Tampa: My Final Frontier of Central Florida

[note: this article originally appeared on hoppress.com in 2011 at this link.  Sometime in 2012 or so many articles were deleted with no notifications, the article is recreated here in it's entirety.]

In my eighth consecutive summer in Orlando I set out to tread new ground, further exploring central Florida. Even if it meant more time behind the wheel, I was determined to have new experiences. Already having complete a periphery exploration of Tampa I knew plenty of areas remained begging to be dug into deeply.  A re-hash of some old favorites seemed in order as well, so I began planning weeks in advance.  Amidst this whirlwind of activity Cigar City dropped a bomb: an all fruit beer tasting dubbed ‘Fruit in the Room’ was happening during my week in the state! Immediate calls to American Airlines and Marriott followed, to insure lodging and adjust flight times and locations to suit. I ordered my ticket, packed my bag and hit the streets for O’Hare on a pre dawn Sunday morning.

Months before I departed I came across St. Somewhere of Tarpon Springs. I saw a small blurb on the website asking for volunteers on bottling days and a very generous offer of six 750s for a few hours work was too much to pass up. That being said, the opportunity to hang out in a brewery – with the brewer – is something I’d gladly do for free.

I sent an email inquiring and offering my services during my week in Florida and received a response from Bob Sylvester saying that while he was not sure of the schedule that far in advance, to email me as the week approached. A few days before I left I followed up and received a curious response:

Eric,

Won’t be bottling, but will be brewing Wednesday.

Drop by anytime.

I usually start about 5:30-6:00am and finish around 3:30 or 4.

Come on out and bring some clothes you don’t mind sweating in.

Astounded at the change in plans I bristled with excitement. I wondered about the mention of specific times…I didn’t expect to stroll in when I rolled out of bed but I wondered if all Bob’s volunteers were as fanatical as I. There was no question, I would not only be there with Bob at 5:30, but to be waiting outside before he arrived.

The drive from Orlando would be too great to be on site at such an hour without getting nearly zero sleep, so I grabbed a hotel in nearby Oldsmar. I drove into town early on Tuesday and stopped at Tampa Bay Brewing Company on the way in. It is hard to miss the bombastic exterior of the Muvico, not to mention the brick paved road and street car. Parking was located a few blocks away and I wandered in.

I was in particularly rare form, feeling already beat down from a few previous long days and intoxicating evenings. I refused to balk at low energy and at around noon entered to find a quiet and sparse crowd. I grabbed a seat at the bar and went straight for the Old Elephant Foot IPA. After a taste I knew it was the real deal and the bitterness began to shake the cobwebs. I inquired about soup thinking the nourishment would further help me regain my senses and coat my gut against prolonged beer induction. I had a bowl of the black bean chili and was pleased though it incited my hunger further. As I waited for my 15th Street Burger to be prepared I started work on a One Night Stand Pale Ale. A more sensible man would have ordered this before the IPA to better appreciate its balance but good decision making was not on hand. My food arrived – the combination of beef juice and BBQ sauce had me a real sight at the bar.

I tried in vain to clean myself up with a saturated napkin and I slammed the last half of my pint. My head spun a notch as I paid the bill and I felt for a moment overwhelmed from the furious pace of that lunch. The half hour whirlwind left my stomach and liver sated but had me possibly even a step shakier then when I walked in. As I made my way back outside I finally found my cure: burning hot mid-day Tampa sun. It revived me like a cattle branding iron to the face. My spirits began to rise and I moved on to the second of four breweries I’d visit in less than 36 hours.

It was a short drive to Joey Redner Enterprises and the taproom door identified with a burning stogie.

In tote was my well worn growler, having survived not only a few fills but a few thousand miles in travel as well. I felt for a stool like a blind man with my eyes glued to the chalkboard. My mind whirled with past rates as I went down the list trying to decide what to drink at the bar and what to have poured into my growler. I found the voice of reason with a gentleman named Rudy already seated next to me. I had not yet sampled the Good Gourd and upon his recommendation I set to work on a snifter and my notebook. Behind the bar, Mike did his historically meticulous job cleaning my bottle and when filled and sealed he set my own and Rudy’s two in the cooler while we wasted away some more of the day discussing and drinking beer. Topics ranged from current and past CCB offerings to asinine behavior from overindulgence (Rudy related a recent run in he had with a 64oz growler of 90 Minute IPA and a swim in the ocean). At one point the entire CCB brewing crew came back from a local restaurant with loads of Chinese food which they sat down and tore through then started in on a few games of darts. Rudy and I looked on with smiles on our faces with thoughts of the lack of Chinese food, darts or good cheer at our own workplaces.

I figured I’d rip through one glass of beer while my growler was poured but the conversation continued on, and I had no place to go. White Oak IPA and Zhukov’s Final Push were x-ed out on the board but a lead from the brewery came through in the nick of time on a fresh keg of White Oak.

Mike poured me a sample before I could even ask for it and I marveled at the wonderful pairing of citrus in the base Jai Alai and the clean lemon provided by the barrel. Never a fan of the Humidor treatment on the same beer or regular oak on other less desirable IPAs, I was blown back by the treatment it received here. Rudy finished his beer and with my own long gone we bid each other farewell. I moved on, as it was only a few hours before dinner, at yet another brewpub no doubt.

