April showers...

Penguin In A Box

Fraserburgh's growing on me. The drab, grey stone buildings seem more handsome, almost stately. The vast, monotonous sea has brightened and welcomed me on its beach for a few refreshing runs on my days off. Time has handed me familiarity, leading to a certain comfort and ownership of the streets and shops. I have my favorite spots staked out: Farm Foods for four energy drinks and bunched bananas at the pound, Findlay's for the meatiest fish and chips and the cute girl behind the counter, BodyTec gym for the usual masochism and local gossip from the owner. All of this fondness is blossoming during the worst weather the region's had since winter seemed to be on its way out a month ago.

Tha brewhouse. The tall tanks are fermenters and that smaller one in the back is the kettle.

But my time is still concentrated in the caverns of the brewery that overlooks the white-capped waves and golden-green dunes. The daily schedule is regular enough: rise at 7:30 or so, chew a banana in the warmth of my bed, browse The (NY) Times for the latest surreal news from a now foreign land, chuckle at the obstinate dark puffs that have found a home under my eyes (I look a lot more tired than I feel), and meet Jack and Franz on the doorstep for a ride from Stewart. This past week I've gotten lucky as I've spent most of my time assisting Franz in brewing the necessary batches of beer. We've had Trashy Blonde, 77 Lager, and Alpha Dog marathons, back-to-back brews of each to fill their respective fermenters. It took four consecutive 50 hl brews to fill a 200 hl fermenting tank of Trashy, and right after that we did the same with Alpha. A new 200 hl tank was just installed on my days off, so now three massive tanks stand like sentries outside the brewery, guarding the inside from Nazis, fascists, and right-wing extremists and acting as our decorative seagull-shit-collectors. For each brew, Franzie and I will check out the brew sheet, assemble the necessary bags of malt and measure out the brewing salts, and begin to mash. Franz pours the pre-crushed grains into the auger and adjusts the simultaneous flow of water into the mash tun while I precariously straddle the elevated tun and use a plastic shovel to stir the rising tide of malt and water. After all the malt has been emptied into the auger, the water is shut off and the mash is allowed to sit for a healthy chunk of time. We measure the temperature and pH of the mash to make sure the enzymes will work properly. At this point, my pits are fully saturated, my face has gotten a steam treatment from poking it into the near-boiling mash tun, and my head, shoulders, and upper back are caked with a doughy film of barley malt flour from the humming auger that hangs above my head. I already could use a nice, sudsy shower, but I still need to clean out the mash tun and kettle, so I might as well save it 'til later. As the mash sits and the molecules do their job, Franz prepares for the filtration. Sometimes we have lunch at this point (by this time it can be around 2 or 3 in the afternoon). Sometimes I must stave off my hunger by drinking more instant coffee or knawing on the bits of dead skin on my hands. But usually lunch is agreed to be a good idea by the majority of us who don't have breakfast or who just have a banana in bed. So, Tesco it is. Tesco provides us with novel nourishment; Jack bought an assortment of eclairs and cream puffs which he was forced to eat in five minutes, accounting for 200% of his daily allotment for saturated fat. Stewart once bought what appeared to be half a pig. He added some limp salad greens to the side for health's sake. David got me hooked on trying all the different offerings of milkshakes; Chocolate YOP and Frij Fudge Brownie are tied for first. Franz has been creative with his inspiring run of canned haggis sandwiches (I'm still waiting to finish digesting the deep-fried haggis I had last week before I try his culinary creation). Anyway, lunch is fun, but it's soon back to the grindstone. By this time the sweet wort is being drained from and filtered by the bed of spent grain into the kettle, where it eventually comes to a boil. This is when I work my hop magic. I've had the job of weighing out the hops for the boil, and I relish every second of it. BrewDog uses hops in two forms: whole flowers (about the size of acorns, only soft) or pellets (looks like rabbit food). They're both vacuum-packed into 5 kg blocks and smell orgasmic when opened. They can be fruity, floral, herbal, minty, piney, resinous, even orange-creamy. Hops are like catnip for me, and the guys say they often find me curled into a ball behind the fermenters, scratching ferociously with my hind legs at a packet of hops. I don't remember any of these episodes. Regardless, the hops are added to the boiling wort and the next step is prepared. This next step is to 'cast' the boiled wort through a heat exchanger and into a fermenter, where yeast is added at a nice, cool and comfortable temperature to begin fermentation.

Tub o' frozen Sink the Bismarck with some inappropriate grafitti. Since water freezes before alcohol, this tub is drained to collect the concentrated beer, leaving mostly frozen water in the original vessel.

Of course, there's cleanup. Bill Dunn, brewmaster for Elm City, a local brewpub back home, told me once that to be a brewer is to be a "glorified janitor." He's right. And, for some reason, I'm embracing this with almost religious vigor. I used to hate, absolutely hate, doing chores at home, especially washing dishes. My mom can attest, after enduring years of post-meal whining. Now I volunteer to do dishes if I'm hosted for dinner, and I'm finding myself looking forward to cleaning the mash tun and kettle. It's therapeutic and relaxing and my attraction to it probably has some deep, weird psychological underpinnings, but I'll happily accept that. I enjoy it, too, because it's like taking a steambath. I actually have to remove my shirt when I clean out the piping hot mounds of spent grain, otherwise I would soak completely through it. It's my replacement for the sauna up the road at home.

Stewart digs in.

Speaking of cleaning, a few days ago I witnessed something extraordinary. It was completely destructive and almost harmless, so it was all the more glorious to witness in a safe, sheltered area, which is where I happened to be. This was April 1st - April Fool's Day for the jokers out there - late afternoon and all was well. I was digesting a pleasant tuna and cheese panini that I bought with Red, the tall Ewan McGregor-look-alike (and sound-alike, since they're both Australian). Red was digesting I think a chicken slamwich, but more importantly he was preparing about 20 kilos of hop pellets to add to a 60 hl (1,585 gallons) fermenter filled with fermenting Hardcore IPA, for that fruity dry-hop kick. To do this, someone else, not me, has to lift him up with a forklift to the top of the ceiling-high tank so he can dump the hops in the top. Well, what he and I and nearly everyone in the brewhouse didn't take into consideration was the effect 20 kilos of hop pellets would have on a beer with a hell of a lot of CO2 in solution. There are these things some academics call "nucleation points", and these are what that dissolved CO2 is looking to latch on to to come out of solution. When Red dumped in that load of hops, the beer went mental. Think Mentos in a bottle of Coke. The beer exploded, started to gush everywhere, out, up, and down. A waterfall of foamy Hardcore spewed down and around the tank, sounding much like a roaring Amazonian rainstorm, covering everyone below it in a sticky, lip-smackingly tasty blanket of beer. Meanwhile, Red was bracing the constant shower from the manway at the top, battling heroically with the pressure of the current to close the lid. After a good couple minutes of this Mentos effect of beer, Red managed to cage the beast and the last drops trickled down the tank to join the several inches that covered the brewhouse floor. Red was soaked from top to toe, Jack (who was operating the forklift) got a good shower, Stewart tried unsuccessfully to climb up the forklift in an instinctual effort to help Red, and David and I remained under cover and dry as driftwood. I think Red was actually pretty lucky he escaped with only a shower of beer and extreme stickiness; a fall from that height could have been fatal, and the CO2 up there was enough to make breathing noticeably heavier. In all, we estimate 15 or so hectoliters of 9.2% abv Hardcore was lost. It was a clever April Fool's joke that someone pulled on us, amazing and amusing to watch but expensive and labor-intensive to deal with.

