beer – Oceans of Mine

Run, Beer, Run!! The First Monday Night Mile

It was far more nerve-wracking for me than I anticipated as I sat on a red metal bench outside of Monday Night Brewery, dolled like a go-go girl in my new Detective Comics dress and knee-high black boots, awaiting the start of the Monday Night Mile. Was I the only one who felt nervous in my get-up? Surely not, I thought as I watched a man in a flowing yellow-and-white sundress wander back-and-forth from the patio bar. I marveled at the nonchalance of girls in rainbow-colored tutus and a couple of guys with Afro-style wigs and giant, horn-rimmed glasses.

We were the anomalies in Atlanta’s first official beer run: most everyone was dressed in running gear, occasionally bespeckled with colorful long socks or wild laces on their shoes.

Though a beer before the race would settle my nerves, I know my tolerance for alcohol and preferred to start the race on an untainted stomach. I’d had a big lunch and snacked on a few handfuls of nuts immediately before the race, drank half-a-liter of water on the way down… and was still sure I was going to be drunk well before crossing the finish line.

There’s a chance that everyone was nearly as flustered as I, for there was a lot of pre-drinking. Almost no one knew what to expect, but we all surely knew it was crazy. Runners milled about in groups, inside and out, flicking eyes at the costumes and traditional running getup; I wonder if those who didn’t dress up felt as if they should have, and how many of us who did questioned if we shouldn’t.

I certainly yearned for something to keep me safe from my dis-ease, for some companion in this race since I was “running” alone; perhaps the Hatian-made superhero dolls displayed near the start line. They laid, smiling, next to hand-made clutches, pillows and screen-printed T-shirts; and I felt childishly like I would be okay if I just had one in my arms.

We were all giddy and nervous, I think, crazy to be doing something so foolish on an early Monday evening; crazy to be experienced grown-ups, many of whom had to work the next morning, knowing perfectly well the dangers of downing four full beers with university-student-like abandon and running – yes, RUNNING! – in between draughts.

Seven o’clock couldn’t come soon enough; and, finally the 16-oz pours of Monday Night’s newest beer, the 5% ABV Nerd Alert, filled tables before the start line. We gathered, chatting with each other about what to expect and how we came to be in the race; I happened to wind up next to Wolverine (AKA “Logan”, AKA “Marshall”) and his more-human buddies. Then I spotted the incarnation of my dress’ superhero, Batman; I had to go see.

Wolverine (AKA "Logan", AKA "Marshall") — Wolverine (AKA “Logan”, AKA “Marshall”)

Now, I was okay. Now, we were together, all a group, all unsure about what was happening next, all waiting to chug our beers and step across the start line.

…And we waited….

Finally, they instructed us to take a beer, “But don’t drink them!!” Hell’s bells; they were making us wait LONGER!

How long do they expect us to hold onto these things without drinking...?? — ‘How long do they expect us to hold onto these things without drinking…??’

There must be an instinct in people, especially those gathered in a large group on a warm evening, to sip the cool beverage held in hand, the girls next to me confirmed as they related their conscious and deliberate efforts NOT to raise their cups to their lips and sip the golden effervescence. I was definitely finding it difficult; and, as I looked around, noticed that others did not even bother to resist the temptation: several cups were half-empty or more within minutes, despite admonitions.

With a final top-up by event coordinators for those who’d “cheated” and couldn’t help but sample their bevvies, we were allowed to drink up and start the race. There were well over two hundred of us gathered, some tossing beers back with the ease of experts and others – like me – drinking more quickly than normal, but by no means sucking our beers down. I watched as my compatriots took off before me, dropping their empty cups on the ground and running across the start line; I felt urged to finish my beer quickly, before I was last across the line.

Really, Meredith? I heard myself internally. Yep, really, I responded. I was here to do a beer run, whether I was running or not. I downed the last of my beer within two minutes and dropped my cup, grabbed the hem of my mischievous, inching skirt and actually jogged over the start line.

…For about a thirty seconds.

The first-place runner broke past me on his way down as I was ¼ up the ¼-mile hill, running at a speed I’d likely match even if I was dressed as race-appropriately as he. I grinned, watching those on his tail continue the race-pace as if they’d not just chugged 32 ounces of brew. Their seriousness was silly to me; but I’d been warned to expect such dedication from at least a few.

More amusingly wonderful were the trios and quintuples of over-fifty aged friends, jogging up the hill ahead of me. I was settled in my pace, comfortably not-last and happily not-first. This was way more fun than I anticipated, and I was only one beer in!

