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?