The Day It Rained Beer. Red is standing on that box thing being hoisted by the forklift, somewhere in the midst of that yeasty mist.

That's it for this episode. I did take a night's trip to Aberdeen on a day off and found some nice pubs and nicer people. Ali and Jenia were my couchsurfing hosts, real sweet and good company. Ali used to be a cheesemonger, so he pointed me in the direction of a small specialty cheese shop where I bought a trifecta of UK cheeses, including a lovely washed rind that I enjoyed with a packet of crumbly oatcakes, though I got some funny looks and crinkled noses on the bus. Ali and Jenia have invited me to join them on a bit of hiking in the Cairngorms in mid-April; assuming the weather warms up a bit, that sounds like a jolly good transition from BrewDog to Marble in Manchester.

The kettle is just asking for a scrub-down.

One last pleasantry: Tim, my friend and future brewery owner from back home, tells me the Gilsum Village Store (in, er, Gilsum) now has Punk IPA! If you're not local, this means nothing to you, but I'm ecstatic that BrewDog distributes to such obscure places and that the Gilsum Store would stock such quality beers. Go beer!

Fraserburgh on a fine morning.

Some Pun Involving Dogs and Beer

Last day in Belgium, washing crates, tired yet still cheery

Crates, tastes, and haste. That’s how I left Belgium. My final day with Urbain saw us joined by two well-malted Americans, Gene and GT, for a bit of crate-washing. Sixteen palettes, or 960 crates, took us an hour and a half, and we celebrated our quick work with a meal at Westvleteren Abbey’s café, In de Vrede. I had a couple sips of the 8, but my body was still trying to mend the microvilli damaged from the night before, my final night in Belgium. That final night inevitably brought on a medley of tastings, mostly Struise classics including Pannepot Reserva, much-missed and gaining my vote as the best version of Pannepot out there, and vintage Earthmonk, a more malty, buttery version that GT declared was his favorite beer. A Cantillon Organic Gueuze was de-corked as well, and the guys saw me off by cracking open two Mikkeller IPAs in the parking lot, part of a series of single-hopped IPAs; we tried the Amarillo and Tomahawk. Tomahawk was a bit brighter, more tropical, and Amarillo was more rounded with perhaps a touch of cedar-like character. Without a moment to spare, we hurried to the train, snapped a couple pictures of Urbain and I (a rarity) and were broken apart by the harsh whistle of the conductor. My time in Belgium had come to a close, and Scotland was a-waitin’.

GT, Urbs, and Gene at In de Vrede, posing for their next pop-rock album

I arrived in Edinburgh at 11 pm, dragging perhaps 35 kilos or more of luggage around, feeling like an ESPN Strong Man competitor doing that trapezius walk, releasing primitive grunts and breathing way too heavily to be in public. Calum, my couchsurfing host, greeted me excitedly and showed me the bed, which I hugged until it was morning. I couldn’t have spent a better first full day in Scotland. At noon I ate a breakfast/lunch of curried veggies at an invitingly crunchy establishment called the Forest Café, run by volunteers and catering to the vegetablists out there. I was happy to see something, anything, other than processed meat. (The next morning I exhibited culinary ambivalence and splurged on a Scottish breakfast of blood pudding, sausage, egg, ham, and buttered toast, with one-half of a roasted tomato plopped parenthetically on the plate.) At one o'clock I careened into a free walking tour of Edinburgh and was regaled with tales of body-snatching, witch-hanging, castle-building, and Stone of Destiny-stealing, after which I invited two other Americans for a drink at the Bow Bar where we partook in some of my first real ales. “Real” defines a beer as being cask-conditioned, or carbonated and matured in the cask it is served in. Yeast remains in the cask, settled at the bottom, so the beer is often considered “live.” Most of the real ales I’ve sampled in Edinburgh have been mild, malty, and sessionable. I probably destroyed my taste buds by starting this tour in Belgium, so I’ll have to go through a bit of an attenuation. A welcome attenuation.

Atop Arthur's Seat, smack in the middle of Edinburgh

After a couple half pints I had some quiche and headed over to Sandy Bell’s Bar, where the good times resonated from fiddles, guitars, flutes, and wavering Scottish voices. With a pint of Ossian and my iPod microphone at the ready, I nestled into a corner of the bar for a couple hours of traditional Scottish and Irish tunes and a few gorgeous songs. My heart filled to the brim with that melancholy satisfaction I get from those purest of melodies, and I knew my time in Scotland would not leave me wanting…

An Edwardian bar in Edinburgh, boasting some fine whiskies

The Bow Bar

… despite the isolation of my next stop, Fraserburgh! Yes, after another day in lively Edinburgh, perusing the Museum of Ancient Metal and Dirt (Nat’l Museum of Scotland – really cool) and getting schooled in the art of whisky tasting by my equally enthusiastic host Calum, I choo-choo’d my way up to a very northeast corner of Aberdeenshire county, home of the great fishing town of Fraserburgh and also home of the great yet still young BrewDog brewery, where I’ll be working another several weeks as a blunt brewing object. I’ve been here only one week and already my hands are raw and replete with dings, scrapes, blood blisters, yet medicated with a green sheen of hop resins. A lot of Nelson Sauvin and Amarillo!