Reaching the beer station much faster than expected, I grabbed a beer and watched the gathering as nearly everyone drank this one more slowly than the last. We watched the more serious beer-runners suck-and-bolt, and I noticed one taller guy in race gear struggling with perhaps his last pint, panting and almost doubling-over as if he’d run five times as far as he’d most certainly run thus far. The beer was the challenge here, and the strategy was in how one handled it, not the hill.

My strategy pleased me more at this point: I’d been asked already by several people how I planned to run in “those boots.”

“I won’t!” I always replied; and now I was happy that the temptation to join in the stomach-sloshing activity was virtually removed for me by my own brand of ridiculousness.

Yet, the beer was still a concern: two beers inside of five minutes is WAY more than my body likes to handle, more than my palate demands, more than my mind has had to find ways with which to cope. Drink, drink, drink, I cheered myself on. Hmm… this pour was larger than the last.

And then there was the quality of the beer, about which I was now fully aware:

Nerd Alert is a “Pseudo Pilsner”, though I’m not entirely sure what that means. Thank goodness for the BeerStreetJournal, with an explanation from the brewery:

Technically speaking, Nerd Alert is an ale. And if you want to get reeealIlly technical, we fermented this beer with ale yeast at low temperatures to achieve an incredibly clean flavor. However, if you bring up this knowledge in normal circles, you will, in fact, be labeled a nerd. So just enjoy the straw-blond appearance (Like the hair of the girl the nerd could never get) and the crisp, safe essence (like the nerd’s comic book room).

I guess I’m not yet beer-nerdy enough to understand… even if I am blonde.

What I did grasp was this: Nerd Alert IS fairly easy to drink, if we’re talking about heaviness. When poured with a good head, the ale is much more tasty, with a creaminess that balances out a mild bitterness. However, I always prefer something with a bit more texture and flavor, and Nerd Alert was simply… a regular beer. Not particularly crisp, not particularly delicious; it was something I’d expect while at a summer beer party in someone’s backyard – and I’d likely mix it into a shandy with a sharp ginger beer, simply to give it more foam and bite. But it would make a REALLY good shandy. Or perhaps a great beer-based cocktail.

Which is why I didn’t finish all of the second pour: my palate was still too awake, too aware, too sensitive and demanding of why I was drinking TWO of this particular beer – because, though I might drink one, I never drink two pints of something I don’t REALLY like.

Down the hill again, with much the same amusement as when I went up; and the third beer was considerably easier. I’d made it half-way in just under 14 minutes; I was making FAR better time than the hour I’d expected to take for completing the race.

I think the beers were starting to hit me, or I simply enjoyed too well watching as people swept across the finish line two lengths ahead of me, for I don’t remember much about drinking that third one – except that I finished it with ease. Back up the hill, boots making stride after stride, hiking down my ridiculous dress that was certainly not made for walking (even if it was just about the most comfortable thing I could be wearing on an almost-hot summer night).

I nabbed my fourth beer and started chatting up someone in the group who challenged me to finish my beer and make it down before them “in those boots.” Clearly, men don’t realize how easy it is to walk in high-heeled boots, especially boots tall enough to nearly reach one’s knees. For those reading: Consider that one’s entire foot is covered, along with one’s ankle, and the motion is as easy as walking normally. The challenge may come with stilettos – whether boots or sandals – but these boots were not.

As we loitered at the top of the hill for the fourth round, we watched as a real-life, car-to-UPS truck chicken standoff manifest. We stood around, incredulous and laughing as an annoyed-but-busy UPS driver waited, then decisively wove his way around tables littered with still-full pints of beer while a ticked-off-and-stubborn girl and her friend sat in their car facing him, unmoving, silently demanding that the heavens open up the earth and we all – including Mr. UPS – sink into it so they could pass.

Miss Priss finally decided to move so Mr. UPS could manage to his drop-off down the hill, then I strolled to the finish line with some new friends in their beautiful mariachi costumes and similarly-inappropriate shoes while we each finished up our last pints. This beer run was more fun than a pub crawl, I’m sure (though I’ve never been on a pub crawl). It was at least completely unusual and far more rare.

As we reached the finish line, I dumped my empty cup in the trash can and remembered suddenly to take note of my time: a speedy 29 minutes and 40 seconds to make the “run,” and I’d even watched a spectacle and made friends along the way.

I’m sure my official time reads later than 29:40, since we wound up chatting more and forgetting to actually step across the finish; I remembered to walk across, finished the race and was bedecked in my finisher’s medal.

Blissfully buzzed, we were all friends now. It was easier now, and I met more wonderful people as I strolled around, my naysaying mind gone quiet enough after of 64 ounces of social lubrication and an entertaining mile of exercise.

Me, Three Beers Into the Beer Run (and still camera-shy!)

But I wasn’t drunk, though I thought surely I would be.