I checked into my room in Oldsmar and put my growler of Tocobaga Red on ice. I tried to assemble my thoughts while I zoned out at some day time television then hit the streets again around 5pm. I navigated the tiny parking lot at Dunedin Brewing and maneuvered in reverse into the last available spot.

Taking in the sights and sounds in those first few moments and before I had sampled the beer, food or service I drew immediate connections to one of my favorite brewpubs on planet earth, Dark Horse of Marshall Michigan. Being exactly 854 miles closer to Chicago then Dunedin, I’ve been lucky to eat and drink there a handful of times. The carefully cluttered interior decoration (albeit with far higher ceilings) and the open kitchen created immediate parallels. Tired of the pale ales I’d been drinking for days I went for the Biere de Cafe, a coffee influenced brown ale brewed with locally roasted java. Its intense sweetness was no match for my Fatty Chicken Wrap – a poor pairing no doubt – but I consumed both with gusto and made a quick exit as my energy levels were depleting quickly. Back at my hotel I set the alarm clock for 5am and polished off my quart of CCB elixir. Morning was to come early and I made a quick retreat to bed.

Navigating the darkened roadways with a bagel in one hand and a silo of coffee in the cup holder, I said a silent thank you to my Garmin Nuvi as I finally arrived at Savannah Avenue. I parked and began to wander like a night stalker around the leased spaces on both sides of me, peering in windows, looking for an address marker or a sign. I heard the reel of a chain and one of the garage doors about 200’ in front of me opened swiftly. A shadowy figure slowly stepped out and looked in my direction, taking a drag from a cigarette. Aware at how suspicious I must appear I wondered how to approach the situation. Was that Bob? Should I say something? He seemed disinterested in my presence, unworried in the face of my own unknown identity.

It became apparent why; he had an insurance policy to handle marks like myself. Thankfully it was not a pistol (that I could see) but a dog, and a mean one at that, who stood guard awaiting the command to attack. I’m sure I was broadcasting fear like a high-powered FM Radio transmitter but the dog just looked at me, seemingly calm, watching.

Before I could plot an escape route of my own I realized it was obviously not my turn to run, it was the dog’s. I froze up like a deer in the headlights and I think I blacked out for a few seconds. I remember thinking I was certainly going to be mauled and probably not brewing saison when my patron, Saint Somewhere of Assisi reached out with grace, and the dog stopped cold and sharp on a previously invisible chain. Divine intervention no doubt. Gasping for breath, headlights came from behind and a minivan arrived. Just as I knew the Marlboro man ahead of me was not Bob, I knew this was.

Brewing began immediately. First order of business, get the grain into the mash tun. I looked forward to this type of heavy lifting and surely having done it a near infinite amount of times Bob had no problem letting me go for it. He seemed to get his kicks watching me struggle to unravel the string that sealed the bags of grain and whenever he tried to give me another lesson – by untying effortlessly it like a sneaker – my efforts seemed to become more futile. Thankfully the flow of hot water afforded me a few moments to redden my fingers further with each sack and then we were done. Wort was eventually pumped to the secondary and I took the least desirable chore in the house: raking a half ton of wet muck out with a gigantic shovel.

I hastened – and sweat – as I finally got the chum into a group of huge garbage cans and it was promptly picked up by a local farmer. Bob and I tasted some lightly cooked grain earlier on and in comparison this stuff was devoid of all flavors, glad to know livestock doesn’t mind.

Lumiere Rouge perking away

Sometime before the sun even came up, Bob inquired: “Too early for a beer?” Never one for self control, a flurry of bottles followed. But nothing we drank was standard, it was all aged or experimental in one way or the other, or some other wild one-off Bob attempted and kept around for slaves like myself. It was mind-blowing, while we waited for the secondary to boil I had to comment aloud that it was pretty heavenly to drink saison while brewing it and Bob smiled and agreed. No, we didn’t have it so bad.

We ate lunch. We drank some more. Some local friends stopped by with homebrewed IIPA, we continued to pump and stir and mix.

 I got to put my head into a bag of Kent Goldings that was far larger than the pillows on my bed at home and the scent on those relatively low-alpha hops worked something like catnip and cocaine.

 No doubt the handful of 8% + 750s I had already consumed didn’t help but I was driven into a hop rage, the pictures of my half demented mug scare me to look at.

After a long boil we finally got our brew out of the secondary and I pitched a bucket of yeast pulled from the already running fermenter adjacent to ours. I shoveled out the dead hops and we did our 644th three-stage cleaning of every connector, clamp, gasket, hose and more. We mopped constantly with bleach and the place smelled sharp, minus the two of us who had been sweating profusely for hours. Sometime around the 10 hour mark I threw in the towel. He joked that he would just have to come back tomorrow and mop some more as his famously potent and delicious yeast strain would rupture the lid off the fermenter and foam up half the place like the living monster that it is. We shook hands, he left me with some 750s and I hit the road. This marked the second time this week (the first was after leaving CCB the day before) that I was not only smiling so broadly but laughing out loud at the seemingly strange luck that had befallen me. The peak beer experience I had just enjoyed was something like winning the lottery; I still can’t believe I made myself enough good fortune to get to hang out in a place like that with a guy like Bob all day. If he tells me to give HIM some 750s next summer just to rake out the mash tun, sounds fair to me.