I have to admit: it’s been tough here. The brewery runs 24 hours a day and production is continually increasing. BrewDog owes its success to hard work by everyone here in the brewery, its killer marketing strategies, and, most importantly, the high-quality range of beers it produces to back up its assertive, guerrilla, jungle-warfare marketing techniques. There’s a rotating staff for day and night shifts, each 12 hours long, and the work involves brewing, cleaning, kegging, bottling, packaging, and everything in between. When I first arrived and heard the schedule, I couldn’t imagine I’d be a very happy camper. I like to do other things than brew; I like reading and playing music and having time to take showers. I mean, what about useless internet time? Where was that? That, dear readers, is being replaced by a good, honest day’s work after which I can come home, have a beer that I really earned, and know that I’m learning a helluva lot about brewing damn good beer. Ideally, in a perfect, flowery world filled with unicorns and friendly leprechauns, I would be working in a smaller-scale, more aesthetic brewing environment (I’m really a sucker for environment), but I have no complaints about my time at BrewDog thus far. Bring on the brew, dogg.

So, what’s it all like? First of all, the sea breeze is amazing. The breeze is usually from the southwest, the mainland, but it intermingles with the crusty, salted, oily, burnt-rubber odors that emanate from the harbor and its boats to announce Fraserburgh’s proximity to the sea and dependence on fishing. The town is peppered with drab buildings and is unbearably gray, cut through like lard and relieved of its lipid oppression only by the occasional blinding blue sky and silver clouds of a bright day; the lime-green seaside grass atop rolling dunes makes for a nice view from the beachfront brewery as well. Each day I arise to the cries of the roosters of the coast, those prolific gulls, and head to work with a few other semi-temporary BrewDog employees from the unofficial BrewDog guesthouse. Along with James and Martin, the Emperor Penguins of the brewery; Nara, Angela, and Kelly, the callused computer-typers/office workers; Stew, Graeme, David, and Skinny, native Scots with full-time brewery responsibilities; a handful of weathered, part-time fishermen working in the packaging department; and another handful of Polish handymen (Fraserburgh has a curiously large Polish contingent), I’m joined by a few brewery mercenaries on a slightly similar track as mine. These guys are all about my age and are undergoing a three-month trial period at BrewDog, after which each party will decide whether further employment is appropriate. Jack and Red are from Down Under, presumably descendants of expelled moonshiners, and Franz is a pils-drinking Dusseldorfian and proof that Sink the Bismarck was all for a bit of a laugh. Speaking of Sink the Biz, we (or mostly Jack and Stew) just extracted, mega-dry-hopped, and bottled the latest batch, all of which I think is pre-sold. Sorry. It had more of a bite than I remember at Pré-ZBF, perhaps due to the punch released by those fresh hop oils. Zing!!! Other goings-on at the brewery have included kegging nearly 7,500 liters of Trashy Blonde for a beer festival hosted by a chain of Scottish pubs (I know, we shouldn't have), brewing batch after batch of beer including Zeitgeist and Punk IPA, and watching as Stew works his magic trying to fiddle with a fussy bottling machine. Stew, dubbed “Big Stewart” by the fishermen and sporting loud tattoos and a dominating “strawberry-blonde” goatee, does not, by any standard, look like a patient man. Yet, after six hectic and scrambling hours tinkering with a malfunctioning bottling machine, Stew finally admitted, “I’m starting to lose my patience with this thing.” I also hear he’s only once punched a dude.

Tomorrow I work a half-day and will take some pictures while I’m at it. I hope to see the newest Dog, Tom Cadden, who’s regional sales manager for the London area and a highly advanced (and, again, young) taster with over 6,000 beer reviews on Ratebeer. I’ll have much more to say about my time here, the lads, bruces, burghers, and two lassies that I work alongside, and my seemingly endless future plans (… Marble Brewery in Manchester and Saints and Sinners in London, for starters) after a few more busy, busy days.

A Nice, Smooth Finish (to Belgium)

Less than two days is all I have left here in gentle Belgium, the country I've spent the most time in behind the majestic America. I'm not sure what I'm feeling now, if anything, as I reflect on my time here and accept my imminent departure. (I spent yesterday alone, packing for Scotland, eating a truly Belgian lunch of a hard-boiled egg surrounded by a meatball and a dinner of blood sausage, yet I'm not sure if I'll miss or celebrate leaving this unique gastronomy.) Emotions are stewing, though, and will undoubtedly bubble to the surface as soon as the familiarity of this place is lost to the rhythm of another. Years down the road I look forward to flashes of nostalgia and bursts of longing to come back as I whiff a Belgian scent (mustardy farm rot, perhaps), ingest a Flemish morsel (stoofvlees, or beef stew, maybe), or catch a note of the soft staccato of Dutch from an ex-pat in America. Mostly, I will miss the people that made this a most welcoming and enjoyable trip. When, not if, I return to Belgium to visit, I will retrace my steps and visit all the families and individuals that hosted or shared a few beers with me. Next time, though, I think I'll come during the summer.

The Elliot mash

Above all, I have to thank my two primary hosts, Daniel and Urbain. Despite what Urbain says, I feel enormously indebted to them. (I feel a little like Greece might about the EU, but I haven't yet approached Wall Street for help. Too soon? OK.) Thoughts of them will surely come to me even when I'm old and decrepit, after I've passed the reins of my empire of beer onto the next generation, and my mood will brighten. Their impact on my ambitions, aspirations, and motivation, both professionally and generally, is comparable only to my family, close friends, and a small handful of others. In fact (and of course), I consider them close friends now; with the help of modern communication developments, they'll stay that way for a long time to come.

Menno and Urbain talk Black Damnation logistics

Since last week and that flurry of auctions, we've been as busy as ever. It was a mad rush of blending beers, filling kegs, brewing beer, and transferring the zeitgeist of Struise to Lakebosschen Castle in Ruddervoorde in preparation for the Pré-ZBF beer festival. Urbain's chin-length locks were again a blur as we scrambled around the school brewery and Deca, dragging kegs around, looking for parts, and organizing the eternal clutter that typifies, well, everything. I just got my ears lowered, so my hair was stiff as close-cut Kentucky bluegrass. Otherwise, we might have gotten lost in our mess of hair. Thursday morning was brewing time for Elliot, a crazily-hopped double IPA named after Jeppe's son. It was formerly a Struise/Mikkeller collaboration but Urbain has adopted the recipe. Deca was filled with a spicy, fruity fog of American noble hops and pale ale malt as the brew was successfully mashed, filtered, and boiled. At noon, Menno from the Dutch Brouwerij De Molen rolled into the brewhouse with a tank full of something black, thick, and alcoholic; he said something about Hel and Verdoemenis. I think he had used some of it as fuel to drive to Belgium, but Urbain pumped the rest into a tank filled partway with that Black Albert we brewed the other week. Rootah, Vootah, Zoot! Black Damnation!

