Great Lakes Brewing News February/March 2011 : Page 1
BIG BEER SHOULDERS. Haymarket founder, Pete Crowley and busi-ness partner, John Neurauter, toast the ﬁ rst beer at their Chicago brewpub. PHOTO BY JOE PREISER. Part 2 -The Outer Realm Strikes Back By Testigos de Cerveza PART 2 Why Blondes Are Better, by Barry O’Droner. The Queen lowered her binoculars and picked up her beer, a kiwi lambic. Why was the moat dweller sitting on the deck of his moat boat wasting time reading the latest Outer Realm bestseller? Another failed opportunity twisted into a tell-all. The next thing you know he’d be rereading Stravinsky Wore A Dress . Why was he reading a book in the ﬁ rst place—didn’t he have a Queendle yet? It had all been done so seamlessly, considering the magnitude of the swindle. Meet the new boss same as the old boss, ILLUSTRATIONS BY: HANS GRANHEIM T everyone congratulating each other and claiming to have saved the day. Only those who cashed in on the latest heist knew what really happened. And a few who had no voice, but were never fooled by such things. There had been moments of hope. But it was always more difﬁ cult to build than to destroy. The idiot below was evidence of that. He should be cleaning empty beer bottles and junk food wrappers off his poop deck instead of reading gossip. Despite what the latest round of pop psychologists claimed, tabloid news did not help reduce depression. he Haymarket Pub & Brewery featuring the Drinking and Writ-ing Theater—the West Loop’s newest watering hole and Chicago’s most promising beer mecca—almost didn’t happen. Go back to 1994, when founder Peter Crowley was a young pre-med stu-dent, waiting to hear back from the Medical College of Charleston. As he stewed, Crowley and pal Dennis Cooley decided to take one ﬁ nal road trip, to Aspen, Colorado, to live out the movie Aspen Extreme. “We wanted to stay for two months, but only had enough money for one week,” explained Crowley. “We needed jobs.” Crowley’s penchant for throwing himself seemingly unprepared into see situations would serve him situ well we throughout his brew-ing career. It was at the original Flying Dog brewpub Fl in Aspen that Crowley tasted his ﬁ rst craft beer, ta See Haymarket p. 4 INSIDE Events .................................................... 3 Beer & Health ........................................ 8 Jolly Giant ............................................. 9 Homebrewing ...................................... 10 Book Review ........................................11 Beer Beacon ....................................... 12 Import Report ...................................... 13 Maps & Directories ........................ 18-24 State by State News Wisconsin ......... 16 Indiana .............. 25 Illinois ............... 26 Chicago ............ 27 Minneesota ....... 28 Michigan ........... 30 SE Michigan ..... 31 Ohio .................. 32 New York .......... 33 Pennsylvania .... 36 Ontario .............. 38 See Queendom p. 6
The Beer Queendom
Testigos de Cerveza
Why Blondes Are Better, by Barry O’Droner. The Queen lowered her binoculars and picked up her beer, a kiwi lambic. Why was the moat dweller sitting on the deck of his moat boat wasting time reading the latest Outer Realm bestseller?Another failed opportunity twisted into a tell-all. The next thing you know he’d be rereading Stravinsky Wore A Dress. Why was he reading a book in the fi rst place—didn’t he have a Queendle yet?
It had all been done so seamlessly, considering the magnitude of the swindle.Meet the new boss same as the old boss, everyone congratulating each other and claiming to have saved the day. Only those who cashed in on the latest heist knew what really happened. And a few who had no voice, but were never fooled by such things.
There had been moments of hope. But it was always more diffi cult to build than to destroy.The idiot below was evidence of that. He should be cleaning empty beer bottles and junk food wrappers off his poop deck instead of reading gossip. Despite what the latest round of pop psychologists claimed, tabloid news did not help reduce depression.
That came from a twenty hour work week, civic engagement, and the diverse array of beer styles enjoyed by the citizens of Atheiana. Of course she had to work harder than ever to keep her utopia functioning.