In a daze I tried to drive west towards the ocean. I came across a small park before long and washed my face in the warm waters next to the Anclote power plant. The overdose of Vitamin B provided by Mr. Sylvester’s yeast certainly is potent enough to destroy any roentgens absorbed; god knows it gave me the energy to drive the nearly two hours back to Orlando.

Talk about going out with a bang: my whole trip was reorganized around Fruit in the Room the moment it was announced. A final day in Tampa gave me more time to investigate the remaining places of interest in the area. I left Orlando early, eager to experience the venue I was most excited about: Peg’s Cantina. I arrived in Gulfport far too early and wandered the beach and accompanying piers, browsed and shopped in a dilapidated antique store then hung outside of Peg’s gate like a creep.

Shortly before noon (without cell phone or watch I can only estimate) I walked in and sat down. Soon a server greeted me, a lovely young lady named Christina. I dove for the beer menu like a degenerate gambler with the racing form and my eyeballs nearly blew out at a variation on another of Doug’s famous Berliner Weiss’. Already a fan of Bloody Marys and well aware of their healing powers over mighty hangovers, I was immediately interested in their Bloody Berliner Weiss. However the Dozark’s reputation precedes them when it comes to the Champagne of the North and I may well have ordered a Kerosene Berliner Weiss had it been available (it’s coming soon!). Sticking with the famous tomato based cocktails inspiration, Christina brought it out soon after in a Chimay chalice along with a basket of chips and their famous chipotle dip. The sun was at half mast and beat down on me like baseball bats. I knew my pale Chicago skin wouldn’t do well in those conditions but the anesthesia in my hand precluded me from further worry. I sipped my beer and scribbled down notes and had nearly a spiritual experience.

Time blurred and after a few more beers and lunch I felt my flesh sink deeper into the chair. I still had not ventured beyond the table I rested at, a mere few yards beyond the castle doors. A higher power shone down on me much like the solar rays above and Christina returned to ask if I needed anything, then a second longer to ask if I was interested in a tour. She had already introduced herself as not only server but assistant to head brewer Doug but I had balked at my urge to ask to see the facility, no doubt intimidated by pretty girl, potent surroundings and my existence as stranger in a strange land. I ran after her like a puppy and we snuck around the side of the building to the backyard. A custom built contraption well suited for such an area (and mobile no less) would be the envy of any home brewer, and any enterprising restaurateur with enough sense and clout to have a bright young brewers on hand. Replete with a built in step ladder leading to the towering hot liquor tank this nearly all-in-one device handles the first 2/3rds of the brewing of Peg’s offerings.

Peg's Brew Gear

After explaining that it was simply too much to constantly jog fermenting brews between the large outdoor coolers, I was led to the interior where three brews perked away inside True cold lockers. On the floor to the left sat four five gallon whiskey barrels, all filled with a stout begging to be drank; to the right, a tiny grist mill. No detail was overlooked, and it is quite apparent in the finished product.

I traveled back to Tampa and my hotel and began a great induction of H20. It served not only to prevent later low level alcohol poisoning but the sweltering heat endured by myself and many others outside CCBs doors as we awaited the clink of key in lock and we were allowed entrance to Fruit in the Room.

Upon crossing the threshold, I immediately got into three separate beers at the bar, some of the many variants on Batch #69 Cream Ale or Maduro. After knocking those out in just a few minutes and losing interest in the remaining offerings in the tap room, I ventured into the brew house. Near the brewing gear on the south wall, a large jockey box pumped with some of the most interesting beers of the night. NOLA Watermelon Spruce for one was astounding, Bob Sylvester commented that their use of herbs (basil I believe) shocked even a tried and true herb/beer lover (and herb/beer brewer) like himself.

Next to it was Peg’s Jelly Donut Berliner Weiss, once the notebook got put away I alternately returned to these two beers a number of times. 

Bob’s own offering for the night, a cask of his Saison Athene infused with Lemon Leaves poured still but at ideal temperatures despite the total lack of refrigeration and the ambient Florida heat.

 Due northeast from there about 50 feet stood the CCB van, all its taps live with more fruit beers. It was here that I found a comfortable seat atop some bags of grain as I enjoyed CCBs Lemon Party saison (one of the most sour beers on the night) and RJ Rocker’s Son of a Peach (realistic peach flavor if a bit sweet).

Bob and I at Fruit in the Room

One of the wildest ‘beers’ I’ve ever sampled came my way late as I wandered back into the tap house to enjoy the air conditioning. I ran amuck in a crowd sharing a 750 of what was labeled as Captain Lawrence Golden Delicious. However my rudimentary beer knowledge tells me that an opaque pour is not a normal quality of a tripel, no matter a highly hopped one. Apparently it was this bitterness level that led to the general distaste for the beer months earlier and rather than make it a drain pour the empty half was topped off with a blend of CCB brews including I.R.I.S. and (quite obviously in terms of aroma) Big Sound. Blending beers is a way of life here it seems, though I don’t suspect we will see a collaboration with that California brewery for batch #5 of Capricho Oscuro. It smelled of raw rotgut and tasted like over-boozed scotch ale. When the bottle was drained of its contents, someone made the recommendation to immediately begin another blend on the yeast dregs that remained and start another aging period on this classic blended beer. I don’t suspect I will be fortunate enough to sample the next rendering when it matures; you only get lucky so many times in life.