Carlo whips up sumpin' good

After the yeast was happily swimming in 32 hectoliters of beer, and with no time to lose, Urbain and I drove to the castle to set up for the big dance. Crap, what a place! By no means particularly medieval, this place was still so grandiose that I fell silent and felt a pang of envious wonder at the thought of living in such an other-worldly domicile. It's not a big castle, and its architecture is a bit mix-and-match with stone, wood, and metalwork intermingled, but it all basically worked and was plopped in the middle of a maze of woods, gardens, and water. A few white geese honked royally to announce our trespassing. Set-up was rushed but perfectly timed, as thirsty beer hunters wandered in just as the kegs were tapped. Struise had an epic line-up for the two festival nights: Struiselensis, Pipe Dream, Earthmonk, Pruned Monk, Dopple Strauss, Pannepot, Sint Amatus, and old-school Dirty Horse. There might've been more, but I was swept away, most coincidentally, to serve beers for another brewery that was missing its representative. That turned out to be BrewDog, the very place I'll be in a few short days.

After pouring a few 77 Lagers, everyone moved over to the main dining hall for a few drams of whisky, whisky-aged beer, and some bites of Glenn's beef stew made with Mano Negra and Mark's bread made with roasted malt and beer yeast. I stayed nearly dry that night but wolfed down that delicious sustenance as I was once again whisked away for work, this time dish duty (I was getting treated to a bed at a local B&B, beer samples, and food, so I kept my grumbling to myself and my dish partner, David). At the end of a late night, I relished the respite of my bed and hoped Friday would bring more socializing and less scrubbing.

Friday was, in fact, one of the best beer festival experiences I've had. The day started out well, as a spread of cheeses - bloomy, penicillined, and piquant alike - greeted us with full aromatic pomp. After breakfast I joined two guys from De Molen for a walk to the castle; the sun dissolved most of my sleep deprivation and gave me a kick of endorphins. To accommodate the surging influx of festival-goers, and because Friday evening was also the night of another beer festival elsewhere, the gates opened at 10 am. The four faces of Struise, Urbain, Carlo, Peter, and Phil, each had a hand on a tap and another in the hand of an idolatrous beer lover so I transferred my labor to the cozy BrewDog corner next to a crackling fireplace and was kept busy cracking open bottles with a guy I think I'll be spending much more time with soon; Martin, BrewDog's founder and brewer, arrived just in time to throw me a company shirt before the first tasters dribbled in.

The castle. One of three pictures I took during the whole festival. I'll put up a link to other photos as soon as other people put them up, unless they were all as busy as I was.

The first beer poured from the BrewDog stand, at 10:05 am, was Sink the Bismarck. Later in the day, I tried a sip myself; at 41% abv, the alcohol is unavoidably present, but the tasting experience isn't really comparable to taking a dram of whisky or a sip of rum. It's not quite flat, buoyed by a very fine, slight carbonation, and the taste creeps up exponentially in your mouth the way an intensely sour hard candy or fiery hot pepper gradually tickles your salivary glands. The flavor is sweet from both the alcohol and concentrated residual sugars, not overly bitter, yet so incredibly hoppy that some flavor notes were present that I never thought possible in a beer. Salty, piney, resinous, fishy, grapefruity - strange yet wonderful. I also tried the Tactical Nuclear Penguin, a 32% abv sixfold stout, and lavished that one mouthful that satisfied my sweet, bitter, and smoky "teeth" to the extreme. Until 8 pm, Martin and I sat behind the bar and served the happy customers samples of some of the UK's best beers. I think it was just loud enough, and my Yankee accent just twangy enough, for the Englishmen who passed through to not fully understand that I wasn't Scottish. At the end of the night, out of all the beers poured at the BrewDog bar, the one that kicked first was Nanny State, their nearly alcohol-free beer (0.5% abv) of surprising character and hoppy robustness. It's my new favorite, and I can't wait to get my hands on some for the muggy American summer that's approaching.

Pré-ZBF was a theatrical ending to my time here in Belgium. When all the characters in a play come back on stage for that song- and dance-filled finale, that's what it was like. Everyone was there: Glenn and Davy from Alvinne; Menno and the De Molen crew; the old festival volunteer crew of David, Mark, Stephan, and Youri; those intrepid beer journalists William, David, and Sofie; the English Geeks Mes, Sim, and Ian; Uli, that crazy German lambic-blending genious; those Italians Lorenzo Dabove, the Prince of the Payottenland, and Alex "Alora, Ciao" Liberati; Luc from Zythos; and some others I'm sure I missed. There were plenty of folks to meet, too; it ain't just, "Here's your beer, now scram, kid!" The Thornbridge brewers, Kelly and Matthew, were able to leave their stand for a visit, brewer Tom from Twickenham Fine Ales had a good spot next to fire and chatted with me for a while, Dominic from the Marble Brewery in Manchester enjoyed his time at the BrewDog nook, and I was able to meet a three-dimensional Ryan, known previously only through Facebook. I hope to see all of these kindred spirits in the future, perhaps for a beer or a brew, hopefully the latter.

I'm looking forward to Scotland. Martin was great company during the festival, and James was chipper and inviting on the phone. It'll be hard work up there, especially with the March winds whipping in from the sea, but I'll tack it up as more invaluable experience and perhaps have some good times with the Dogs to boot. My plans are still as open as a kilt, but I wouldn't mind seeing Scotland in the spring. Who knows, a summer back in Belgium might just have to happen, too...

Gettin' Some Auction

I thought I'd punch in one more entry before the ball of this busy week gets rolling. This Thursday and Friday is the highly anticipated Pré-ZBF Festival, the event that long ago I declared as the climax to this Belgian brewing adventure. I've already bought a plane ticket to Scotland for next Tuesday, where I hope to maintain the buzz I've felt during my time with Struise. This coming week, however, will be packed tighter'n canned sardines marinated in soybean oil. We've got several beers to keg, including Earthmonk, Mokkabom (aka Black Damnation II: BD fermented on whole coffee beans), Black Mes (Black Damnation aged on Caol Isla Distiller's Edition '95 whisky), and Coffeeclub (Black Damnation II aged on Havana Club rum). These new BD beers are part of a developing collection of a dozen beers based on Black Damnation that will be released in the coming months. In addition, Struise will be serving Sint Amatus, a newly released oak-aged quad of sorts, some of the original batch of Black Albert from 2008, Pipedream, and a keg of the original Dirty Horse (this kriek-like beer is now 25 years old, brewed back in the 80s by a young, homebrewing Urbs). In between filling every available empty cavity with beer (not, um, any body cavities... yet) we have to brew some beer, too. I mean, we are a brewery. "Elliot", a double IPA named after Jeppe's son (see previous post), will be brewed on Wednesday, and it looks like the Witte will be brewed on Thursday morn'. With the first night of Pré-ZBF, Whisky Night, exploding on Thursday, it's going to be a marathon of a day. How do you train for such a marathon? That is my question.

