, so bold, so … CRASH. The remaining mug slipped from under my arm, shattering on the frozen asphalt.

I didn’t think. I ran.

And that was the last time I visited the Essen Haus, until last weekend, when I returned for Brian’s wedding. The doorman wasn’t there (he probably wouldn’t have recognized me anyway given my gray hair), but the atmosphere inside was just as I remembered it. Warm (especially compared to the -8 temperature outside), festive, beery. I came alone, but I felt comfortable sitting among the people at the bar, my people.

The metal detectors were gone, but the mugs were still mostly there. Some careful conversations with the bartender confirmed that more than a few of them have walked out over the years, replaced by new ones. Apparently of the thousands covering the ceilings, very few are used regularly, most purchased decades ago and abandoned like so many good intentions.

The boots are mostly plastic now, though a few glass vessels remain. The deposits have disappeared with the glass, though. On Thursday nights, UW students stream in for $14 2L boots, and they no longer have to check their account balances before sharing their beer-filled footwear with the table. School was out when I visited, so the place was a little slow, but the spirits were still as high as I remembered them, as you can see in this very brief video I shot with my new Mino HD of the house band and bar staff. Prost!

Oh, and by way of restoring my karmic balance sheet, I’ll personally donate $2 to Mercy Corps for every comment this post receives (limit $200). Hopefully that covers the mug. ;)

A change is coming to this country. After many years, we’re being asked to change the way we see the world, to embark on a new chapter, one of hope, one of faith, but most importantly, one of deep reflection. The status quo hasn’t worked. Our collective attitude has proven costly, wasteful, and arrogant. It’s time for something new.

Oh, you thought I was talking about Obama? Yeah, he’s great. But this is a beer blog. Sure, we had an inauguration party last Tuesday, celebrating this new chapter in America’s history, but we also toasted another change: craft beer in cans.

Sure, beer has come in cans for a long time. As a matter of fact, the first beer can went on sale 74 years ago yesterday. The big guys have been doing it for years, with Coors adding such features as the chug-friendly “vented wide-mouth” and dubiously scientific “frost-brewed liner” to the form.

Until 2002, American beer in cans meant one thing: lagers, low on flavor, iced down so cold as to be tasteless. Oskar Blues brewing company in Colorado changed all that when they started releasing their craft beers in cans. It made good financial sense: glass is very expensive as a material, very heavy, and very fragile. Aluminum is cheap, light, and durable. Advances in liner materials prevented the beer from coming in contact with the aluminum the cans are made of, preventing the metallic taste synonymous with cheap beer.

I especially enjoyed the “Gordon,” a double IPA that reminded me of Hair of the Dog’s sweetish Blu Dot, but in a smaller form factor (which worked out well given its 8.7% abv).

Other breweries followed, and today, Cask Brewing Systems of Canada lists 41 US craft brewers as customers on their web site, including Oregon’s own Caldera Brewing Company in Ashland, makers of Caldera Pale Ale and the colorfully-canned camping trip standby Caldera IPA, modeled here by one Kevin Platt.

As a frequent beer traveller, I appreciate cans for their portability; every time I visit Minnesota, I make sure to pick up a few cans of Surly Brewing’s Furious and Bender (still waiting for Darkness to make its way to a can …), and toss them confidently in my checked luggage. When I bring home glass-encased beer, I always feel as if I’m playing Russian Roulette – I know it’s only a matter of time before my wedding suit is splashed in IPA.

Exhibit A: The two six-packs of canned craft beer that arrived on my doorstop last week, courtesy of 21st Amendment in San Francisco. Were they wrapped in plastic? Wound with bubble wrap? Triple-bagged for my protection? Hell, no! The cans came in a hastily-packed cardboard box with mere beer coasters for protection, and a handful of packing peanuts thrown in, more garnish than packing material. Cans intact? 100% survived the trip. Contrast that with my shipment of Belgian bottles, highly padded, dishonestly-labeled, and ultimately, broken in transit.

I was surprised by the Watermelon Wheat, having avoided it at the last three Oregon Brewers’ Festivals. I assumed it was a syrupy sweet fruit bomb designed for the sorority girl crowd, but it was surprisingly dry with strong watermelon aroma, and an almost vegetal bitterness that reminded me of rind. A bit light for winter drinking, but I can’t wait to try one this summer.

The true judge of the format, though? The people. And I’d say they had a pretty good time if the below photo is any measure. I noticed a funny thing on the way to this beer review: people were having a really good time with the canned beer. I host a fair number of beer tastings, and I sometimes sense some tension around the margins of the events – perhaps a fear of appearing unsophisticated? This time, even the less beer-experienced seem to really enjoy the wide variety of flavors (Watermelon Wheat, anyone?) now available in cans. I think the format is just a little more fun than people are used to having with something so delicious. Sometimes, it’s a good thing to put down the fancy stemware and get back to basics.

Oh, and it’s a lot easier to clean up after a canned beer party than a glassy one.

What if I told you that there was a magical place where you could buy single bottles of hundreds of craft beers in bottles ranging from 12 ounces to 750ml? What if I told you that place had a walk-in beer color that carried these same beers at ready-to-drink temperatures? What if I told you this place also had brewing supplies, from liquid yeast to propane burners? What if I told you that this magical place was in Iowa?

Why, you’d call me Beer Crazy.

Beer Crazy is no Belmont Station, but it is pretty impressive by midwest standards. As a rule, most places I’ve visited in Iowa are loathe to break up a six-pack, even higher-end grocery stores (don’t even think about asking at a liquor store). Sure, you can buy a tall-boy of Bud Icy Freeze at the suggestively-named Kum-N-Go (believe it!), but ask to make a mixed six at Gateway Market, and the clerks look at you as if you’d asked to borrow a puppy for target practice.

Cleverly hidden away in a strip mall in suburban Urbandale, Iowa, Beer Crazy stocks a wide variety of brews, from Belgian standards like Chimay and Duvel, but really shines in their regional offerings. I made up a couple of six-packs containing beers from Bell’s (Michigan), Left Hand (Colorado), Breckenridge (Colorado), Fort Colins (Colorado), Millstream (Amana, Iowa), Old Capitol (Iowa City, Iowa), Boulevard (Kansas City, MO), and Brau Brothers (Lucan, Minnesota).

Of these, the Bell’s beers were far and away my favorites. I picked up some Kalamazoo Stout (had a dry smokiness I wasn’t expecting, but enjoyed), Special Double Cream Stout (again, a little on the dry side, and a wee bit bitter, but tasty), Christmas Ale (similar to Bridgeport’s Ebeneezer, a little spicy on a malty dark base, maybe a bit weaker), and my go-to Midwest IPA: Two Hearted Pale Ale (fabulous in a bottle, even better on tap).

I didn’t explore the homebrew supplies too much, but from what I could see, there was a robust selection of yeast in a sliding-door cooler, and about 20 feet of equipment on shelves 8-10 feet high, and an equal amount of ingredient/kit storage. It’s no Portland/St. Paul homebrew store, but what it lacks in homebrew supplies, it more than makes up for by selling delicious craft brew on premises.

I don’t want to get my mom too excited by saying so, but Des Moines is getting a heck of a lot more livable than it used to be, with great beer bars like El Bait Shop and the Red Monk, and a really uniquely awesome combination bottle/homebrew store in Beer Crazy. I’ll definitely be back (to visit).