Three fourths of the tasting had flown by as lively conversation had taken place of straight drinking and at 9pm I made my way back on the familiar walk to my hotel. A growler, a sandwich and some much needed reflection on the week awaited me. Amongst a week of brewery and brewpub visits and some great beers between, there were some misfires.

My first visit to Redlight Redlight was not one – Orlando’s answer to Map Room shows real improvement on that formula. My last visit to Orlando Brewing Partners occurred shortly after I departed; I made my final exit after their Kristall Weizen was poured into an empty glass that previously contained a Scottish Ale (the server’s justification: that it is environmentally friendly). Another misstep occurred when I drove approximately 100 miles round trip to stop into Cocoa Beach Brewing Company on a Monday (they are closed). A dip in the Atlantic and lunch in the area sufficed. But those brief moments still ended with humor at my own misfortune (or poor judgment), just as at the hangovers and sometimes lack of stamina.

Who says vacation isn’t hard work?

Hunahpu’s: One man’s story of the Hunahpu’s Release Party

[note: this article originally appeared on ratebeer.com in 2010 - it's still up as well right here.]

I knew from the beginning it would not be a inexpensive undertaking to attend the 2010 Hunahpu’s Release Party but after using a bit of cleverness to pool hotel points and frequent flyer miles I was able to put a dent in my projected expenses. By the time March 8th arrived (the day Joey released the list of beers tapping at the event) I was like an animal clawing at my rusty cage, dying to get further south. This rabid monster can only be sated with beer of the Ybor City variety. 

The only flight I was able to get out of Chicago O’Hare would get me to the brewery at 3:30pm at best. I walked through the familiar doors of the brew house with my head on a swivel, taking in the surroundings and the event setup. Most of all I was searching for my own Willy Wonka-esque Golden Ticket. To prevent the chaos known at some other release parties nationwide, CCB derived a plan to start handing out tickets at 11am. The tickets were free, they merely guaranteed you a place in line to purchase (up to 6 bottles) starting at 7pm. With 3000 bottles known to have been produced, 500 others would have to be ticketed before me, and all would have to max out at 6 bottles a piece that evening to preclude me from my own spoils of war. Unlikely no doubt, but it did little to quell the butterflies raging in my stomach as I demanded my cab driver ‘step on it!’ as we coasted down Spruce Street. 

With ticket in hand, the arc of my smile increase dramatically and my stress level reacted conversely. I decided to seek out a quick pint before walking to my nearby hotel to dump off a portion of my small load of luggage. I walked up to the register in the brew house just as brewer Doug hammered home the tap into a cask of Maduro Oatmeal Raisin Cookie. 

One of two firkin offerings reported on the 8th, I knew I’d be all over this one. I’ve long been a proponent of brown ales on cask. Subtle sweetness of lightly roasted malt becomes complexly bitter without the CO2 to lift it from the palate. The addition of oats in the base beer (which I sampled via growler last summer) could only drive this into the stratosphere. Wayne arrived with a bucket to catch the copious suds pouring out of the angry cask and I caught the first pint of the day from the vessel. Sitting at a nearby barrel, I experienced dubbel-like fig and prune aromatics. This led to a sweet oatmeal cookie end that was not nearly as apparent in the base beer, and certainly can be likened to the famous American treat. I pulled my battered growler from my luggage and passed it on with a request that it be filled with another variation of the Maduro, vanilla aged. This rarity would be saved for the stumble back to the hotel later that night. 

I stopped into the new tap room next door to assess that layout (and ease of navigation in the certainly predictable onslaught of beer drinkers a few hours later). Despite having only been operating for a short period of time it was decorated smartly and set up quite functionally. My favorite is the large chalkboard directly behind the bar which clearly lists the current offerings. Simple – seems like a no brainer – but much time and stupid questions are averted in time of crisis by this archaic grade school institution. The lack of such signage in the brew house tapping area made this point clear a few hours later. 

Using a crudely drawn map which I had scrawled in my notebook , I navigated towards Dale Mabry on Spruce and swerved into the Home Depot parking lot. I soon came upon my first destination, Total Wine. I was on the hunt for a single beer that could go with my late night sampling of Vanilla Maduro. I came to terms with Blue Point Rastafara Rye. Not distributed in Chicago, I’ve long been told of Blue Point by a friend on the Island. After making small talk with the cashier (sparked by my Bell’s long sleeve) I made my way out in search of sustenance as I had not eaten since early that morning. My rough map led me to a nearby Whole Foods. I swerved through the parking lot using only my general sense of direction to make it back to Spruce. I found myself in a service area for Home Depot and as I munched on my chicken caprese sandwich I realized I had trapped myself in a dead end. I was not about to double back, as time was now of the essence. I rewrapped my sandwich and placed it securely in my bag. I tossed my bag high up on top of a nearly 10 foot brick wall. With CCB just out of reach, I jumped onto the adjacent chain link fence and it nearly toppled down. With that plan foiled, my eyes darted towards nearby rickety scaffolding. Once upon it, it too began to rend beneath massive rust; I threw one leg on top of the wall and leaped down the other side. Casually grabbing my bag (and hoping many girls – and no police – had seen me), I removed my sandwich from my duffel and continued on to my lodging. 