Nine earthy liters; I spy an unawares photographer

But before we delve into the art of being busy in the brewhouse, some loose ends must be tied up here in the schoolhouse offices. Urbain has been conjuring up some magic on The Internets, pounding out some spells on the keyboard that are making die-hard beer geeks die even harder. He's been creating some auctions for bottles of special-release beers, the profits of which will go to saving the Vleteren region's school bus service. The announcement can be found on their website, and the auctions can be found through this link. Up for sale are a bottle of 2005 Pannepot Grand Reserva, four bottles of 1983 Dirty Horse, two bottles of 2008 Earthmonk infused with La Vieille Prune (barrel-aged distillate of prunes), aaaaaaand.... one 9-liter bottle of Earthmonk proper. Earthmonk is a dangerously smooth, fastidiously blended Flanders sour ale that will satisfy your desire for a full-bodied yet refreshingly tart fruity beer. Imagine how many people you could please with 9 liters of this stuff! More auctions, and thus more beers, are on the way.

Damn Dirty Horse

Might as well make one more thing public; no sense in keeping it a secret. I'm well into ruminating over the fact that I'll need a job when I return to the States. I've been contacting as many New England breweries as possible to see if an assistant brewer position is open anywhere. So, if any of you, Dear Readers, have any leads regarding brewery work (not just in New England), I would love to hear from you. Thanks!

Beer comes out of some random tanks strewn across the farm

One last note: Carlo was feeling celebratory on Saturday, so he decided to open a beer, an American one, for us to try. Trying these American beers (a lot of West Coast beers that are hard to find in the East) makes me excited to go home, wrap the silky stars 'n' stripes around my torso, and sip all the sweet nectars Uncle Sam has to offer. What we tried was 2008 Cuvee de Tomme, from Lost Abbey. Their website describes it as "a massive brown ale base that is made from four fermentable sugars including Malted Barley, Raisins, Candi Sugar and Sour Cherries, this beer is fully fermented before being placed in Bourbon barrels where the beer ages for one year with the Sour Cherries and the wild Brettanomyces yeast that we inoculate the barrels with." I have to say it was Capital, just Capital! A hearty yet delicately tart beer with just the right amount of carbonation and dark fruit character.

Early Morning Musings

Read it and weep. DSB Wild Pannepot, all ret and seady for Italy.

It's a wonder what rising from bed at four in the morning can do to one's focus and productivity. I find I either stumble out of bed, quite literally, completely disoriented, with the interrupted dream still humming in my head with more clarity than the waking consciousness, or I clear the sleepy gunk from my eyes with calm deliberateness and pull on my boots just as content and rested as if it was four hours later, as normal. At least I have some early-rising experience, a residual benefit from my job at Orchard Hill Bakery in New Hampshire, where the toasty smell of fresh bread was my coffee on those humid summer morns. This morning was a morning of the latter type, despite it being the fifth 4 AM morning in the past eight days. I feel friggin' GREAT! Perhaps it's the double-strength coffee I made; I'm still getting used to the beans-to-water ratio. And I think I'm developing an ulcer.

Alex and Urbs do the SuperRoll Shuffle

Urbain and I have been brewing up a storm, though this morning was early to assist Nicolas during the mash for Deca Brouwerij's Antiek Blond. Yesterday was a Pannepeut brewing day for us, and all went well. Mashing seems to be one of the trickier aspects of brewing at Deca, given the 100-year-old mash tun and filtering system. The malted barley is "stewed" for a good amount of time (for acidification and protein and starch degradation) before the husks of the grain act as a natural filter to separate the sweet liquid, wort, from the mash solids before boiling begins. The filtration system at Deca consists of three valves that run off wort by gravity, and tweaking these valves to steadily and successfully leak out clear wort is an art form in itself. This skill has to be blended with the ability to hit the desired gravity (essentially, the amount of dissolved sugars) of the wort;this variable is tweaked by adding water to dilute the wort or, later, adding fermentable sugars during the boil to boost the gravity. Along with the seamless brew of yesterday, Urbain and I brewed three days in succession last week: Pannepot on Thursday and Black Albert on Friday and Saturday.

Those hand trolleys are about a century old

I'll soon be posting a photo album on glorious Facebook that follows the steps of brewing (a Struise beer) from start to finish. First, the order of malts must be unloaded. At Deca, this involves forklifting all ten or so palettes up a couple stories to be manually trolleyed or shouldered over to the grain hopper for easy access. To prepare for the brew, the malts are milled and subsequently stored in their original malt bags to be dumped into the mash tun. I think I figured out why I'm losing weight over here in beery, meaty Belgium: Urbain and I move 1000 kilos of malt for one brew five times, giving us each a back-cracking workout of lifting 2500 kilos. Per brew. That's Jean Claude Van Damage. It helps us warm up for the brisk, early-morning brewhouse chill - Deca is essentially an open-air brewery. Next up is mashing. Hot water is added to the malt in multiple steps to optimize acidification and starch/protein breakdown, which creates fermentable sugars and sculpts the body (and soul) of the beer. After the three-hour filtration to separate the liquid from the barley husks and unwanted solids, this wort is boiled in the big copper kettle to which hops and, if the recipe dictates, sugars or spices are added. Upstairs, where the boil kettle manway is located, clouds of thick, white, wet, pungent steam purl out and create a pore-clearing, beer-scented sauna. It's really damn therapeutic. I say we set up a parallel sauna business up there, charge for admission and let the hoards sweat it out and watch while we dump in the hops. Anyway, after the boil the wort is pumped through a heat exchanger and into the fermenting vessel, where yeast is added to the (now) cool wort and evolution can be observed in real time. The yeasties get their groove on and go buck-wild for a couple days before slowing and settling down. The beer is then pumped to a secondary fermenter to undergo another, last-call fermentation for a couple weeks. Bottling and conditioning is next, but I'll spare you (and myself) the details for at least another few weeks.