The Organizers' Finish Their Heat!! — The Organizers’ Finish Their Heat!! (Left to right: Marc Hodulich, ??, David Maloney, Matthew ?)

I lucked upon a new friend who bought me my favorite Monday Night beer: the delicious, gingery wit, Fu Manbrew, and – grateful to have my brother in town to act as my DD – I stood at the Start/Finish line and enjoyed this beer, watching as the organizers ran their heat, decked more ridiculously than almost anyone I’d seen, finishing four beers and one mile before I managed even half of my fifth and favorite brew.

It’s easy for me to see, now, the attraction to such events. My mom, in her great love for me, related my general fervor for life to a woman whose family lived in China for a time, who learned to let go from a culture of people who gather in parks and “play,” doing whatever they enjoy in front of everyone. It’s not normal, she observed, for Americans to allow themselves such freedom: to do and be and play in whatever manner they like best – no matter what their skill or ability.

This beer run was our version of that: a bunch of people at all levels of experience in running and drinking, getting together to play.

Perhaps we yet need the alcohol to give ourselves the excuse and freedom to let go…

Or perhaps we’re learning from it that we won’t need it, and can just let it be part – instead of the instigator – of fun.

John & Ashley Zintack with me (clockwise from top) — Shoe Styling with John & Ashley Zintack (clockwise from top)

The Squirrel (Marc Hodulich) and His Friend

I must thank Marc Hodulich and Dave Maloney of CharityBets for organizing the Monday Night Mile, for allowing me to participate while helping market one of the most fun events I’ve ever attended – at one of my favorite local breweries.

Dave Maloney of CharityBets and Monday Night Mile Organizer

Halving my time, I doubled my sponsors’ contributions to Ties That Matter, the Hatian charity organization created and managed by Monday Night Brewery. Thanks also to my sponsors: my new foodie friend, Lon Snider (@Heelcorkdork), who I met during my regular Monday night activity, #Foodiechats; and my dear friend Mark Shekerow, a passionately vivacious man who is always up for a great conversation and great fun, and is so incredibly supportive of all I love to do. I’m so grateful to you both!

And a special thanks to my older brother, David McGuire, for driving to and from the event so I wouldn’t have to worry over myself; and to my parents for tolerating such uncommon nonsense from me.

Post Script: If you know the names of any pictured here who I’ve not correctly identified, please introduce them to me in the comments section below! -xo, M.

Being a Beer Babe: Better Bitters Beer School and Maple Porter Floats

In all the days of my youth, I’m sure no one guessed that one day I’d advocate beer. I disliked beer, couldn’t stand the stench of it: sour and bitter on the breath, always reminiscent of my grandfather’s perpetual Budweiser that silently upset my grandmother and both my parents, that made him unpleasantly curt though he thought he had wit. Beer was only good for boiling crabs, Grandpa taught me; and for that skill and sailing, he made me proud.

…My gall, when I’m interested, knows no bounds. Especially when I meet someone as sweet and engaging as John Romano of Ontario’s Better Bitters Brewery, located just up the street from the restaurant where I worked last year.

We sold scores of craft beers in Burlington’s Red Canoe Bistro; Chef / Owner Tobias Pohl-Weary is passionate about fare originating in Canada, and beers are no exception. Or, perhaps, they ARE the exception: he carries nothing but craft beers in his fine-dining restaurant. Getting to know the beer and wine selection was an implicit part of serving there; he and his award-winning sommelier, Sharon Correia, prided themselves on selecting the best that Ontario, and Canada, had to offer.

During a tasting with the Chef and Sharon for Red Canoe’s forthcoming Beer School, John – and his beers – changed my heart. John takes his role as owner of Better Bitters seriously: he brought several new brews – a Saison (yet unnamed), Naughty Neighbor (an APA) and Bolshevik Bastard (Imperial Stout) – in addition to their very-popular Green Apple Pilsner, Headstock IPA, Organic Lager and seasonal Maple Porter to be paired with the Chef’s choice of food. John is enthusiastic about his product, bursting with energy; he can’t wait to talk about the various notes to expect and the brewing methods, and is quick to offer a suggestion for new recipes made with his beers. He’s brewed and helped others brew for most of his life, between assisting his grandfather as a youth and opening his brew-your-own facility with his brother, Pete.

