Tomorrow there’ll be a stand-alone post about the new food menu at Gravely Brewing.
In October my wife and I spent quality time in the Dutch cities of Arnhem (to the east, near the German border) and Haarlem, which is situated just a few miles from Amsterdam. There was a side excursion to Copenhagen in Denmark, which I’ll come to in a future installment.
We traveled back and forth by train, and the sight of all those folks riding bicycles amid sensible and humane urban street grids engendered a thirst for restorative beverages.
Although Haarlem has long been a favorite stop, the visit to Arnhem was our first. Americans tend not to think of the Netherlands in the context of the great outdoors, even if this densely populated country actually boasts an abundance of gardens, fields, oceanfront, canals and parks. This said, the surrounding spaces in Arnhem are a tad more open, and the city is accorded the supreme compliment of being considered the greenest municipality in the country.
The weather was appropriately autumnal in both Arnhem and Haarlem, lending itself to strolling, snacking, imbibing and surrendering to the joy of being on holiday. We visited friends in both cities, and it didn’t rain very much, yielding ample time to enjoy a beer or three outside as drawn from uniformly solid selections just about everywhere we went.
However I’m past the point of recording the names of the beers I drink. In the past, by which I mean the 1980s and early 90s when the internet was still just a glimmer in Al Gore’s bloodshot eyes, this collector’s habit gripped me, showing signs of becoming an obsession. Fortunately I swore it off. Like so much else considered critical nowadays for “acceptable” beer appreciation (but generally counting as irrelevant), the genre of “untappng” beer no longer impresses me very much.
This said, there is a “pour your own” multi-tap chain in Arnhem called ‘t Taphuys Arnhem, where the setting is pristine (a former post office) and the draft beer selection solid and well-kept; conversely, a short distance away lies the Café ‘t Moortgat, a proper old-school pub with retro paper beer lists, where bottled Belgian ales outnumber draft lines. I liked both places for entirely different reasons, and significantly, although it’s been only a month, I can’t remember a single beer I drank at either place.
However, I clearly recall my surprise that Heineken, which I quaffed on several occasions, tastes quite good on its home turf in the Netherlands—and it isn’t only the expected heightened freshness. That characteristic “Dutch” flavor I’ve associated with Heineken since the Carter Administration, as gleaned primarily from imported bottles (the late Jimmy Buffett called them “greenies”), seems completely altered for the better. Heineken is crisp and gently hoppy on home turf, and I could get used to it if given half a chance.
While plenty of beers were consumed, our trip to Netherlands and Denmark probably was the least beer-centric I’ve taken since my twenties. That’s because the stated aim of the journey was checking in with friends, and by this metric the results were utterly magical. There’ll always be time to indulge in beer geekery, but every now and then, the basics of human interaction rank above the IBUs.
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Regular readers of this column know that I divide my working hours between writing for F&D and directing the beer program at Pints&union, a pub in New Albany, where I’ve had the good fortune to conduct a five-year-long sociological experiment in the theory and practice of beer offerings.
Of course, the very idea of a beer “program” will baffle some, even if it differs quite little from the methodology of a chef devising the food menu best suited to individual establishments and their varying aims and circumstances. In short, it surprises no one that bills of fare at Vietnam Kitchen, Jeff Ruby’s and Vincenzo’s are gloriously disparate.
Most diners understand the rudiments of culinary diversity; sadly, far fewer beer drinkers ever consider their beverage apart from its idiotically icy temperature when served hereabouts, which explains why there was a critical need for an American beer and brewing revolution in the first place.
Hence my 41-year career as a beer revolutionary.
It’s been a tough year for many indie businesses in downtown New Albany, with interminable street and bridge repair projects constantly disrupting transportation and commerce, and yet through it all, the fundamental laws of hospitality must still apply. As the Irish Rover regularly reminds us, a pub is a poor man’s university. It’s a place that promotes communion, and provides refuge from the prevailing palaver.
But as with life itself, absolutely none of it can be taken for granted. One must always be prepared to accept the bad with the good, and as such, my position at Pint&union as beer director has been eliminated, effective Friday 10 November.
However, I’m happy to report that my traditionalist and contrarian beer program has been an unqualified success. Beer as a whole has perennially been one of two top sellers in terms of sales categories at Pints&union, and I very much feel vindicated. Beer appreciation has come full circle, and the approach I’ve articulated at Pints&union—building brand loyalty and advocating expertise over amateurism—now must be regarded as the last truly revolutionary strategy in beer programming.
Principles over untappng? Imagine that. The details are here: Take this job and … frankly, LOVE it, but alas my position at Pints&union has been eliminated.
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Speaking of the passing of decades, the “40 Years in Beer” series continues at my web site. I’ve come to late summer of 1991, arriving in easternmost Czechoslovakia just after the eradication of communism to begin teaching conversational English to doctors and staff at the university teaching hospital in Košice.
Happily, beer was available.
Out in front by the tram and bus stops reposed the usual array of food, drink, flower and knick-knack kiosks intended to serve daily commuters, these well-worn spots occupied already by the usual local luminaries draining foamy mugs of their breakfast amid plumes of acrid cigarette smoke, which a cool breeze dispersed periodically to yield delectable whiffs of grilled sausages.
I joined them for a quick nibble and some liquid courage, subduing my rampant nervousness with bottled beer from some Slovak brewery I’d never heard of, but imagined I’d soon be purchasing religiously (Zlatý Bažant, a.k.a. Golden Pheasant, and my guess was correct). By then it was time to begin the perpetually maddening search for a pay phone that actually worked.
Here’s the link: 40 Years in Beer, Part Thirty Five: Košice comes into view and the Zlatý Bažant flows.
Roger Baylor is an entrepreneur, educator, and innovator with 41 years of beer business experience in metropolitan Louisville as a bartender, package store clerk, brewery owner, restaurateur, writer, traveler, polemicist, homebrewing club founder, tour operator and all-purpose contrarian.