She put down the binoculars and sipped her lambic. One of the most ancient beer styles in the world, the acidity in the lambic worked well to build an appetite. Add the soft fruitiness of the kiwi and you had a delicious drink, perfect before lunch.
The aperitif also reminded her why she was so tense this morning.The New Year was only three moons away and she hadn’t yet decided which beer style to name it after.If she didn’t move fast, the Year of the Wheat Beer would become a real possibility. The thought of having to drink wheat beers, a certainty given her ceremonial duties, was revolting. Witbiers, hefeweizens, kristall weizens, wheat ales, the various styles ran through her head like an unwanted regift. She’d heard there was even a wheat lager on the market, further debasing the cornucopia of beer styles. Light, wimpy, and devoid of character, wheat beers were a bane to the fl avorful world she had created.
The situation had gone too far. Worse, not one of her inner circle accepted any responsibility. Her lawyer, Honeyman, had Queendom continued from cover let wheat sneak through the due diligence process, claiming that his marriage distracted him. But beyond the fi ve minute civil ceremony and week-long after party, he’d never left the bedroom. She didn’t see the connection, unless he’d confused the application with the marital contract that lay strewn between the sheets. Or maybe he was still futzing around with that virusladen computer he’d built, refusing to give it up like every other antique piece of technology he owned. That was the real reason she’d left him: his technology was slower than he was. While deliberateness was an asset when concentrating on her desires, it shouldn’t carry over to a person’s professional life.As for the wheat beer disaster, a fi ling cabinet was not a new technology.
Initially, she suspected that he’d been in league with that wheat master of disaster, the moat dweller. But he was just being...well, Honeyman. While honey was sweet (and oh hadn’t she tasted that sweetness…), the fault truly lay with her Master Taster, whose job it was to come up with a new style each year. Since the installation of his new geothermal-powered Barca Lounger, the Master Taster rarely ventured out to see what was going on in the beer world. He just sat in his chair like a luxurious but legless Ahab, ordering the Sea Hag to bring him another beer. He’d hit a creative block.
She wouldn’t be this concerned if yesterday’s daily report hadn’t included a bullet point about a rise in citizen complaints. The Year of the Doppelbock was the last style that Atheians had endorsed.But according to the report, the Year of The Double Red Ale and the Year of the Double Brown Ale had gone too far. Her Year of the Beer program should have been a slam dunk positive given how much her citizens loved the beverage. Instead, it had become the latest subject of gossip in the town squares.
She’d had to reject several of her Master Taster’s suggestions. The Year of the Double Dubbel was a non choice. And the “Imperial” he’d tried to slip past her, sticking it in front of every beer style he knew, was also a no go. Next he would have suggested a Triple Pilsner or Quadrupel Porter, as if beer styles were like popular movies, to be followed by a second, a third, then a fourth.
The complaints took the holiness out of the yearly ceremonial naming, and put her citizens in a cynical mood, which was fatal for a utopia. Did he think she was stupid? It didn’t take an engineer to see that he would be perfectly content to sit in his new lounge chair, drinking and watching sports while riots broke out.
Queenie, Queenie, wears no socks, Propaganda sounds like FOX!Look at Queenie, head of rocks, While the revolution knocks!
As the off-tune chant drifted past her, the Queen pulled her binoculars back out and trained them on the deck below. The moat dweller was dancing around his sorry ship of state in mismatched socks, fl owered drawers and a beer-stained tee shirt. Bungee cords strapped around his torso helped fasten a holster to his hips, and he was waving a pistol. Atop his head was a beanie, making him look like an early morning Topol. Why not a ten gallon hat if he was going to play cowboy? He never had gotten that style thing down.
She could hear clicks as he pulled the gun’s trigger. The idiot probably didn’t realize that there were no longer any bullets available in Atheiana after her successful Peace Or Else! Campaign, which had reduced the homicide rate in the Queendom to zero.