Checking in, I dug through the bubble wrap, towels and electrical tape (more on that later) and dug out my messenger bag, notebook and mp3 player. The day’s events were brought to me courtesy CNN (and the giant LG flat screen in my room, far superior to my ancient set at home) during a 20 minute respite. I left the second Whole foods sandwich (roast beef on ciabatta), the growler and the Blue Point bomber in the fridge and made my way out. I stopped at the front desk to purchase a palate cleanser for the night’s activities ($2 bottle of water, wholesale robbery) and jaunted back again to CCB with ‘Dreams’ by the Allman Brothers blasting in my ears. 

In the less than two hours since I sampled the cask ale previously, the place was swamped with customers. I sized up the situation quickly and moved swiftly to the brew house tap line. I slowly made my way to the counter and tried to figure out what might blow soon. I opted for the Jolly Guava (Guava Grove saison treated with Brettnomyces and aged in a Jolly Pumpkin barrel). The barrel aging led me to deduce that there must be a very limited quantity of it on hand (not to mention the huge demand for a soured saison) so I figured it was the smart pick. The CCB employee told me I could have it for free if I announced to the snaking line behind me that while credit cards would be accepted, cash would generally be preferred as it required no processing. I thought he was kidding but he handed me the beer. As I immediately walked back to the end of the line for another pint, I bellowed ‘CASH ONLY! NO CREDIT CARDS PLEASE!’ or something of the sort. Despite some odd looks, my loud pipes did the trick and I got the high sign from the generous worker on the other side of the rail. 

I found a tiny area to bust out my notebook and scribble down the essentials on the Jolly Guava. I had a 750ml of the base beer over the summer; saisons are possibly my favorite style but I found the addition of fruit to be sacrilegious in a sense, more so because the high carb and candy sweetness of the guava transformed it into something quite Jarritos-like. Nothing like intense sourness to balance that sweetness! This beer was made to be bugged: the skeleton dry end tempered the guava down to a subtle hint of its former self and as I returned to the ever growing line my left eye continued to slam shut under duress of the sourness. 

For the third go-round, I was really hoping for a taste of two unique IPA revisions: Orange Cream-sick-le or Tropic-ale. I had inquired during my original visit in the early afternoon and was told the Cream-sick-le was mistakenly tapped (and subsequently blew) earlier in the day. The latter would not be brought out until 5:30. That time had arrived, but the answer I received was again disheartening: growler fills only. No big deal, it isn’t as if I had planned what I was going to drink ahead of time, or had gone so far as I write down a numbered list in the back of a small, gold notebook full of beer ratings. Actually, I did. A pint of the Jai Alai worked as well as any pharmaceutical antidepressant to settle me. I had previously tried the cedar aged version of this beer (the initial release in their Humidor Series) but never the base. I am not often fond of wood in my IPAs so I was eager to see what the original was made of. Some of the old timers reading this might remember a juice drink circa 1985 that came in a tall, waxy carton called ‘Five-Alive’. A blend of five citrus juices, I often think back of that carton’s contents and make reference to it in my IPA rates. Many IPAs contain some kind of fruit ester in the aroma and/or flavor whether it be orange, lemon or grapefruit. It is rarer however that one can strike checkmarks for such numerous acidic citrus elements as found here. 

Possibly the most straightforward and least experimental beer in CCBs roster which I have tried, this straightforward syringe of hop solution does well to control the shakes associated with a lack of bitterness in my diet. Wondrous stuff. 

Another pint, another rate amongst 100s of people like ants fighting for my single square foot of space to take notes in, and another return to the anaconda-like queue. I was deep in thought as I ventured forward during this cycle as I was running out of options. I had elected early on to avoid the many wood aged beers available. I will no doubt receive untold amounts of criticism for this decision but I did so for a few reasons. The biggest priority was palate exhaustion. Little will provide the killing blow to the taste buds then an imperial stout…a brandy or bourbon barrel aged version no doubt will be murder. 

The interesting thing for myself is that I’ve noticed when I do take the plunge during a rating marathon is that I do feel rejuvenated after numerous deliveries of H2O. However time and experience has shown me that this is indeed an illusion. I salute those who do have the venerable constitution to continue rating after a dose of wood on this level. I further commend those that chose to leave the nerdbook/notebook at home and drink to their hearts content, that choice is indeed attractive but one I chose not to take. I arrived at the head of the line relegating myself to another pint of Jai Alai when I saw a small note stapled to the board before me: Peg’s Berliner Weiss. Assistant brewer at CCB, head brewer at Peg’s -- Doug Dozark was responsible for this ballsy style choice. At that moment the announcement was made that the Jolly Guava had just kicked and I had a private smile for having the forethought to order it during its only hours long lifespan on this night. 

