Stromboli and Tap Handles

I stopped in last week for a couple of essential items. While I was there I bumped into the owner, BeerMan. I was with the cashier with a bomber in one hand and a 4 pack of pounders in the other. BM looked over and said, "you look like a man with a plan". By "plan" I immediately thought he meant, "dump the day job, open a pizza shop, and make beer in the basement", you know, to be just like him. Since he caught me totally off guard, I had a deer in the headlights moment long enough to realize what he probably meant by "plan" was getting shitfaced on the beer I was holding.

 

Tuesday I had the opportunity to sit in court with the potential to be an expert witness, an opportunity I did not want, I did not ask for, and which was as about as far away from either my educational or professional background as I could get. This did not produce a Snuphy-be-productive-mood. Afterward, around 3 pm when my first meal of the day became possible, it should surprise no one that I immediately thought of Cuvee des Jacobsons, a delicious sour beer. BM had a fresh keg on tap. BM himself served me the wild, tart nectar.

 

As he handed me the beer, I asked BM about my first theoretical definition for "plan". His initial response was a guttural sound somewhere between a cough and a gag, one I neither can nor want to repeat. His first intelligible response was, "dude, no fucking way I'd wish this on anyone". He then dealt his personal kicker, "especially on someone who’s not single." Then I quickly learned BM is one of those friendly, "hi, how ya doin' - here's my life story" sorta fellas.

 

He's worked in restaurants all of his life, opened his own pizza shop 10 years ago. The shop means working 7 days a week, normally in excess of 10 hours per day. He built a brewery this last year. Which means in addition to 70 weekly hours of slinging pie he now also has to find time to brew, clean kegs, order grain, pimp his wares, manage recipes, and sleep. It's not hard to figure out where this leaves his wife and kids.

 

He's seen very little of his kids since the brewery was delivered. He and his wife now fight constantly. She is convinced that he is not really brewing until 4am, but is instead fucking the snot out of a whole harem of floozies. She's now so tied to the kids she doesn’t have the freedom to work for extra spending money. She no longer has his help at home, so without him around she can't keep up with the laundry and chores. His solution to buy a smaller house is just another reason to argue. Etc, etc. BM's personal life is a depressing, nightmarish mess.

 

When I asked him about his brewhouse and his beer, a miracle happened!! He was magically transformed from a miserable shit into a bright eyed, highly animated, enthusiastic monkey who could barely keep from stuffing a tap handle in his ass and stroking himself silly. He has plans for fruit beers, sour beers, hoppier than fuck beers, high alcohol beers, barrel aged beers. He’s ready to do a crazy 150 gallon experiment using the pizza yeast he has in the storeroom. He intends to brew his ass off, to keep his fermenters full, to make his brewery successful. There was no indication there is the slightest possibility of compromise in his “professional” life. Which means unless his wife manages to beat some sense into the man, BM’s family life is doomed to clusterfuckedness. I find this baffling, yet intriguing in a train wreck sort of way.

 

The craft brewing industry seems to be permeated with this sort of mentality. “Mr. Brewer, why did you get into brewing?” “Well, it seemed like the most financially irresponsible thing I could find to do that would also stress my relationships with loved ones well beyond acceptable limits. . . . . . . .and then there’s beeeer.” “Mr. Brewer, what would you tell someone interested in starting a career in brewing?” “DON’T DO IT !!”. “So if you had it to do all over again, would you still be a brewer?” “Hells fuckin’ yeah!!” Many of the most popular American craft breweries were founded with the knowledge that starting a brewery was a stupid idea. They did it anyway. Apparently, so did BM.

 

I clearly don’t understand this life model. Even if I did, I really don’t think I’d find anything useful in it for me. I just find it fascinating. Like reality tv fascinating, which is odd since I can’t stand reality tv. But now that I know this “damn the torpedoes, let’s make beer” ideology exists, I just can’t leave it alone. I won’t leave BM alone, which has already upped the ante. I’ve moved on from $30 pizza pies. I’m now rockin’ the veggie, mini stromboli. Those cheesy fuckers cost $50.