Svetlana, the moat dweller’s Russian mail order bride, was also on the deck, wearing nothing but a bikini bottom. She was reading—or rather leafi ng through—War and Sleaze, the twenty-fi ve page, illustrated picture book authored by the CEO whose company had sold her the land to build Atheiana. Climate change and G. Whiz Real Estate had provided the Queen with the opportunity she had sought for decades: to buy some land and create a Beer Queendom.Once she owned it, she’d offered fi rst dibs to residents whose houses had disappeared under water. There had still been plenty of space for her castle.
In no time, Atheiana had arisen from the muck, thanks to solar powered pumps, Whole Earth dikes, and the Eco-fl o dual process sewer pipes she had designed. The blowers were as problematic as any new technology, but they had been essential in keeping the Beer Queendom free of genetically modifi ed life. Mutations might be a better name for some of the Outer Realm animals; the memory of that blood-sucking, clawed and fanged emu she spotted before the blowers were activated sent a shiver down her spine. But maintaining a higher air pressure kept her utopia natural.
Her utopia resembled Atlantis rising from the sea, except she had built the city instead of having it appear like magic. They had all created the Beer Queendom, she reminded herself. It had taken the labor of thousands to build this remarkable land, where happy, engaged citizens frolicked when they weren’t expanding civil liberties or working their short shifts.
She governed (if she could be permitted a moment of vanity) the Venice of utopias, where every industry was an art and every product expressed the personality and artistry of the artisan.
Queenie, Queenie, fake Canuck, Has big ears just like a duck!Owns ten chickens they don’t cluck, All her people don’t give a fuck!
The moat dweller couldn’t even get his four-three rhythms straight, not to mention put any semblance of logic into his limericks.
Never mind, it was time to move on to her morning briefi ng. She pressed the button on her throne to call Border Collie. No response. Strange, it wasn’t like her principal servant not to carry her Instacall at all times.She tried the beer cellar. Again, no response.She didn’t bother to summon Honeyman.He’d been shacked up with Svetlana— another Russian mail order bride—since the day they’d gotten married. What was the deal with that company naming all their mail order brides Svetlana? At least—despite his mid-life crisis—her lawyer had the decency to marry the woman, unlike the John Wayne wannabe dancing on his ship of fools below.
She did need to speak with her lawyer about all the contracts and injunctions he’d left unfi nished. Obviously, he hadn’t addressed the noise ordinance she’d ordered to shut down these moat-based outbursts of idiocy. Running a utopia wasn’t easy–where the hell was everybody?!
A loud crash startled her. She looked at the intercom buttons. The beer cellar switch was stuck on Listen again. She’d had that fi xed already, but the repair man must have used beer instead of WD-40.
She pressed the Speak button. “You okay?” She heard a mumble, then a thrashing about. Her Master Taster had probably passed out in his Barca Lounger again. At least it was only empty bottles breaking.
“Careful of the glass!” she yelled, then fi ddled with the button until it clicked off.No sense in calling the repair man. He’d already worked his 20 hours this week.
“At your request, your highness.” Border Collie stood in front of her, holding the daily news chip. She refi lled the Queen’s glass, left the chip and a lunch menu, and departed. Border Collie was good at performing multiple tasks when properly instructed. And she did it quietly, without the yapping characteristic of the dog breed she had been named after.
Slipping the chip into a slot in her throne, the Queen popped up her video screen and opened the report. She sipped her lambic. The sourness would complement the news from the O.R.
Tortures were up, as were confessions.Duh! Did anyone see the connection?!They had even started to pray to The Giant Phallus, not a good thing as that meant an invasion was imminent and put all civilized peoples in danger. Utopias had been sprouting around the world like mushrooms bringing sustenance to a rotting corpse, but the corpse had begun to rise again. The leaders of the O.R. saw them as threats at whom they could aim their vast military resources. If they were going to strike, Atheiana was a sure target. It was the original 21st Century utopia.