I carried my Berliner Weiss over to the Hunahpu’s sales table. Now abandoned, it would later become the focal point for fistfuls of dollars and arm loads of 750s. In its current state it proved to be a perfect HQ to evaluate the sample at hand. Devoid of carb or head, this already sour monster could kick a lesser man to the ground. My left eye again closed as I tolerated the striking lemon juice-like element. No respite in sight as it moved to near vinegar like astringency. The wheat provided a striking dull hazy blonde appearance and just a hint of mouthfeel to reveal the grain bill. I leaned back and enjoyed the sounds of the Cigar City DJs, monitoring the Serato digital vinyl the DJ used and relishing his musical choices that ranged from James Brown to Primus. “Bob’s Party Time Lounge” was just the familiar jam I needed to drive me forward as the 7pm witching hour approached. 

I chose to leave the brew house queue behind and get the next pints from the taproom itself. It was quite busy but unlike in the single file queue in the brew house, physical stature, eye contact and voice volume all can work to your favor in the bar room environment. My 6’4” height and experience on similar battlegrounds quickly garnered me a pint of Maduro Cubano Espresso. I carried it back to the Hunahpu’s table and set down for my last rate of the evening (before returning to my hotel). You already know I am a fan of brown ales: variations on that theme often delight me even more. Surly Bender has long been one of my favorite session beers and it was on New Years Eve that I was able to enjoy the Coffee Bender. Like that great beer, the Cubano Espresso is in many ways a one trick pony. There is little balance here and not much remains of the base. It is senseless to point out that if you do not enjoy coffee, you will likely reject a sample of this stuff because it is the focused essence of coffee and even the earth it grew in. Like a child with a bag of candy bars, this is purely addictive. So much so, I returned soon after for a refill. 

As I sipped my second Cubano Espresso, the DJs music grew to a crescendo as did my personal spirits. The MC behind me began to announce the numbers in quantities of twenty and I then viewed the greatest transaction of $20 bills I have ever seen. On par with cash flow seen in drug cartels, the register never had time to open or close, nor were any transactions typed into it. The ticker tape attached via a small plastic reel never moved. Just $20 bills, handfuls of them. Four or more CCB workers constantly brought more and more Hunahpu’s to the forefront but it was futile: they could not withstand the onslaught of incoming money that volleyed in its wake. With jaw agape (useful for induction of the Cubano Espresso in my hand) I witnessed this great sight and before long by own number – 232 – was included in the current range and I paid for my modest pair of bottles. With them raised aloft towards the heavens – where they rightfully belong – I made my exit with a shit-eating grin of massive proportions stenciled onto my mug. 

I was back in my hotel room in only a few moments. Moments later I had stripped my clothes to the ground save for my drawers and with the air conditioner cranked to a frigid 68 I opened my 32oz growler of Vanilla Maduro. Glass after glass the candy like vanilla sweetness worked well this late in the session, especially as one which would be repeated for a full quart. This beer taught me further lessons about how chocolate and vanilla not only complement each other and can work together, but how they are actually intrinsically related by ways of individual elements of their flavor profiles. Of the numerous variations of Maduro, I wonder if this is indeed the best. 

Last but not least I opened my Blue Point bomber. I was feeling quite fuzzy and sedated at this point and washed my palate with glass after glass of water at the sink before I sat down to tackle the specialty grain beer. Forgettable even in a much lesser state of intoxication, real rye spiciness should have cut through the layers of CCB remnants left on my palate but alas I believe none existed. Still an excellent and quite big beer with huge toffee notes, its flaws did not faze me for soon a giant roast beef sandwich was in my paws…then it was gone. I remember walking to the bedroom and lying down but nothing after that. I woke 9 hours later after a truly comatose state of sleep and jogged downstairs for breakfast before the area filled with shrieking children. A cornucopia of scrambled eggs and similar fare filled my gullet and I decided to pull the rare move of foregoing any java as I again jogged back to the 5th floor (via elevator, though I did jog 10’ or so in the hallway). I bounded with a WWF/WWE style top rope leap back into my bed – while removing my clothes midair in a manner that would impress both Morpheus and Neo – and slept again until shortly before my noon checkout. I awoke and spent the remaining time I had wrapping my 750s in alternating layers of bubble wrap and hand towels with tight swaths of electrical tape. I secured them in my messenger bag – then in my duffle bag and packed the remaining area with bundles of newsprint. It seemed inappropriate to behoove whatever gods might exist with a prayer to beg for safe passage of my bottles. In their stead I said a private word to Hunahpu and his twin. Would they see fit to answer me? 

The rest of my tale is far less interesting. Those of you that enjoy hearing of my intense discomfort and misery however should stay tuned. My flight was not until 3:30pm which guaranteed me at least 3 hours in the gate with a noon checkout from my hotel. The flight was massively delayed (and included a screaming infant not only behind me but also in front) and I did not arrive at the baggage claim at O’Hare until nearly 9:30pm. My heart beat like that of a thoroughbred race horse as I stared angry eyes into the flaps of carpet that disguised the source of the flowing river of luggage that came my way. When my duffle finally arrived it was topsy turvy and had clearly seen a few falls of the LifeAlert© variety. As I righted it and lifted it from its conveyor I swear I heard the cacophony of broken glass clinking and clanking like the soundtrack of Hell. I ran outside into the 40 degree Chicago rain (in shorts, much better suited for the Tampa area) and tore my bag open. With no aroma of Peruvian cocoa nibs nor dried chilies of any variety I figured I was safe. With the squeeze of bubble wrap, towel and heavy glass this was assured. With a sigh of relief I looked through the darkness for my ride and my mind whirled with immediate plans for the next journey. Perhaps on a Black Tuesday in October I will again find myself immersed in a strange land, scaling brick walls (with sandwich in hand) and queuing for hours. 

