Revisiting one’s past scribblings can be enlightening or embarrassing. Puzzlement can ensue: what was I trying (and succeeding, or failing) to say?
This act of willful rereading can cross cosmic boundaries and produce the hangover-like effect of existential angst. How can it have been 17 years since these words were written? What was it like to be in my 40s? What’s the meaning of life, anyway?
The following column was written in 2005 and published at my NA Confidential and The Potable Curmudgeon blogs (my beer-dentity at the time was “Potable Curmudgeon”). Of the seven family members convening at Lancaster’s, three are gone. So is the restaurant itself, first rendered irrelevant by changing tastes, then demolished to make way for “luxury” housing.
The South Side Inn barely outlived the column; at the end, even the green beans were gray. Today the space functions as Boomtown Kitchen after a lengthy run as Big Four Burgers + Beer.
The word “microbrews” appears here, and not in an ironic sense. There would be a decade ahead of me as co-owner of the New Albanian Brewing Company; we’d started brewing in 2002, and later would expand prduction of our own “microbrews” to Bank Street Brewhouse (the subsequent contraction proved to be my own professional Waterloo).
But the fact that my Thanksgiving thoughts on beer and food 17 years ago were overwhelmingly Euro-centric (and non-IPA-ish) points to an essential truth about my proclivities. They’re my first love in beer, and remain such today. I’m a traditionalist. It’s who I am as a beer-loving individual, and what I’ve always been best at doing as it pertains to business and teaching.
And, needless to say, I still detest Miller Lite from the very depths of my soul. Here’s the column from Thursday, November 24, 2005. Not a word has been changed, although I added a link.
Beer to go with your Thanksgiving meal.
At noon today, my wife, my mother, two aunts, one uncle, a cousin and the Curmudgeon gathered for a holiday buffet meal of turkey and the familiar fixings, served within the venerable confines of Tommy Lancaster’s Restaurant, a downtown New Albany institution that might have been considered a trendsetter during the Kennedy administration and hasn’t done much to alter this time-tested winning formula ever since.
But that’s all well and good, and not to be construed as criticism. Tommy’s does what it does, just like downtown New Albany’s other hoary survivor, the South Side Inn, and if Betty Crockery-style Imperial American 1950’s Era grub is what you seek, these are two prime practitioners of it will serve it up to you at a reasonable price, with paneled ambience to match.
During my second (and final) trip through the chow line, I noticed an elderly gentleman nursing a Miller Lite.
At first suppressing a shudder, it then occurred to me that matching bland beer to bland food seems perfectly reasonable in the context of sensory deprivation, but how would the true beer enthusiast – as opposed to America’s sadly ubiquitous Swillocrats – reckon the suitability of beer choices to accompany the ideal Thanksgiving feast?
When it comes to choosing wine for the Thanksgiving table, Bob Johnson writes:
Some – including my Wine Lines colleague, Glen Frederiksen – will tell you that a rich, buttery Chardonnay is the best white wine because it mirrors the rich flavors found in such holiday fare as mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing and, of course, turkey.
Others will proffer that the only red wine to choose is Pinot Noir, because its cherry, cranberry and spice notes so nicely complement the myriad side dishes found on the Turkey Day table.
And still others believe in the “anything goes” philosophy, basically inferring that because there are so many disparate flavors on the holiday table, it would be impossible for a single wine to provide total pairing pleasure.
The truth is that virtually all of the arguments have merit, and there is no single answer that trumps all others.
Beer, not wine?
I favor the full-flavored approach, one that resembles the Pinot Noir strategy of the wine lover. There are obvious Belgian parallels with the “cherry, cranberry and spice notes,” as is the case with McChouffe, Chimay Premiere (red) and Gouden Carolus Noel, to name just three.
From the German perspective, a fat mug of Doppelbock would hit the mark, especially if such a normally clean beer could be juiced with fruitiness – but wait, such a heavenly beer really does exist: Aventinus Wheat Doppelbock.
The hoppy American microbrews I love on an everyday basis just don’t strike me as good matches for the traditional dishes served at our stereotypical Beaver Cleaver Thanksgiving, but I’m betting that a Belgian-style Saison (Dupont, Glazen Toren, Hennepin) would be very compatible, with lightly hoppy dryness and peppery hints for accent.
For dessert? Perhaps an oversized Imperial Stout, designed to take the place of coffee, cream and pie (but not the after dinner cigar). At this moment in time, I’m enamored of Great Divide’s Oak-Aged Yeti and its creamy, vanilla-laced complexity.
Come to think of it, gotta run … there’s one in the fridge with the Curmudgeon’s name on it.
Photo credit: My friend Dewi, taken in Haarlem, Netherlands in 2005.