We went for a stroll last Sunday and passed one of those fly-by-night evangelistic churches, this one occupying an old shotgun house.
A man I’d never seen before waved as we passed, and he called out, “One of these Sundays, why don’t you come to church with us?”
I thought about it, and answered: “Sure, as long as you’ll come to my church with me.”
He answered, “Where’s your church?”
“Any brewpub will do,” I replied, and walked on.
—
Last time in this space, I wrote about an otherwise forgettable day in the Bohemian countryside two decades ago, and yes, beer was involved.
Isn’t it always?
In many significant ways, the lifespan of every human being is made up of days just like the one I described, most of them long gone and beyond recall, and yet I’ll never forget walking to the neighborhood tap for pitchers of draft beer, and then spending the afternoon drinking with good, kind, giving people, even though communication was a challenge owing to our linguistic divergences.
On that occasion, we brought the beer back with us, but during the course of my thirty-plus years as a professional drinker, I’ve preferred my consumption to be on premise, and part of the public record. It’s a tight rope I enjoy walking, even if such openness sometimes has resulted in less than flattering recollections, both on my part and in the minds of those forced to witness my drunken antics.
Most of the time, it does not come to that, and there is a fundamentally positive dynamic at play. The reason why bars, pubs and other watering holes are the only places I’ve ever truly felt comfortable – my natural habitat, as it were – is in part a statement about my innate proclivities, and also owing to the historical function of those places as third spaces.
Nowadays most of us in America have living rooms of our own, but a social instinct still impels us to find another milieu to spend time apart from home and work, another comfortable spot – perhaps a gym, coffee shop, park bench … or even a church.
These are functional examples, but a bit dry for my taste. I prefer my third spaces to offer the possibility of consuming beverage alcohol, most often beer. When I’m surrounded by people who feel the same, anything is possible. This is especially true when you’re a wandering stranger, and find yourself welcomed, albeit temporarily, into the public living room of the locals.
It never gets any better than that. An inviting barroom shifts the perspective of the traveler from the outside looking in, to the inside, tightly looking out. From five thousand miles away, you enter a cozy room and ask for a tankard of whatever is made right there, whether in the building, the town or the region.
Granted, one might have a lovely experience in Munich at an Argentine restaurant specializing in the beef and wines of South America, but really, shouldn’t you be going somewhere else for that?
—
The late Bostonian ward-heeling politician Tip O’Neill rather famously commented that all politics is local, and in like fashion, my pathway is leading me inexorably to this conclusion: All beer drinking culture is local.
Of course, quality is paramount, and I’ll never argue that one should drink flawed beer under any ideological circumstances, yet to me, there is an essence and a primacy to what is being brewed at or near the place one drinks. Perhaps the homebrewer’s self-made bounty is the purest possible example, followed by local commercial brewers and their products.
If the beer comes from elsewhere, whether down the road or around the globe, there remains a commensurate primacy in choosing local ownership of the establishments serving it. I’ll be damned if I’m going to drive all the way to Chico, California, and drink Sierra Nevada at the “neighborhood” Applebee’s. They may serve it, but chains don’t deserve my patronage.
Verily, there is a place and time for all beers, but with each passing day, I reach a firmer certainty that locally-brewed beer is freshest and best, especially for session-strength beers meant for everyday drinking. The further these are sent from their source, the greater the chance of their degradation.
Does it sound like I’m formulating commandments and theological doctrine?
You bet it does.
What do you think I’ve been pondering all these years while balanced (sometimes precariously) atop all of those bar stools?
Beer drinking is my sacrament, and pubs are my sanctuaries. When the collection tray was passed, I put all of my money into localizing my beer. I got the religion for sure, but by drinking the beer … not the Kool-Aid.
Roger A. Baylor
New Albanian Brewing Company
Stay tuned for the next installment of Pint CounterPint tomorrow!