Orlando: My Annual Trip to Central Florida

[note: this article originally appeared on ratebeer.com in 2009 - it's still up as well right here.]

2009 marked the seventh consecutive year I have visited Orlando for a week’s vacation in late summer. Since 2003 I have been slowly investigating the area more with each season. In the past couple years, my growing interest in beer has taken my travels of the metropolitan area many miles further in search of not only great beer, but great people involved in its manufacture and even simple consumption.

My first destination immediately after the airport runway and automobile procurement was Knightly Spirits Metrowest. Last year was my first visit to this venerable mecca of beer drinkers globally and I easily dropped $150 on a weeks’ worth of rare brews. I still returned for more on my last night and was able to scoop a Fantome Brise-BonBons from one of the helpful employees ‘personal’ cellar in the basement. I didn’t catch his name but I have not forgotten his good tidings. This year I was greeted with another unfamiliar but just as helpful employee. Just as my first time setting foot in the place, my eyes began to roll back like an ancient console television with the V-Hold busted. After regaining my composure I started small – with a swingtop of Uerige Dopple Sticke I’ve been on the lookout for. From there it was all Cigar City -- I wanted anything and everything they had on hand. I saw Humidor Series Jai Alai and Bolita Brown on two endcaps. I grabbed them and quickly realized I was going to need a large box, because I was just getting started. At this point the local help realized my obsession and offered me Campeador Series Fergus Mor. 

A brief argument/discussion ensued between my helpful servant and a much less helpful customer regarding if there were 200 or 400 produced of this exclusive Knightly Spirits 750. (the number is 200, as correctly stated by the employee.) I brought my case to the counter to check out and he offered me first Guava Grove from his own personal stash secured beneath the counter. As if that were not enough, he then remembered Improvisación which was still in a sealed case not yet stocked on the shelves. I made it out the door for under $100 and blazed a trail to my living quarters to cool a bottle down and prepare for the nights drinking. 

In 2008 I visited Orlando Brewing Partners for the first time. Located just off Orange Blossom Trail, you veer through an industrial area, past the meat packing plant and find yourself in the parking lot of an aluminum building with the brewer’s name stenciled upon it. They run specials daily and even larger discounts of their wares on select dates. I visited early in my week and made acquaintance with their lovely barkeep, Cat. We spoke at length about their beer as well as the subject in general. After hearing her recommendations I sampled their Dry Hopped Red, amber ale generously given the treatment described in its moniker. After a pint of their English Pale (Olde Pelican), Cat convinced me to return on Thursday for a tour with one of the founders, Gene. I agreed and was off. 

The following day I made the 50 mile jaunt east to the coast and Cocoa Beach Brewing Company. I arrived early and scored a parking spot directly in front of the establishment, then quickly jogged across A1A for a brief dip in the Atlantic. I returned (still early) and took a seat in the shade next to their front door, notebook in hand. 

Brew master/owner Chris arrived soon after and we made our entry to the tasting room. I took a seat at the bar and within moments Chris and I had a serious rapport. We waxed endlessly about beer styles, his recipes and life in general. He shared some hilarious tidbits with me, like a tale about an attempted pineapple beer theorized by a relative with the clever name of “Jeannie Juice”, a reference to nearby Cape Canaveral, home of “I Dream of Jeannie”. The yeast easily attenuated all the sugars from the juicy fruit – leaving nothing but a raw acid bomb of a beer. He shot it sky high (literally) from the lot behind the building and claimed the geyser was nearly visible from the beach. His recently successful “Matt’s Bitter” was a recipe recommended by local Matt (Ratebeer member McBackus), but their second batch of the stuff nearly ruptured a tank when Chris forgot to open the blowoff valve! Foreshadowing something I’d find at Lagniappe Brewing days later, his wife and son even made an appearance at the bar, showing this truly was a family affair. Chris followed a path from Arizona to his beer destiny here on the east coast of central Florida, where he brews his “Lime Cerveza” with real limes and allows his customers to dry hop their beers with Crystal hop pellets at the bar. I tried this with an extremely warm (and flavorful) pint of his pale ale and was amazed at the esters before it became an undrinkable mash of hop soup. The 80 year old building was once a Navy barracks before he remodeled it into a modern but homey room that could have easily felt awkward but instead is a comfortable room reminiscent of a good friend’s living room. 

Clermont is home to the Rusty Fox, a restaurant and bar I’ve been visiting annually since 2003. Their prime rib is both generous and cheap and I never miss it. The only thing I can think of to make it more enjoyable is to devour it while half in the bag, fresh from a local brewpub. Brad Banker of Lagniappe Brewing in nearby Minneola has helped to realize this dream. 

