Brew Ha-hah

After years of talking about it, today we finally did it. We stopped at a brewery.

We decided on a little place in Jersey called Climax Brewery, which turned out to be the oldest micro-brewery in the state. The owner swears that the name has nothing to do with sex, though their T-shirt design is dominated by a scantily clad cartoon woman straddling a keg, holding a foaming mug, and showing no remorse for the carefully drawn nipples poking through her shirt.

When I spoke with Dave, the owner, he was conflicted about our stopping. He seemed torn between meeting the demands his busiest season and sharing with us what he referred to as “a shit load of Oktoberfest I have laying around.”

When we asked to do a tasting, Dave warned us that Climax was more like a factory than a vineyard. German yet hamish, his operation was a nice balance between science and art. Dave spoke with clarity about his complicated machinery while betraying a truly emotional commitment to his craft. We developed a great respect for him and his work as we got drunker and drunker.

I was surprised to find that most if not all commercial beers are force carbonated, since natural carbonation is too unpredictable and can result in either a flat beer or shards of glass in your face. I was not surprised by his diatribes against what he calls “The Big Three.” Like most small businesses, his was severely limited by competition from the giants of industry and by bureaucracy. In other words, by red tape and Red Stripe.

Both Dave and his beer had real character. He was full of pithy observations about brewing and life in general, and told us several different things that were the number one thing a brewer would say if you asked them about beer. A passionate man, his love of beer was matched only by his hate for a strain of yeast called “Pugsley.”

Orca Carrot

Today I discovered something startling in my soup. It happened while I was enjoying the soup and sandwich special from one of our favorite food stops, the Honest Weight Food Co-Op in Albany, NY. The dish was designated both "Vegan and Vegetarian," so you can imagine my shock when I found in it what was clearly the severed head of an orca whale. See photo.

Don't Rent a Chevy Aveo

I don't want what happened to us to happen to you. So please, don’t ever rent a Chevy Aveo. Based on my experience, when you do, Zach will wake you up in the middle of the night to show you the enormous welts on his hands and stomach. He will then sleepily guide you to the culprit, a bedbug he has trapped under a plastic, hotel drinking cup. Then you’ll feel shamed for having stayed at the Super 8, especially after the guy at the Hampton Inn told you not to, even though it was cheaper. Sure, you feel better when they pick up the tab based on a serious of incriminating cell phone photos of the bugs crawling around on the otherwise characterless sheets. But still, there’s no legroom.

Spoils of Tour: Part 2

Everyone knows that the best Farmer’s Market in the country is in Ithaca. Well, anyone who knows me. Which is everyone reading this.

Where else can you get a Cambodian omelette, hard cider, a shitake inoculated log and macrobiotic tapioca pudding in the same place? Heaven.

Admittedly, finding a nice FarMar in a hippie town surrounded by educated farmers and fertile land is like shooting fish in a barrel. A small barrel, full of enormous fish. This is precisely why I like the Springfield, Missouri market so much. The Springfield market doesn’t seem like it should exist, and yet it does, and it’s great.

When comparing markets, one must take into account certain regional differences. For instance, the Ithaca market shares a postal code with Cornell University, which features degrees in both viticulture AND enology. In contrast, the Springfield market is just a stone’s throw from the Precious Moments factory. (And I do wish more stones were thrown in that direction.) It’s not exactly acai country.

Housed in a handsome, wooden structure, the Ithaca market is on the shore of Cayuga Lake, and many shoppers arrive by sail or paddle. The market in Springfield is in the parking lot of a mall. It looks like a refuge camp, or a dog who knows it’s not really supposed to be on the bed.

I have sampled delights there that I have seen nowhere else. In a nation that looks and tastes increasingly similar no matter where you are, that’s huge. Missouri is what “coasties” refer to as a “fly-over state,” but the local foods movement is just as alive in that mall parking lot as it is in Manhattan. Also, “coasty” is a really stupid name.

I sampled some incredible wild plums when I was in Springfield last Fall. A truly wild food, they are not grown but gathered, and the woman selling them told me it was a race between her and the deer. I didn’t see her or her plums this time around, so I’m afraid the deer ate them both.

If you do fly over Springfield, you’ll miss the opportunity to buy local buffalo jerky, lemon cucumbers, canary melons, and “chocolate” cherry tomatoes. For any coasties who don’t believe me, see the evidence below. Now that’s a precious moment.


-----------------------------
That was the thrilling conclusion to Spoils of Tour: Part 1!

Spoils of Tour: Part 1

There are few things that make more sense than eating local food. For more information, go to any one of the bazillion local food resources that have sprung up this week. It’s hard to say which is popping up more frequently: farmer’s markets, the vegetables they sell, or the erections of foodies.

The only downside to eating locally, besides sometimes feeling like a wimp, is the limitations it places on one’s diet. It’s easy to go too far. Any third grader knows that the closest food to the mouth is in the nose, but you don’t want to give up chocolate for it.

You should find plenty of options at your local Farmer’s Market, or FarMar, as in “You’ll get ‘far mar’ for your dollar there than at the supermarket. But if you wish there were a way to eat local and eat things from faraway places at the same time, there is a solution. Be in the Late Night Players. That way you can dance between growing zones like a Rabbi dances between raindrops to trick twenty-nine witches.

Patronizing FarMar’s is also a great way to get to know your local growers, and to meet weird people. One of my absolute favorite markets is Springfield, Missouri. Why? Because it’s in Springfield, Missouri.

--------------------
Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion, Spoils of Tour: Part 2!