Next time you are at your local bar, grab a copy of the April/May Yankee Brew News. Located on page 4 is a letter I wrote to the editors about the intrepid young individuals (i.e. young studs like myself) working within the beer industry.
This is what editor Gregg Glaser had to say:
“Justin: Many thanks for this. The publishers and I loved what you wrote. Sorry about the lack of NYC 20-somethings in the last issue’s feature story. If you or others like you had come to our attention as we researched the story, we would have definitely included New Yorkers. Keep up your beer evangelism in NYC and stay in touch with your endeavors. And thanks for the kind words about Yankee Brew News. Cheers – Gregg”
Also, keep April 25th free on your calendar. I’ll be hosting a Belgian beer event with Ale Street News. I’ll post details as soon as I can.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Boston Kicks Cask
Yesterday I attended the first day of the New England Cask Ale Exhibition (NERAX) and drank my imperial body weight in British BItters. Today is the unleashing of Dogfish Head’s 75-minutes IPA in select bars in the North East. Fortunately for me, Boston knows how to get down with the cask. Cheers!
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Good Beer, Better Swine
My mouth began watering while I sat on the train. As I raced passed the rundown buildings of Jamaica and dirty alleys of East New York, visions of chunky little pigs played in my mind. In my head the swine, fat and happy, sipped on local beers while skipping towards Park Slope in Brooklyn. The reason for their exodus was a Heritage Game and Beer dinner put on by the Palo Santo restaurant, a place where not long ago, I attended a dinner hosted by Garret Oliver from the Brooklyn Brewery. Palo Santo chef Jacques Gautier later told me that the Brooklyn Brewery dinner was all about the beer. The Heritage Game dinner was all for the meat. Thus my little piggies happily marched on.
As I passed through the dark curtains that serve as the restaurant’s entrance, the hostess ushered my friend and I to a table in the back room. After sitting down and calming my salivating tongue with a sip of water, our waitress Lindsey came over and poured us two tall glasses of Brooklyner Weisse Beer. So far so good, I thought to myself. The banana tartness of the weisse was the same beer the Mr. Gautier started the previous beer dinner with, and the refreshing wheat brew served as a sensory reminder of the feast that was to come.
Before the first dish graced my taste buds, a gentleman from the Heritage Foods spoke for all of three minutes. The man seemed to be in his late thirties, with an obvious love for wholesome food and distaste for public speaking. He quickly compared the natural foodists in northeastern states like Maine and the locavoires of Brooklyn to the “Republican Bush Party.” He spoke of organizing farmers and creating a Sysco like marketing efficiency for their goods. The others in the restaurant neither nodded in agreement or frowned in disapproval; Instead, they gazed on, waiting for an explanation.
Despite his off-putting analogies and awkward demeanor, the fellow from Heritage was able to get a few messages through loud and clear. “Heritage Foods is dedicated to getting wholesome food to every American,” he said. He went on to tell of our country’s elementary schools, colleges and government institutions serving only the lowest passable quality of grub—commodity foods. He spoke of Heritage Foods slaughtering 150 pigs every week and making sure that every part is eaten, not only the short ribs and choice cuts. In defense of his anti-locavoire comments, he stated that consumers must respect terroir. While it is great that communities focus on local goods, sometime it is best to purchase cheese from Wisconsin, apples from New York and spirits from Kentucky. Interesting stuff.
After digesting the speech, I sipped on my weisse. A few beers later Jacques himself whisked the first plate to my table. I may not be a sought after restaurateur, but I can tell you when the chef is in the dining room schlepping plates and chatting with customers, that is a chef who gives a damn. The first dish was an array of New York state beef offal tacos; four miniatures tortillas served as the eating vessel for heart, kidney, liver and tongue. Each was garnished with guacamole and a few sprigs of cilantro. “Normally,” Jacques said, “these meats are ground together for tacos or hotdogs. I want to allow people to try what each part has to offer.” The bite-sized tacos showcased the intricate and often bold flavors of various organ meats. The plate was not only tasty, but thought provoking as well.