I was quite the beer novice when I encountered John; I only really knew and very occasionally enjoyed Toronto’s Mill Street Organic with its crisp, clean finish or Creemore Springs Premium Lager, a rich, amber beverage with creamy head and faintly-bitter notes; though I was lucky enough to try a couple intriguing pints (a Red Ale and a Mocha Porter) from northern Ontario’s Lake of Bays Brewery while working the Niagara Food and Wine Show. But Nickel Brook beers (the trade name for Better Bitter’s brews) completely surprised me: apple beer that smelled, tasted so much of fresh apples that I could probably drink the stuff like juice while enjoying the soft buzz of brew. And Maple Porter with bitter chocolate and coffee, malty vanilla and caramels that opened smoothly as it warmed, filling my mouth with strong flavors long after I sipped? Uncanny. I even enjoyed the citrus-hoppiness of Headstock IPA, a beer both refreshing and strong, and enticingly bitter without being overpoweringly so. These were not my grandfather’s Bud, nor could they be drunk with the casualness of one.

Having paid attention to complaints of John’s events-packed schedule, thinking to learn what I might from him while on one of the brewery tours, and planning to buy a case or two of their beers to sample over dinner at my sailor-friend’s boat, I plotted in my mind to chat with John again.

Within two weeks, my plan was sealed: John was working the VIP tent at Burlington’s Sound of Music Festival, the country’s largest free music fest. After a long day at the Red Canoe, I made my way to the VIP tent, where Tobias’ fare delighted artists and musicians and, as one of his staff, I gained entrance for a post-shift pint. I’d run into John already on my way down; he instructed me to tell his boys to pour whatever I wished.

Such are the perks of working events, easy to abuse, should one be inclined. For me, though, it was a chance to taste.

Hours later, two beers down and a pizza shared with John’s lovely and equally-charming wife, I found myself agreeing to drive a van the following morning to Toronto for the last day of a craft-beer-and-rib-fest. I couldn’t believe my luck!

The best way to learn about anything is to get in tight with those of that kind. John and his wife, their staff and friends are all passionate beer-lovers, more than just beer-drinkers. They love every step of the process, from grain to drain; and it is as intoxicating to me to listen to them talk as it is for others to savor beer-after-beer.

And there’s something special that happens particularly between craft beer-sellers that most people probably don’t realize happens while working rib-fests and other such events: Those poor souls pouring beer-after-beer through heat and rain, those guys-and-gals selling rack-after-rack of grilled-and-slathered meats do it because there’s nothing like it, nothing like the exchange between vendors of tales, nothing like the behind-the-scenes bartering system that happens quite naturally, nothing like the innate friendships that grow when working towards the same end. We all become friends, especially between breweries.

It was at that first brew-fest that I finally enjoyed Beau’s, the brewery nestled beside mine, with their fresh, unfiltered beers, and met the cute blonde girl and the brewer from Ottawa who looked after me while I was alone. It was there that I fell in love more deeply with Flying Monkeys, whose grapefruity Hoptical Illusions and rich Netherworld Cascadian Dark Ale tantalized me on tap at a previous restaurant job, sealing my love for IPAs; whose striking beer babe held me in wonder with her clean-shaven head, enormous eyes and conspicuous confidence. Several other microbreweries stood to the left, but, knowing little of them, now smitten by Beau’s brews and Flying Monkeys’ babe with greater gall than mine, I took to the slow enjoyment of my beverage and let them fade into the recesses of my awareness.

Pete Romano arrived, and we hit it off; chatted through the remainder of the rather slow day, nibbled trades from the rib shacks between pours for patrons and their enthusiastic conversations; until I was finally indoctrinated in the art of the beer float.

Yes, you read correctly: Beer. Float.

I don’t know any other brewery that claims such a thing is possible, much less delectable – unless they’ve tried Nickel Brook’s beer floats. Maple Porter is my favorite, but the Apple Pilsner Float is pretty tasty, too.

Ridiculous as it may seem, here’s what you do: Take a hefty scoop of vanilla ice cream, partly thawed. Drop it into a tall glass. Carefully pour over it a tasty beer – preferably something with some unusual notes like caramel or coffee or mocha or rum… or apple (or any other kind of fruit, really); stir carefully, sip and enjoy.

Pete had me taste my first Maple Porter Float, his eyes twinkling expectantly as he watched me spoon the dark liquid pool surrounding white hill of frozen cream into my mouth for the first time. I’m fairly sure I moaned or something; I know for sure I dove back in for more, shocked pleasurably by the delightful combination of vanilla-chocolate-caramel-mocha-crème. I could eat these all day, and not a bite of anything else.

To say I was an advocate is an understatement. I became an angel.

We couldn’t sell them at this event, so we blessed the line of breweries with sweet treats that sent them rushing back for more.

Nothing makes me happier than making others happy, and this was surely the thing. Beer plus ice cream; what could be better, even if absurd?

So, in the end of my first beer-fest, my grandfather’s habit turned ‘round in me: beer became a thing of joy, of unity, of togetherness, of pleasure and delight; not an escape, but an awakening.

I couldn’t wait for more.

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