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I am the luckiest person on earth.  Of that I’m sure.  The grapes are grown outside the window of this restaurant in the obscenely beautiful hills of southern Italy.  Camillo, the owner of this farm, carries bunches of them to us to taste, his face glowing from the combination of hot sun and pride in his craft.  The green glass bottle has no label or cork, just a small cap that pops on and off easily.  They ferment their grapes here simply, as they have done for a thousand years, then fill bottles and carry them to your table.  No sulfites, no marketing, no rush, just a beautiful, lush, delicious mouthful of wine that takes you back to time before time.

I wish that I could recommend you try this, but every bottle is unique and there is no way to taste the wine from a remote farm in Italy except to go there and have dinner with them.  So I will simply suggest that if you’re ever able to do so, don’t hesitate.  Incredibly friendly people who don’t care about the language barrier (I speak painfully little Italian and they speak little to no English) and speak fluently and easily in the languages of music, food, and wine with a contagious joy that will make me dream of this place for the rest of my life. 

Most of human history measured time simply by the sun rising and setting, and in the Calabrian region of Italy that is very often still the case.  Time moves without cell phones marking every second, and meals can take hours.  It is something much of the world has now lost, and I’m reluctant to ever step back into the hyper scheduled, tick-tock frenzy that is modern life.  For the moment, this wine is the embodiment of a life untouched by the modern world.  

Brennevin & Borg Brugghus Imperial Stout

To walk through the landscapes of Iceland is a uniquely strange experience, reminiscent of a dream or a Tolkien novel.  It’s easy to imagine trolls roaming across the hills, breaking the silence that overwhelms the land.  As an American the history here is more than I can grasp, feeling like the descriptions of distances in space.  Icelandic parliament was established here at Thingvellir in 930 AD and is still standing, a stout stone building with the visage of a Viking surveying a battlefield.  Alcohol production in Iceland is overseen by the national brewery, Borg Brugghus, and first up is a sampling of their Imperial Stout.

At 10%, this stout is a serious as the Nordic stoics that brewed it.  Loaded with more black chocolate, coffee, and roasty toasty malts than a mortal human mouth can contain, it rides like a blood thirsty Valkyrie across the tongue, axe in full swing.  My experience of this beer was equal parts enjoyment and submission to its will.  I returned to this stout several more times while in Iceland and never regretted it.  At least not until the next morning.

Next up was a traditional Icelandic liquor called “Brennevin,” pronounced Bren – ye – veen, which means “burning wine” in Icelandic.  It is essentially vodka that is infused with cumin.  I don’t know why they chose cumin, and nobody ever explained this to me in any way that I could really grasp.  When Oskar, the very friendly barkeep, suggested I try it if I wanted to try something traditionally Icelandic, I happily agreed.

It’s not quite “burning” as it’s not a particularly spicy or hot drink, and it is traditionally served chilled, so it’s a bit like a vodka shot with a hint of Mexican food in the aftertaste.  Fairly pleasant, and if you’re offered it just accept and enjoy with no fear.

I’ll be honest.  I was told this was “really popular” here and so I went with it, and it tasted remarkably like Budweiser to me.  Iceland Magazine backs up its popularity among Icelanders, though apparently “Viking” is the most popular.  Because of Icelandic alcohol laws it is capped for sale in stores at 2.25% and qualifies as what the Aussies call “piss water.”

Coney Island Brewing – Mermaid Pilsner

The flight from Portland, Oregon to JKF airport in NYC is just over 5 hours and if you’re over 5 feet tall it can be a rough trip.  Crammed into seat with a 2 year old behind you kicking your spine and screaming, “I want to get out of here” at the top of their lungs the whole flight as you tap uselessly against the broken touch screen entertainment system and fend off the pushy elbows of the guy next to you, it can seem like a very personalized circle of hell.  By the time you land and finally get out the door of the plane and into the airport itself it can feel a bit like you’ve come up for air after an impossibly long water-boarding session.

In that frame of mind, the offer of a cold local pilsner from a friendly New Yorker comes with the sound of a choir of angels and reminds you how much world changing power kindness has.