Throughout the evening, we were lucky enough to have Jacques dropping off plates and giving us the story behind them. A dish with a slow cooked Berkshire pork and Red Wattle pork was meant to demonstrate the idiosyncratic flavors of the different breeds. A lemon aioli served not only as an interesting dipping sauce for the roasts, but also an avenue for the citrus tinged Brooklyn Local 1 to travel between the two flavors.
All of the dishes were executed with a restrained flair but it was not until the roasted pork loin that I nearly jumped onto my table and chanted praise to the chef. A roasted loin of Tamworth pork was plated with a mixture of green beans, olives, pecans and a hint of mint. The dish was accompanied by a glass of Dogfish Head Raisin D’etra, a dark brown behemoth of a beer; possessing raisiny sweetness that just begs for some salty treats to be thrown its way. The pork was succulent, hugged by a ring of rich fat and studded with a slightly crunch salt skin. The olives seemed completely out of place—like a Russian ballerina who shows up at a break-dance competition but stays to perform her routine anyway—but once they were pushed aside the toasted nuttiness of the pecans perfectly melded with the pork and the beer. Each bite brought me to hog heaven and the Dogfish Head not only lavished my taste buds with its initial malty flavors but cleansed my palate with its mellow hop bite, allowing each salty epiphany to reoccur with every forkful.
The final item on the menu was a lard cake. Although this might not sound too appealing, it turned out to be a large hunk of corn bread with rosemary ice cream and a sorrel reduction. Sorrel, Lindsey told me, is a red Carribean flower sometimes used for jams and preserves. The sorrel was reduced to syrupy goo that added much needed tartness to the cakey, rich bread and the oily herbs of the ice cream. Very much like the Brooklyn dinner several months earlier, the dessert beer was the ribbon that tied the final plate together. For this dinner Dogfish Head Palo Santo was chosen.
Funnily enough, the Palo Santo of the beer references the same wood as the restaurant. Instead of fragrant incense, however, Sam Calagione uses the wood to create giant cask in which he ages his potent concoction. Palo Santo is a dark, viscous drink with a thin, cappuccino colored head. The lacing dissipates quickly but the drink has much to taste than to look at. Palo Santo smells sweet and oily, but after a sip, the drink coats your tongue like a rich chocolate. Seconds later, the 12% beer evaporates from your tongue, leaving you feeling refreshed and lively. Although it starts like a sugary espresso, Palo Santo ends like a dry champagne, leaving your tongue begging for another helping of rosemary ice cream and lard cake.
My friend and I were quietly contemplating the last helpings of food as Jacques came over and offered us some more beers. He poured a few rounds and enlightened us to his theories on food and the beverages that accompany them. Jacques is an energetic man with a shaved head and speaks of food and the animals he serves the way others talk about church or their grandchildren; the man loves what he does. We sipped a few more Palo Santos while we paid our bill and paid thanks to Jacques. He gave us a few restaurant suggestions in the neighborhood and invited us back for a tasting menu one day. A bit tipsy and fat as the porkers in my daydreams, I shook hands with the chef and made my to home, being sure to stop at the 4th Ave Pub on the way to the train.
As I passed through the dark curtains that serve as the restaurant’s entrance, the hostess ushered my friend and I to a table in the back room. After sitting down and calming my salivating tongue with a sip of water, our waitress Lindsey came over and poured us two tall glasses of Brooklyner Weisse Beer. So far so good, I thought to myself. The banana tartness of the weisse was the same beer the Mr. Gautier started the previous beer dinner with, and the refreshing wheat brew served as a sensory reminder of the feast that was to come.