Nicolas hoses down that beauty of a fermenter

And that's it in a nutshell, as they say. It's nuts. Crazy stuff, but there's so much to it that's infinitely fascinating. Brewing satiates many of my intellectual, creative, physical, social, georgic, and gustatorial desires. I'd really like to divulge my philosophy on beer right now, but I think, given the fact that I feel like I'm about to crash from the early morning/too much caffeine combination, that I will save that for a more clear-headed, quiet, contemplative afternoon.

Don't fall in the boil kettle, Urbs, for God's sake

Since returning from my sojourn in the States, Urbain and the Struise Empire have seen some busy times. Alex Liberati, of Brasserie 4:20 fame, kept us busy with a request for a barrel of Wild Pannepot. Urbs and I cleaned out several old wine barrels and filled one (St.-Emilion Grand Cru from Chateau Tour Baladoz) with the funky Pannepot, bunged it up, and sealed it with devilishly aromatic pine tar. Alex will bring this big beauty back to Rome for what will undoubtedly be a fun, wild beer event. The same day Alex helped us roll the barrel into his van, the Zythos beer appreciation organization held a meeting at the old school; as hosts, we offered them some special draught beers: Struiselensis, a sour blond specialty; Doppel Strauss (a doppelbock); Pannepot; and Earthmonk, a Flemish oud bruin beer consisting of a third of oak-aged, sour beer and two-thirds young beer. Many familiar Belgian faces were present and will surely reappear, flushed and cheerful, at Pre-ZBF or ZBF in March.

Getting me some sweet Black Albert wort. Breakfast of champions.

My excitement for returning to the States and really kicking off this idea of professional brewing was renewed yesterday. Jeppe Jarnit-Bjergsø, co-owner of Ølbutikken, perhaps Denmark’s finest beer shop, and brother of Mikkel (brewer for, you guessed it, Mikkeller), visited the farm and Deca for part of our Pannepeut brewing day. He informed me of what seems to be a sizable contingent of American expats brewing in Denmark, including a fellow named Ryan Witter-Merithew (who brews for Fanø Bryghus) and another feller named Shaun Hill. Shaun is back in the States now, working towards opening his own Vermont farmhouse brewery (check out his blog here) and, though he doesn't know me yet, he has given me new inspiration and motivation. I look forward to meeting these young and enthusiastic brewers; Ryan says he'll be attending Pre-ZBF, and I think a drive across the Connecticut to visit Shaun will be in order upon my return.

Finally, I promised you a few more words on BrewDog, the next (do I dare say final?) stop on this snowballing brewing tour. I have to admit, most of my knowledge of this fledgling but exponentially growing brewery comes from gleaning news and information from The Inter-Nets; I've only tasted one of their beers, Punk IPA, which I thought was a solid, well-made beer. They do make noise, though, and recently regained the record for world's strongest beer. About half a year ago they brewed and cold-distilled Tactical Nuclear Penguin, a dark wallop of a beer that weighed in at 32% abv. Subsequently, a German brewery, Schorschbrau, passed this with a 40% beast of their own, only to be overtaken by BrewDog again, just about a week ago. The new strongest beer, Sink the Bismarck!, is a 41% hopped-up supertonic with true radioactive properties. Needless to say, BrewDog attracts a lot of attention, good and bad, due to their beers and their marketing techniques. I'm excited for this apprenticeship, perhaps a little wary, too, but I'm sure I'll have much to say from my first day in Scotland. Wish me luck.

At the end, when all has been done, at least the cows are happy

Empire/Bay/Granite State of Mind

As I mentioned before, I've just returned from a week and a half back stateside. I said I felt all tingly, and it really was true. I suppose I've situated myself so comfortably here in Belgium that visiting home was really a vacation within a vacation. I'm spoiling myself, I really am. Back in "sprookjesland," (i.e. New York City, Massachusetts and New Hampshire - well, Vermont, too), I was generously hosted and kept thoroughly contented by my friend Sophie, my brother Will and his wife Carmen, and my parents, Kathy and Randy.

As the plane floated shakily down onto the New York runway the travelers were serenaded by contemporary piano melod(ramatic)ies; on any other flight I would've cringed at the cornball sentimentality, but damn if the cityscape didn't bring a wistful tear to my homesick eye. I was in New York, fa cryin' out loud, a wayworn wanderer returning to the cultural capital of his beloved motherland. As I stepped out of the airport I was surprised at how familiar everything remained. I remember how pleasantly shocking everything about everyday European culture was when I first arrived: the downsized cars and buildings, the abundance of leather shoes and clothes, the intense bursts of women's perfumes and men's colognes as people walked by. By the time I left for New York I'd become accustomed to all that, and I figured I'd have to get used to the American standard when I returned. But no. The SUVs and baseball caps and constant noise made me feel right at home.

Behind the bar at McSorley's, New York's oldest operating pub. Notice the ales come in twos.

My friend Sophie, a year ahead of me at my Alma Mater, Brown, was the world's best hostess for the week I spent with her in Queens. Her flatmate, Tala, was the epitome of sweetness as well, and tolerated this stranger's intrusion with the utmost compassion. I was there with an open schedule and a three-day, MLK weekend so we were able to spend plenty of time breathing that slightly acidic yet overpoweringly invigorating (to a tourist, at least) New York air. Our days were filled with walks, food, pub visits, and quiet retirement as the jet lag set in with a vengeance and seemed to exhibit contagiousness. Saturday was our Brooklyn day, so Sophie and I set off beneath blue skies to the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. It took a healthy twenty minutes to cross as we dodged bikers, runners, and photo-snappers alike and worked up an appetite for some authentically Brooklyn bagels and lox. After polishing off what seemed to be half a smoked salmon each, we found or way to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. It was really a forest of twigs - more an exhibit of postmodern art than a garden in winter. But it was still stunning, and we soaked up the sun in a calm crabapple orchard. On the way home, to fuel our trendy caffeine yearnings, we bought some beans at Gorilla Coffee. I really liked the stuff; it was aromatic and fruity (mangoes, anyone?) with a velvety finish. Didn't give me the guerrilla jitters, either. We took another walk along the High Line on Manhattan's West Side, a park-like path that once boasted train tracks. It's still under construction but the views are lovely, the landscaping is nifty, and the mix of wood, metal, and greenery are balanced to give it a sleek, well-blended feel. As a good beer enthusiast and semi-beer-blogger should, I'll also mention that you can see Chelsea Brewing Company from the High Line. Didn't get to try their beers but I will, I will...

Sophie creeps up behind the wild saison at d.b.a.

