I’ve never been a dedicated collector of things. I’m more a creature of passionate embraces, experience--a seeker of the Perfect Thing, perhaps. I don’t own or even know the discography of my favorite bands, but I damn sure love them just as deeply as do their obsessive accumulators of paraphernalia. Being a devout Alcoholist (an obscure branch of Zen Boozism) does not by default endow me with the encyclopedic knowledge of beer brewing, styles, complexity, science, and magic possessed by the hop sages, bottle doctors, and malt geeks I’ve met. Beer trivia is the discography of beer, and I’m no expert. I drink too much to remember all that shit. I can say, though, that I know what I love, and honestly, even that took a lot of label learning. But this isn’t history class. I’m not going to teach you anything--at least not intentionally. It’s just a melodramatic love story. About beer.
I used to be a wine person, but wine people can be damn pretentious (at least most beer geeks will wait till you open your mouth before judging you), and there’s never anyone to smoke with outside a wine tasting. When I discovered beer, it was a Sunday morning--a Sunday Mornin’ Comin Down, to be honest. As I steadied myself on the fridge door, hoping for cream (my sole coffee-diluting agent in the absence of good bourbon), I spied with my bloodshot eye a single, bright green beer label. I remember thinking, "What the hell?" as I popped it, shuffled over to the couch, and took a sip.
I promise, I had to sit down. I got a little misty. My internal dialogue was at once operatic; a biting, pulsing overture composed of deep honey colored brass and pollinated violins opening like morning glory blossoms at dawn. It was like some crap movie moment where we meet the soulmate template, sepia-toned destiny flowing over the choral lips of the bottle. There were crescendos involved. For the sake of contrived mystery, and to avoid beer world clichés, I won’t reveal the name of that beer. It doesn’t really exist anymore, not like that, and anyway, it doesn’t matter. It was The Beer. The One. And I have ever since been seeking its reincarnation.
I’m a hop head. Not in the 1950’s drug slang sense, but in a way that should be obvious within the context of this story. There is something about an IPA that is full of summery sensations, or the waking aromas of spring. And I tend to imagine the British colonists at sea, sneaking mugs from the kegs in cargo as they approached that exotic subcontinent of spiritual wealth and spices. I’m a fan of alcohol narratives.
I remember waking up next to a smoldering fire at the edge of a farm on the banks of the James in Varina. The last thing I remember before that was my third helping of Dogfish Head 90 Minute the night before. Sneaky thing, that beer. It was Sunday again. But the keg wasn’t empty, so I poured a fresh one and watched the reflection of leaves disperse in a thousand ripples across the river, shimmering green, fading into something deep and brown. It’s the best way I can describe that beer.
Richmond is a drinking town, and the obsession with PBR isn’t all that exaggerated. I still won’t turn down a cold one on the river. It’s kid’s stuff, though, and I had no idea what a drinking town was until the occurrence of two momentous events: I got a job at The Camel, and An at Mekong learned my name. An knows my taste in beer better than I do, and I’m by no means on the list of his top hundred customers. I’ve learned to let him pick my brew for me--and not to drive there. Every visit to Mekong was like a tour of some vibrating cathedral, full of weird lighting and revelations. The man is the pope of beer in Richmond, and his congregation is vast. I once cheated the grab bag game during a local beer rep’s farewell party, leaving with a bottle of Dogfish Head Squall IPA that had been aged for something like two years. I started buying barleywine after that, seeking intimacies with the caramelized ghost of hops that shadowed the curves of wide glasses.
Working at The Camel while we expanded our taps (to 28!) afforded me access to portfolio tastings open only to industry people. These, I’ve discovered, can overwhelm a palate pretty quickly. So it’s always a little startling when you find something remarkable toward the end of your rounds. The O’Connor brewery table was off to the side during a Brown Distributing expo, and I hadn’t noticed it until I was starting to contemplate leaving. The man behind the table (I’m horrible with names. Especially at beer tastings) had a nitro line set up, and handed me a decent pour of his Dry Irish Stout. It was smooth, like the aroma of coffee falling through a grinder, and possessed a subtle complexity of chocolate and char. Flavors continuously rose and fell, like warm currents winding through a late night swim. I had to leave after that. I just didn’t see my day tasting any better.
I’ve had a lot of carbonated lovers in my life, moments of enthralling adoration where circumstance collaborated with flavor to create the Perfect Moment: tasting an as yet unreleased bottle of Cryptical Imperial Stout at the Starr Hill Brewery, sharing a Troegs Nugget Nectar on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay, striding out of Blue Mountain Brewery into the sun plated hills of Afton, Virginia with a growler of Full Nelson in hand, drinking an IPfuckinA at Burning Man. And that’s the truly great thing about beer: it is a beverage of the moment, the existentialist of fluid ounces. You can pair it with food, but it goes best with occasion, revelry, and the camaraderie of those who also find themselves in the passionate grip of the polyamorous lust that befalls the true beer lover. It’s a love song--one part Maggie kicking you in the head, one part Astral Weeks, and one part Pursuit of Happiness. Just don’t be mad at me when I'm on to the next one.
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RVA Magazine and Phull Entertainment will be bringing you the RVA Beer Fest 2012 on Friday, May 4 and Saturday, May 5 at Gallery 5. For more details, go to rvabeerfest.com, or check out the facebook page at facebook.com/rvabeerfest.