His easygoing, clean and comfortable tasting room shares a wall with his impeccable brewhouse. As you sit at the bar you can browse some of his tanks while you dig into him over his hop choices and overall recipes. At least that’s what I did. I was greeted at his bar by a number of local regulars including a gentleman with a bow tie named Phil who was just as welcoming as Brad. I sat adjacent to an older fellow whose name I missed but whose military record I shall never forget. His Marine t-shirt, hat and Marine riddled jeep in the parking lot I will not soon lose sight of. He told me that he visits Lagniappe every Wednesday on his way to a local market where he picks up a pound of alligator – or buffalo…or elk…. His drinking is as regimented as the discipline he learned as a leatherneck – he drinks exactly two and one half pints of Brad’s Locomotive Breath Porter; then makes his way onto wild game and his home in a nearby senior’s community. Brad’s daughter was the only pleasant interruption between our lengthy discussions on some of the more obscure hop strains that Brad uses in his brews. His hand forced by recent shortages, he has gotten creative with some types I had never heard of; he admitted he was also unaware prior to their introduction to him by an intelligent brew supply distributor. (Don’t worry Brad – I won’t give away your secrets here or anywhere else!) I inquired regarding his sharp tap handles which carried a Fleur de lis – more evidence of Brad’s interest in Cajun culture – and found that he manufactured them himself both for his tasting room and the local pubs that carry his beer. After my own two and a half pints (of his IPA, weizen and porter respectively, amounts no doubt subliminally inspired by my military minded friend) I moved onto a 10oz portion of bloody rare beef and two Heinekens at the Rusty Fox. The second was free as the rewards of Happy Hour, a benefit unknown to any Illinois resident of drinking age of at least the last quarter century. 

The most anticipated event of my week was to be the ride westward to Tampa and Cigar City Brewing. They do not have a tasting room so I knew my visit would be brief. But the hype surrounding this young start-up fueled (literally and figuratively) by my nightly intoxication of their products at my villa in Orlando was too much to bear so the following morning I shook off my hangover with a star fruit and kiwi smoothie and put the pedal down on I-4. I drove past the place the first time as their main sign faces the opposite direction but then pulled into a parking space. I cautiously walked into their quiet brewhouse and was greeted by Doug. I selected an empty 32oz growler from a shelf and had him fill it with their Maduro Oatmeal Brown Ale. He handed me the medicine bottle style growler and we spoke for a couple of moments before my true beer nerdery kicked in and I begged him to snap a photo of me in front of one of their brew tanks. 

My camera had fogged from the condensation caused by my highly air conditioned rental but the picture survived.

 I mentioned that I had come from Chicago, by way of Orlando and he replied “Hang on, I’ve got something for you”, as if our meeting had been prearranged and I just whispered the code word. After rummaging around in some nearby boxes, he produced a 12oz bottle which he carried over and handed to me while thanking me for my support. I was aghast – I was only attempting awkward small talk with a brewer I highly respect when words failed me otherwise. I neither expected nor deserved any reward for my drive and would have done double or triple the mileage to visit their facility. When I asked him how much the bottle of Capricho Oscuro (batch #2) would cost me he shrugged it off and refused payment. I gushed praise and made my way out with a demented grin on my face. That smile would return the next night when I sampled its contents and it shot to the top 5 beers I have ever sampled. Doug – thanks again! As I promised, I’ll see you in a year. Complimentary blended barrel-aged beers are optional; a hearty handclasp is not. 

Winding down my seven day stretch I returned to Orlando Brewing on Thursday as promised and ordered a Doble IIPA (by far the best of their 8 beers I have tried so far) while I waited the tour to begin. It soon did and I was accompanied by two others of quite different ages and levels of knowledge in beer, but none in their zest for the topic. I picked up a number of insights about their beers from Gene. The Doble IIPA I sipped as we wandered around the brewhouse is named for the Doble family of Tampa Bay Brewing, early inspirations and friends to Gene as he started his brewery. In a technique underused in today’s breweries, Gene uses the second runnings from the Doble to brew his BVC IPA. This beer is named for the ‘Brewery Volunteer Corps’: a group anyone with a willingness to help out, learn about beer and scrub the place down regularly has this beer devoted to them. A rack of oversize shaker pints sat on the wall just inside the brewhouse with the names of the members of this fine group, awaiting their next visit and session of beers at the bar on the other side of the wall. We spoke at length about the bottling process. Gene disclosed that he basically breaks even on bottling, as his machinery requires the labor of three individuals to run it. He only runs it once every two weeks, in doing so bottling enough product for the same amount of time’s supply for local bars and other locations. We touched on his general dissatisfaction for Belgian beer, his interest in carefully controlling the temperatures of his kegs for proper serving temperature and more as we stood briefly in a cooler filled with cases containing hundreds of bottles of his brew. He nonchalantly cracked a bottle of his Blackwater Dry Porter from one of the cases and filled our glasses as we spoke, then made out way back out to the bar. I sampled their Dopplebock and Maibock (two interesting styles for a brewery of this scale to attempt), bid farewell to the lovely Cat and made my way out. 

2009 held a number of new beer opportunities for me. As I have begun to master the geography of the area, I continue to increase my beer destinations in my home away from home. I will continue my quest next year and no doubt it will remain unfinished. I hope it does, for the friends I’ve made and the beers I have sampled are too good to be a finite thing, even if life is as such. There may be better destinations but even if an area is devoid of physical breweries or tap rooms, I have learned there are many fewer places that lack people such as me and the Orlando area residents with a real excitement for what they choose to drink. See ya in 2010, Florida.