She pushed the thoughts away as she sped-read the rest of the bullet points. Her eyes caught an item on page three. A new utopia was opening several Queen-meters down the road. And according to her news chip, they served good beer.
Queenie, Queenie, she’s a beer geek Has a nose and four big red cheeks Wrap her in a Christmas tree And send her off to Mozambique!
The moat dweller’s ridiculous rhyme triggered an idea. Perhaps she could send him on another mission. It would lower the cacophony for a while. And if she sent her Master Taster with him, it would allow her to clean up the mess in the beer cellar. And take inventory. Her Master Taster might even discover next year’s beer style, neatly solving his dilemma. Letting him drink a few wheat beers in the secrecy of the moat wasn’t too high a price to pay in exchange for that.She had to admit, if anyone knew of a new beer style it would be the moat dweller.Unlike her own beer drinking Taster, he was still out and about. And fi t well into the O.R., where paranoia and aggressiveness were rampant.
She’d have to suggest the idea indirectly, of course. If the moat dweller knew that she wanted him to “run an errand” as he called it, he’d extract even more concessions out of the already tolerant laws regulating the moat. His latest request, to launch a tall ship, had been unacceptable. It would have fi t in the moat, but the thought of him mooning everyone from the crow’s nest—something he’d promised to do as a fi rst act—would be too much to bear. At that point she’d want his pistol and the bullets she’d stored in the Peace Vault.
The more she thought about her idea, the more she liked it. She would approach her Master Taster about a moat visit. Then drop the news about a need to visit O.R. and check out the nearby utopia.
Gather round the moat boat While I fart you out a tune.My six gun packing ammo And an army of cajunes!
“It’s Cajuns, not Cajunes!” The Queen muttered to herself. Her boat-dwelling bugaboo would never pass the intelligence test necessary for Atheian citizenship.
She shrugged off the horde of thoughts surrounding her and concentrated on the lunch menu. She needed food. And the energy it provided to deal with the afternoon’s chores.
Next issue, The Master Taster and the moat dweller plot an Outer Realm visit from the bowels of the moat boat.
Read the full article at http://glbnonline.brewingnews.com/article/The+Beer+Queendom/632209/60141/article.html.
Haymarket Sparks Beer Riot In Chicago
The Haymarket Pub & Brewery featuring the Drinking and Writing Theater—the West Loop’s newest watering hole and Chicago’s most promising beer mecca—almost didn’t happen. Go back to 1994, when founder Peter Crowley was a young pre-med student, waiting to hear back from the Medical College of Charleston.
As he stewed, Crowley and pal Dennis Cooley decided to take one final road trip, to Aspen, Colorado, to live out the movie Aspen Extreme. “We wanted to stay for two months, but only had enough money for one week,” explained Crowley. “We needed jobs.” Crowley’s penchant for throwing himself seemingly unprepared into situations would serve him well throughout his brewing career.
It was at the original Flying Dog brewpub in Aspen that Crowley tasted his first craft beer,and found a job as a bartender.” We were instant hits, because we were hilarious,” joked Crowley about landing the job. In a made-for-TV moment, Crowley decided he wanted to be a brewer, and canceled his application to medical school without ever knowing if he was accepted! Crowley helped out at nearby Glenwood Canyon Brewing, primarily cleaning out the mash tun, to gain needed brewery experience.Problem was, there weren’t any brewing opportunities in the Aspen area. When the owner of Glenwood Canyon offered Crowley a job at his Broadway Brewing in Denver, he jumped at the chance. Crowley left his job and apartment in Aspen and headed to Denver, only to find upon arrival that the job had been given to one of the owner’s buddies instead. “I did what any aspiring brewer would do,” quipped Crowley.“I went for lunch and a beer.”
Crowley headed to the original Rock Bottom, where he knew many of the bartenders from their visits to Aspen.As Crowley explained his sorry plight he discovered, as luck would have it, that the assistant brewer had been fired the previous day. By a combination of luck and attitude, Crowley landed the second assistant brewer job, having never actually brewed a batch of beer on his own! “We were doing two batches and a filter every day-a good thing, or I might never have learned in time,” Crowley explained.