Speaking of beer, Sophie was patient and polite enough to humor my hunt for beer in the city. At home we explored some red-blooded American brews (including one I had carried from Rome to Belgium to New York). We thought Magic Hat's Howl (a black lager, or schwartzbier) was toastfully tasty and chocolatefully crispy, and we followed it later in the week with a more assertive dark beer, North Coast's Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout. It was my first time trying this classic American craft beer, and I found it cunning and lip-smackingly good. It's incredibly more tasty near room temperature, so make note of this. The bottle from Rome was Port Brewing's High Tide Fresh Hop IPA, a real grapefruit of a beer. Juicy, pungently hoppy, and clean. On the streets I peeked into The Ginger Man and Sophie and I graced McSorley's Old Ale House and d.b.a. with our presence. The Ginger Man is a classy place where good beer runs free and men in business suits chat loudly about such clichés as baseball and golf. It was a relaxed place, and the bartender was knowledgable; I tried Sixpoint's Brownstone, an American brown ale with a nice hoppy zip and thick malty backbone. Sophie brought me to d.b.a., a beer bar she'd visited and fondly remembered. As it was just a hair past noon we shared a beer, Saison Dupont, the immortal Belgian farmhouse ale. We also peeked into McSorley's to take in the gravity of the place. I returned a subsequent afternoon because of the wonder of the establishment; founded in 1854 by an Irish immigrant, McSorley's is steeped to a bite in history (I highly recommend perusing their website) and retains original everything, worn to the wood. Ancient articles pepper the walls and sawdust covers the floors as patrons sit contemplatively and sip their beers next to a wood stove. They serve two beers: a light and a dark. Not being one to fall for such warming but nostalgic gimmicks I enquired by whom were they brewed. The barman mumbled an inaudible answer, so I was left to search the 'net. I thought he said "Latrobe," the company that brews Rolling Rock, but the 'net has told me it's Lion Brewery, owned by Pabst, that does the work. Either way, neither the light nor the dark were very memorable, but they contented me fully while I read my book by the fire. The experience was memorable.

Some Ginger fans at The Ginger Man

While I'm talking about stuff you put in your stomach, Sophie and I enjoyed some real culinary treats as well. I wasn't taking a tally or anything, but we enjoyed several of the city's best cupcakes, a number of the city's best hot chocolates (including one from Jacques Torres with a titillating touch of pepper), some home-cooked vegetable delights (Sophie's crispy roots roast and my friend Wim's recipe for pumpkin soup), and two other amazing, amazing revelations: dim sum and Bare Burgers. Sophie, Tala, Tala's friend Jonah, and I waited for many drooling minutes for Sunday morning dim sum in Chinatown. Check it out. If you're a dim sum virgin it'll blow your mind (and spare your wallet). At Bare Burger, Sophie and I shared an elk burger and an ostrich burger, two juicy firsts for me. What I didn't get to try that Sophie said she "enjoyed" at her father's friend's lodge was a mountain lion steak. That is an American meal, for real.

The Berkshires in Williamstown

I was having too good of a time, so I cut myself short and took a magical Peter Pan bus up to Williamstown, Mass., for a couple days respite with my brother and his wife. It was a nice breather, and we spent a lot of our time just relaxing, enjoying the majestic Berkshire mountainscape. The tops of the mountains looked like rolling waves of earth dusted with powdered sugar; Will told me this wasn't snow but rather frozen fog that had collected on the limbs of bare trees. The sweet white Berkshires served as our backdrop to a couple afternoons of book reading and Scrabble jousting. Will and Carmen were both fairly busy with work, though, so I took the liberty of visiting the Clark Art Institute just a stone's throw from Buxton, the high school where they worked and lived. I padded around the permanent exhibits, floorboards groaning under my boots, and admired the American landscapes, all the beautiful women in portraits, and the delicate, creamy hard paste, soft paste, and bone china. On Thursday evening my ever-lovin', green-eyed bro took me to a double dose of sensory excitement. First, we stopped at Pittsfield Brew Works for dinner and a drink. I muscled down some fine gnocchi with sausage and mushrooms whilst sharing a sampler of all the beers available. They ranged from quite nice (the lively Extra Special Bitter) to unfortunate (the much-too-hazelnutty Hazelnut Brown) but all was good as we walked to the next stop: a 3D viewing of Avatar. Ju-HEE-sus, what a show! I mean, I'm no friend of science fiction, but when it's so thoroughly and carefully thought out and represented it really brings you to another world. And that other world that's portrayed in the movie is stunning; it's total eye candy, especially for a biologist, because of the attention paid to detail. There are elements about the story that can make for some interesting discussions, too, but I didn't think any were really explored in great enough detail. Maybe I just need to see it again and forget the jaw-dropping visuals, focus on the story.

At The Clark: Winslow Homer's The Bridle Path, White Mountains

Anywho, my next stop was home. But before I hit home I had some fine Mexican/Mayan food with my grandmother at Three Stones in Brattleboro, VT. It was a good feeling, filling my tummy with empanadas and tamales and having a visit with the wonderful woman who's nearly singlehandedly allowed this trip to happen for me. At home in New Hampshire, where the moose run free, my parents provided all the creature comforts and made the journey back to Belgium just a tad difficult. I was able to get in a visit with Tim Roettiger, a new friend and fellow homebrewer, who has plans to start a microbrewery in my hometown, East Alstead. It's incredible for me to witness this, given my recent interest in brewing and the scarcity of people in my town (pop. less than 2,000); I'm excited for Tim and wish him all the best (check out his blog here). I tried his Hemlock Ale, New England Cream Lager, and, later, his German Pale. All were brewed with character and were rich in body and taste for their alcohol level - my taste buds are still trained to those ten-percenters! That same evening my family convened at a pub in Saxtons River, VT, where my dad played a night of tunes with his band of musical buddies, Jake, Roger, and Ross. While savoring Ommegang's tantalizingly malty, raisiny, cherry tart-tastic Three Philosophers quadrupel, I sat amidst the buzzing crowd, played a board game with Will, and let the fiddle and flute relax me into a content inertia.

Ross, Jake, my dad (Randy), and Roger rock Vermont

One last bit o' news: I've landed my next apprenticeship! It'll be at BrewDog in Scotland, after the Pre-ZBF festival here in Belgium in early March. More on the development and the brewery in my next post - just had to get it out there...

Now, Where Was I?

This is bizarre. I'm not sure how exactly it happened, but right now I'm sitting in my brother's kitchen in the stunningly serene Berkshire Mountains of Western Massachusetts, watching tufted titmice (is that the correct plural? It's probably not "titsmouse") have a mid-morning snack from the feeder outside the window, listening to the confident crooning of Ludacris. It's a tingly kind of feeling to be more of a tourist back in my home country, and perhaps I should start to feel you in on how I came to be enjoying American soil (or permafrost) at this moment. I won't be back home for long, mind you, just for another couple days, then it's back to Belgium for the month of February (leading up to the Pre-ZBF beer fest) and hopefully on to Scotland for a month or so.