Before the first dish graced my taste buds, a gentleman from the Heritage Foods spoke for all of three minutes. The man seemed to be in his late thirties, with an obvious love for wholesome food and distaste for public speaking. He quickly compared the natural foodists in northeastern states like Maine and the locavoires of Brooklyn to the “Republican Bush Party.” He spoke of organizing farmers and creating a Sysco like marketing efficiency for their goods. The others in the restaurant neither nodded in agreement or frowned in disapproval; Instead, they gazed on, waiting for an explanation.
Despite his off-putting analogies and awkward demeanor, the fellow from Heritage was able to get a few messages through loud and clear. “Heritage Foods is dedicated to getting wholesome food to every American,” he said. He went on to tell of our country’s elementary schools, colleges and government institutions serving only the lowest passable quality of grub—commodity foods. He spoke of Heritage Foods slaughtering 150 pigs every week and making sure that every part is eaten, not only the short ribs and choice cuts. In defense of his anti-locavoire comments, he stated that consumers must respect terroir. While it is great that communities focus on local goods, sometime it is best to purchase cheese from Wisconsin, apples from New York and spirits from Kentucky. Interesting stuff.
After digesting the speech, I sipped on my weisse. A few beers later Jacques himself whisked the first plate to my table. I may not be a sought after restaurateur, but I can tell you when the chef is in the dining room schlepping plates and chatting with customers, that is a chef who gives a damn. The first dish was an array of New York state beef offal tacos; four miniatures tortillas served as the eating vessel for heart, kidney, liver and tongue. Each was garnished with guacamole and a few sprigs of cilantro. “Normally,” Jacques said, “these meats are ground together for tacos or hotdogs. I want to allow people to try what each part has to offer.” The bite-sized tacos showcased the intricate and often bold flavors of various organ meats. The plate was not only tasty, but thought provoking as well.
Throughout the evening, we were lucky enough to have Jacques dropping off plates and giving us the story behind them. A dish with a slow cooked Berkshire pork and Red Wattle pork was meant to demonstrate the idiosyncratic flavors of the different breeds. A lemon aioli served not only as an interesting dipping sauce for the roasts, but also an avenue for the citrus tinged Brooklyn Local 1 to travel between the two flavors.
All of the dishes were executed with a restrained flair but it was not until the roasted pork loin that I nearly jumped onto my table and chanted praise to the chef. A roasted loin of Tamworth pork was plated with a mixture of green beans, olives, pecans and a hint of mint. The dish was accompanied by a glass of Dogfish Head Raisin D’etra, a dark brown behemoth of a beer; possessing raisiny sweetness that just begs for some salty treats to be thrown its way. The pork was succulent, hugged by a ring of rich fat and studded with a slightly crunch salt skin. The olives seemed completely out of place—like a Russian ballerina who shows up at a break-dance competition but stays to perform her routine anyway—but once they were pushed aside the toasted nuttiness of the pecans perfectly melded with the pork and the beer. Each bite brought me to hog heaven and the Dogfish Head not only lavished my taste buds with its initial malty flavors but cleansed my palate with its mellow hop bite, allowing each salty epiphany to reoccur with every forkful.
The final item on the menu was a lard cake. Although this might not sound too appealing, it turned out to be a large hunk of corn bread with rosemary ice cream and a sorrel reduction. Sorrel, Lindsey told me, is a red Carribean flower sometimes used for jams and preserves. The sorrel was reduced to syrupy goo that added much needed tartness to the cakey, rich bread and the oily herbs of the ice cream. Very much like the Brooklyn dinner several months earlier, the dessert beer was the ribbon that tied the final plate together. For this dinner Dogfish Head Palo Santo was chosen.
Funnily enough, the Palo Santo of the beer references the same wood as the restaurant. Instead of fragrant incense, however, Sam Calagione uses the wood to create giant cask in which he ages his potent concoction. Palo Santo is a dark, viscous drink with a thin, cappuccino colored head. The lacing dissipates quickly but the drink has much to taste than to look at. Palo Santo smells sweet and oily, but after a sip, the drink coats your tongue like a rich chocolate. Seconds later, the 12% beer evaporates from your tongue, leaving you feeling refreshed and lively. Although it starts like a sugary espresso, Palo Santo ends like a dry champagne, leaving your tongue begging for another helping of rosemary ice cream and lard cake.
