Beer-Battered... Beer?
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In recent years Americans have fended off many attacks by the UK, who apparently think that after 234 years and countless displays of our superiority, they can, in any shape or form, step to us. I’m talking of course about the long-standing competition between the two nations to see who’s better at killing themselves with food.
I’ll admit, the Brits looked good a few years back when word spread to these shores that they were deep-frying candy bars. U.S. gumption countered with the deep-fried Oreo, then followed that up with the Jimmy Dean Chocolate Chip Pancake and Sausage on a stick, Baconaisse and of course, KFC’s infamous Double Down sandwich. And while I’m all for retaliation in force, it felt a little like piling on. I mean, wasn’t it clear Old Blighty brought a knife to a gunfight here? Sure they pioneered the Chip Buttie (a french-fry sandwich) and all, but while a huge advancement in the deadly food pantheon, it’s decades old at this point. The hunt is to the hungry, after all, and lord knows the U.S. is ravenous for toxic snacks.
Sweet Relief: Six Point Sweet Action
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It's been one of those Brooklyn summers where the sun pounds you like a hammer. Day after day, brutal heat and relentless humidity—it’s the kind of weather that keeps the sweat-gland industry solvent. Lucky for me then, that Brooklyn, it turns out, is a self-regulating organism. Over the past several millenia it has evolved a protective cooling mechanism, in the form of the Six Point Brewery and, its wonderful Sweet Action cream ale.
Served ice cold in a dark corner of one of the borough’s plentiful watering holes, it’s like having your own personal air conditioning angel beating its soothing wings over your head. Appearance-wise the stuff is copper-colored and a bit cloudy, with robust carbonation (enough head to lace the glass, but not so much that you need to wipe your face after each sip). And heed well this beer’s name, they’re just trying to be up front with you.
Sating a Jameson Jonze in Mutineer
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In the latest installment of my "Civilization and Its Discontents" column for Mutineer Magazine, I sing the praises of Jameson Irish Whiskey. A snippet:
Let’s face it, the Irish are no strangers to misery — witness the Great Potato Famine and Sinead O’Connor’s entire musical catalog, for instance — but they sure have developed an effective method of coping with it. John Jameson began producing his signature whiskey in Dublin way back in 1780, and for the past 230 years his people have been drowning their considerable sorrows in its toasted woody goodness. But in recent years, Jameson has become quite fashionable worldwide at the trendy watering holes of the breezy beau monde, where it’s not uncommon to see happy hipsters shooting it straight or enjoying it in a gimlet or sour. In places that cater to manly men such as myself, you’ll often find Jameson being used as one of the three ingredients in that most leg-wobbling of grog-shop concoctions, the Car Bomb.
Mutineer Magazine covers all things fine beverage with an emphasis on wine, beer and spirits. It is the mission of Mutineer Magazine to introduce fine beverages to the millennial generation and take fine beverage culture from niche into the mainstream using a cultural rather than commercial approach across a range of mediums. For more information about Mutineer, or to subscribe, click here.
Four Ways Beer Could Save the World
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Mac’s is a swell little watering hole co-owned by Rob McElhenney and Kaitlin Olson, aka Mac and Sweet Dee from “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.” They’re dear, dear, dear friends of mine, the “Sunny” cast, as you can clearly see in the accompanying picture of us looking all BFF-like in LA.
So I ordered a pint of Philly’s own Kenzinger beer, made in the rather obscure kölsch style. Light-bodied, pale and slightly bitter. Like my most recent ex-girlfriend. Affordable, too. (The beer, not my ex. She cost a fortune.)
“It’s Africa-hot out there,” I opined to an ebony beauty seated two stools down. Khadija, it turns out, was a native of Sierra Leone.
“Oh, no,” she corrected me, predictably getting up to leave. “It never gets this hot in Africa. This… this is Hell-hot.”
The beer cooled me down in short order, so I ordered another. And another. About six or seven Kenzingers in, a thought occurred to me: if beer could douse Satan’s flames so effectually, perhaps beer might cure some of the world’s other ills.
A Cucumber Cocktail Fit For a Kingsley
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No, I didn't think so. Don't take this the wrong way, but people who read about about wines, spirits, cocktails and imbibery in general, aren't usually tripping over each other up trying to be first in line to the arugula.
And yet, there are all those farmers' markets, where you should probably buy something. And you do need roughage; everybody says so. So, herewith, a reason to buy cucumbers. And in bulk.
Heretofore, a great many people I happen to know in the spirits game have relied completely upon Hendrick's gin for their cucumber intake. Lovely stuff, Hendrick's. Made with actual roses as a botanical, too, but the cucumber is just a grace note, and can't really be counted as a vegetable item for your dinner.
On the other hand, the Lucky Jim is the perfect way to get some green into your system without resorting to parsley-soy shakes. Readers of a certain age will recognize the name Lucky Jim as the novel that made Kingsley Amis famous. Readers below a certain age will recognize the name Amis as belonging to Martin, Kingsley's son. Non-readers won't recognize anything, which is so often the case. You know who you are. Whom.
A Good Pick
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Sonoma Grape Camp is as educational or lazy as you make it
I went to Sonoma County Grape Camp to prove something to myself.I wanted to prove that I really did love picking grapes. Harvest time? Hell yes, that was all me. How could it not be? I was not some ascot-wearing dandy wiping spots from my Reidels. I was a guy who wanted dirt under my nails. I wanted to be a part of the process.
I had decided that grape-picking was not for me in Barolo, the fabled town in the Piedmont region of Italy, where the fabled “king of Italian wines,” Barolo, is produced. The winemaker Gian Luca Viberti had invited me to his place during harvest and I practically begged him for a set of shears. Out I went on my first morning in Barolo, armed with a pair of gloves, a set of sheers and miles of rolling hills ripe with bunches of nebbiolo grapes hanging heavy on their vines. Earlier at least a couple of hours before I made it outside, a small tractor fired its engine beneath my window. It was idling its way up and down the rows, towing a tub that was filling up with grapes, when I arrived in the vineyard.
The workers—the real workers—gave me a nod. They did not know me, and probably did not know that I was coming. They went on working with little regard for me, as it to say, If you want to help us do our job it’s fine with us, knock yourself out. I bent and snipped for 10 minutes in the autumn sun of northern Italy. I took a break. I bent and snipped for 10 more minutes and took another break. Was this it? Bending and snipping on steep hillsides in silence as the sun continued to rise and bake? After an hour it occurred to me that yes, this was it—that harvest was not for me. Lunch and dinner were for me.
Be somebody! Pre-order "Living Loaded" now
Hey all...
I'm pleased as spiked punch to announce that my forthcoming book "Living Loaded: Tales of Sex, Salvation and the Pursuit of the Never-Ending Happy Hour" is now available for pre-order at the following online outlets:
A bawdy barroom confessional that leaves no shot glass un-shot, no beer un-chugged, no potential paramour un-hit-upon, "Living Loaded" has already been hailed (by both my publicist and my agent) as the most entertaining and honest book about the Drinking Life ever written. At least, ever written by me.
So stay ahead of the curve -- click on one of the links above and reserve your copy now.
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