Brasserie 4:20 (see below)

Anyway, perhaps I'd better start from where I left off last. I believe I was in Amsterdam for Christmas. After that expensive but invigorating visit I moved south to a little village called Trooz, just outside of Liège, in the French-speaking region of Belgium. There I reveled with a couchsurfing contingent from the Liège area, enjoying escargot and champignons, a few watery Jupiler beers and boules et frites, a Liège specialty that is really just a couple big-ass meatballs and fries. My days in Trooz were relaxed, filled with lounging, some engaging and rather racy conversations by the fire, and some nice therapeutic runs among the wooded hills of the near-Ardennes. I put on my tourist face (it's rather squinty) for Liège and Aachen, Germany's westernmost city. Liège captured me with stunning lookouts, a barrage of (medieval?) steps, and rosy-cheeked holiday merry-makers at the center market. Aachen offered sulfurous egg salad water, Charlemagne's lasting impression, historic and grandiose buildings (i.e. the Town Hall and Cathedral), tooth-chipping cookies, and wafts and wisps of that beautifully brusque language that is German.

As soon as I felt like I was settling in to this tucked-away corner of Europe I moved again, this time north-west to the Belgian coast. You might remember my friend and former couchsurfing host, Wim. He and two of his friends invited me for a few days of New Year board game debauchery. We rented a house in Nieuwpoort, a stone's throw from the coast and also Urbain's place of birth, and warmed up amidst the falling snow by cooking, walking (well-bundled) on dunes, and engaging in epic battles of the mind. Chess and Settlers of Catan were most popular, and we spent hours upon hours eating soup, sipping champagne, and sinking into our little fantasy world of colonies and sheep where someone always comes out a victor. I can't do justice to the fun I had on these trips and with all of these semi- or full-on strangers, and I'm afraid of writing a book here (I'm a terribly slow and wordy writer), but one project I must do upon my return to the States is document all the people that were important in making this trip as enriching as it has been. Then I might be able to give them the written credit they deserve.

New Year's Eve came and went. I returned, always happily, to Urbain's pad in Lo-Reninge for a couple days of construction work. The upstairs office is almost all in place (frankly, I thought the flatscreen TV should've been the first thing installed) and it looks professional. Underneath the office we drilled up some shelves and a packing area for the Struise Web Shop Wizard, Peter Braem, who will be sending out all the cybernetic orders from this little nook. Next door is the warm room, where crates of freshly bottled beer will be kept to develop their carbonation. Owen's Bubble Cubby, I call it. Speaking of the world wide web shop, I was honored to be asked to take a few photos to entice potential web-surfing thirsties. It was a very involved process, and Urbain helped to set up the "studio" and get the lighting just right. I got to compose the shot, pour the beers, take the picture, take a couple sips of the beer, and repeat the process for something like a dozen beers. It was a fascinating vertical Struise tasting for me, and I'm surprised the pictures came out so well, especially towards the end there. Luckily, I remained vertical myself.

Peter plays with something in the web shop corner. Bubble Cubby to the right, office upstairs.

(By the way, I'm now back in Belgium. I told you I'm a slow writer.) As work on the web shop progressed, we found it time to take a little break. Urbain, Carlo, and I RyanAir'ed it down to Rome for a few beercentric days sponsored by Alex Liberati and his Brasserie 4:20, a specialty beer bar in the heart of the city. Signor Misfortune knocked seasonably, as the itch in my throat that emerged on the plane to Rome was a full-blown chest cold by the time the wheels touched ground. I chained myself to my hotel bed, drank (water) like a fish, and managed to piss out the timely cold. Within two days I was up and strolling around Trastevere, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, and, of course, the beer bar as I soaked in the Italian winter sun. I lived off fast-food (but Italian) pizza, blood orange juice, water, and a couple vitamin-rich beers brewed by Alex for his bar. Juniper berries were featured in one devilishly tasty pale ale, and his porter was a well-balanced and rich (but not too strong) quaff of a drink. Alex treated his visitors like, well, what they were: royal beer ambassadors. Brewers, writers, bar owners, and apprentices alike gathered in Rome for four days at 4:20, where a collection of quality beers were introduced on the hour and tokens were sold for curious beer-loving patrons. The special attendees (us) were also treated to evening meals featuring seafood cooked with beer. I sat down with Carlo for one of these meals and, by the look on his face and by the appearance of each dish, it was perhaps one of the best meals I've ever had the pleasure to partake. Too bad I had a stuffy nose and couldn't taste a damn thing.

The bar's beer cellars

The Struise boys was there, of course, and we were joined by the crews from Mikkeller, De Molen, De Proef, as well as beer industry folk from all over the world. I met a beer writer from New York and an Athenian online homebrewing supplier, among others. On one particular afternoon we gathered at the location of the bar's beer cellars and miniscule brewery. A forty-minute drive lead us to some nameless farmland outside of Rome, the site of a former winery. The spacious, barn-like interior of the building trickled down to some true wine caves where old vats built into the wall had been converted to storage areas for beer; the dark, quiet, temperature-stable environment seems a perfect place for beer affinage. The beer ambassadors were treated to cured meats (one of which used to 'neigh') and a barbecue, as well as those beers produced by Revelation Cat, the brainchild brewery ("brainbrewery"?) of Alex. The brewery itself is also located at that same building where we barbecued; it's about the size of a 10-gallon homebrewing set-up. So, tiny. But he makes it work (the beers were very, very nice) and does a number of collaboration brews as well.

Alex (left) shows us some fermenting brewskies

Rome was other-worldly. I suppose it felt like that since I was in and out of consciousness, induced by the chest cold, for most of the trip, but here I was, in an historic European capital, walking around a city that is millenia old, eating fine cuisine, drinking world-class beers, surrounded by knowledgable beer enthusiasts from all over the world. I'm not sure it even happened, or if it was some bizarre feverish hallucination. I think I actually saw Marcus Aurelius trotting on horseback around the alleys of Rome once. Anyway, when I woke up in Belgium, I decided it was time to visit home. So I flew to New York City for a week and a half, and I'll tell you all about those adventures in a new post, soon to come (despite teasing you of this new development at the beginning of the post. Ah, that's how this blog works, I guess.)...

Central Park in January