My friend and I were quietly contemplating the last helpings of food as Jacques came over and offered us some more beers. He poured a few rounds and enlightened us to his theories on food and the beverages that accompany them. Jacques is an energetic man with a shaved head and speaks of food and the animals he serves the way others talk about church or their grandchildren; the man loves what he does. We sipped a few more Palo Santos while we paid our bill and paid thanks to Jacques. He gave us a few restaurant suggestions in the neighborhood and invited us back for a tasting menu one day. A bit tipsy and fat as the porkers in my daydreams, I shook hands with the chef and made my to home, being sure to stop at the 4th Ave Pub on the way to the train.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Fishy Cash Slips Away From These Geniuses
I was leafing through the New York Post during my lunch break and opened up to a page featuring Mario Batali’s rotund, red face. Apparently, two masked gunmen broke into Esca, his Italian seafood place on West 43rd known for its way with raw fish. All they stole was an envelope full of paper receipts, despite going to the coat closet where over fifteen-grand in cash was stashed a day before.
The break-in happened at 2:30 in the morning and the only employee left in the restaurant was unharmed. Now this two shotgun-welding geniuses have a ton of worthless paper and the police investigating an inside job. If I were a theif, I would have just run into the place at 8pm and five-finger discounted a few plates of crudo. At least then the venture would have been worth it.
The break-in happened at 2:30 in the morning and the only employee left in the restaurant was unharmed. Now this two shotgun-welding geniuses have a ton of worthless paper and the police investigating an inside job. If I were a theif, I would have just run into the place at 8pm and five-finger discounted a few plates of crudo. At least then the venture would have been worth it.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Brady is a dickhead
While wandering through downtown Boston last week I stumbled into an old used bookstore. I made my way between the dangerously leaning stacks to aisle 3A, the food and cooking section. After a few painful minutes crouched down near the floor, I came upon the book Beer by Michael Jackson for only ten bucks! Jackpot!
(I know what you’re thinking and no, it’s not the King of Pop. This is Michael Jackson from the world of beer. The King of Hops if you will.)
Picture one of those skinny, hardcover books you read as a child to learn about dinosaurs or outer space and you have Beer in a nutshell. The book is stuffed with large, easy to read font, step-by-step descriptions of the beer making process and pictures of just about everything. It is idiot proof. Instead of discovering the life cycles of a black hole, little children could easily learn how to brew a barely wine with this book. I, however, will pour over it with more fervor than a law student and keep it as a handy reference book, conveniently having it on my person at all times.
Content with my find, I went to pay for my treasure. After leaving the cash register, I flipped to the front cover and found this inscription:
Brady, I don’t know who you are, but your father seems like an awesome fellow and I can’t believe you sold this book! Next time I’m I Boston I hope to find you in a lame sports bar chugging Bud Light so I can kick your ass.
(I know what you’re thinking and no, it’s not the King of Pop. This is Michael Jackson from the world of beer. The King of Hops if you will.)
Picture one of those skinny, hardcover books you read as a child to learn about dinosaurs or outer space and you have Beer in a nutshell. The book is stuffed with large, easy to read font, step-by-step descriptions of the beer making process and pictures of just about everything. It is idiot proof. Instead of discovering the life cycles of a black hole, little children could easily learn how to brew a barely wine with this book. I, however, will pour over it with more fervor than a law student and keep it as a handy reference book, conveniently having it on my person at all times.
Content with my find, I went to pay for my treasure. After leaving the cash register, I flipped to the front cover and found this inscription:
Brady, I don’t know who you are, but your father seems like an awesome fellow and I can’t believe you sold this book! Next time I’m I Boston I hope to find you in a lame sports bar chugging Bud Light so I can kick your ass.
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