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.
Oceans of Mine 