By the Spring of 1998, Crowley was offered the head brewer job in Cleveland.After two years, the head job in Chicago opened up, which Crowley leapt at after many more senior brewers had commitments that left them unable to relocate. Over the next decade Crowley took the moribund Rock Bottom in downtown Chicago from beer afterthought to the top of Illinois brewpubs, winning countless awards in the process. Along the way, he met the people who would help him to found Haymarket: Steve Mosqueda and John Neurauter.
Steve Mosqueda walked into Rock Bottom simply looking to learn more about beer. As luck would have it, Crowley’s assistant had recently been promoted to head brewer in Arlington, VA, and not yet replaced. “I usually tell people [like Mosqueda] that I’m not interested, but for some reason, I let him help out,” said Crowley. More mash tun cleaning ensued.Mosqueda and friend Sean Benjamin were the people behind Drinking and Writing, a concept consisting of performance art, a radio show, and of course, plenty of beer.The three friends sought to establish the Drinking and Writing Brewery and Theater, but it was admittedly Crowley who “dragged his feet.” Mosqueda wondered, “Will the Drinking and Writing Theater have to happen without the brewery?”
Jack Neurauter purchased a brewer for a day prize at a Rock Bottom charity raffl e, and gave it to his son, John. He also was taken by brewing, even if his goals didn’t include cleaning mash tuns.Neurauter was fluent in slow cooking and smoked meats, so the friends held events such as Sausagefest, and discussed opening their own brewpub. In the Neurauters, Crowley had also met people with the financial know-how to make a brewpub a reality.
After passing on fi ve different sites, Crowley and Neurauter toured the shuttered Bar Louie at Randolph and Halsted.“I didn’t really want this site,” explained Neurauter. “Pete really had to talk me into it, something he’s good at!” Their original concept called for a much smaller brewpub with food as an afterthought, but Crowley and Neurauter quickly saw the potential in the 300+ capacity site, including a 15 bbl brewhouse.
So Crowley again left his brewing job, without the restaurant deal being finalized.“This place was presented as a turnkey operation,” lamented Neurauter, “but it became anything but.” Problems with the building and equipment—the floor couldn’t hold the weight of the brewery, and the basement fl ooded during the torrential downpour of July, 2010—meant the entire fi rst fl oor and basement needed to be rebuilt. Cost overruns and opening delays made Crowley and Neurauter wonder if Haymarket would ever happen.
While the Haymarket construction progressed, Crowley and Neurauter decided, “Awesome beer needs awesome food, too.” They needed the right chef. The original concept of pizza and burgers changed when Rock Bottom über-regular Karl Elvin suggested his friend Chris Buccheri, then sous chef at Three Floyds in Munster, IN.Buccheri saw eye-to-eye with Neurauter’s concept of handmade sausages and smoked meats, and created a top-notch menu of “high-quality pub food.
Crowley offered his friends Mosqueda and Benjamin the back room for the Drinking and Writing Theater, but the two were reluctant to venture so far from their Andersonville neighborhood, where they held their performances. Crowley flatly stated, “Does the brewery have to happen without the Drinking and Writing Theater?” Mosqueda acquiesced, and even became Crowley’s assistant brewer in the process. Still more mash tun cleaning would ensue.
The Haymarket Pub & Brewery, a long journey from Aspen, CO where Crowley tasted his first craft beer, finally opened its doors on Christmas Eve. Crowley’s house beers include a Belgian pale ale, Belgian abbey beers, IPAs and a Czech Pils, among others. The menu, an eclectic mix of pub favorites and new creations, includes an extensive list of vegetarian options. The Drinking and Writing crew perform to standing room crowds in their back room bar and theater.Back in 1994, the world had lost a potential doctor, but Chicago gained a great brewer and in 2010 an expansive new brewpub that will certainly be a cornerstone of the Illinois brewing scene for decades to come.