This pilsner is appropriately named, since it is so obviously a Mermaid.  Buxom, beautiful, graceful, with a floral scent and a supernatural power to make you forget your worries and follow it down into the deep.  I wanted to make a life with her down in that quiet world. We could be happy, I thought. But all too soon she was gone and I was left with only the memory of our short time together.

For those who enjoy a pilsner for its easy, light drinkability, but also enjoy some floral hop and a generous spiciness from rye malts, set aside a moment for yourself to truly enjoy this brew.

5/5

The Brooklyn Brewer – Brooklyn Brown Ale

I followed the pilsner with this very tasty brown ale.  For anyone who likes Newcastle Nut Brown, this is a bit of a cross between that and a dark, serious porter.  If Brooklyn were capable of having pugnacious soccer hooligans, they would be this beer. A cold New York winter could be warmed nicely by this roasty brew, hinting at coffee, caramel, and lots of malts.  Somewhat sweet for my tastes, but with the remaining Beastie Boys (we all miss you dearly, MCA) being in their more distinguished years now, a bit of sweetness from a Brooklyn brew seems appropriate. The tough-guy borough having changed its tone to avocado toast and waxed mustaches, this ale is hip.

4/5

Reno, NV. August, 2018

Warm sun, not hot.  Clear blue skies, broken only by the bright orange ball flying high over the park’s grassy expanse.  The contagious thrill of a dog at full speed sprint, laser focused on biting down into that ball with everything she’s got.  She runs it back and, nearly hysterical with anticipation of the next throw, she pleads with me to repeat it all again. When she is finally too exhausted to run another step, we walk lazily to a bar with tables outside on the sidewalk.  The dog is brought an ice cold bowl of water. I am brought this cold brew and we are equally thankful. But after lapping away at her bowl she eyes my glass.

“This is not for you,” I remind her, “this is truth serum, meant only to pry confessions from reticent uncooperative criminals.”

She is skeptical.

Hazy IPAs are becoming very popular very quickly.  This is only the third I have sipped, and I consistently find them a bit too sweet and fruity for my taste.  Also, the all devouring western wildfires have made “hazy” a hated word for me of late. But as the day is warm, and my company is lovely, it is the perfect beer for this moment.

Las Vegas, Nevada.  August, 2018.

I don’t understand why House of Blues feels the need to put their name on a wine label.  It seems…off brand at best. They put so much effort into making a sort of Disneyland version of a dirty rock and roll bar that offering a house labeled red wine seems to counter that.  As labels go, it was graphically appealing and let you know what you were in for, and I appreciated its honesty.

Once opened, the aroma was a blend of stainless steel, grape sno-cone, and bar floor at the end of the night.  I didn’t have to wonder about the alcohol content, because it said 13.6% in print so bold and pronounced it was only missing an exclamation point. I tried to share it with Mark and David, but neither got past their first sip, so it wasn’t a very social drink.

I think the atmosphere of ceaseless slot machines clanging and beeping, the windowless inner world of the casino, and the slow stream of burnt out gamblers passing by, cow eyed and lost, made an honest review of the drink difficult.  As red wines go, it could not compete with almost any mediocre bottle. The main notes were sugar and whatever Gallo had left over. However, the House of Blues, in a startling act of generosity, gave it to me for our show, so it was free.  That is worth at least a point. Plus it had alcohol in it, so it gets another point.

Sip score = 2/5

Boise, Idaho.  August, 2018.

The owner of Edge Brewing, Marcus, invited the band to stop in for some lunch and, despite it being 11 a.m., immediately brought out sampler trays of the many beers he brews right there in house.  Given the time of day, my eye was caught by the word “Breakfast” and so I dove right into this amazing stout.

Idahoans are a hardy lot, and the cold winters have made them great appreciators of a muscular stout.  Edge’s Breakfast Stout satisfies the locals, and that’s no easy task. It’s an oatmeal stout and has the thickness you’d expect from one, along with plenty of locally roasted coffee bean flavor to give you the idea that the beer you’re drinking will somehow imbue get-up-and-go.  My feeling was more of a get-up-and-sit-back-down.

This stout has a wild beard, bushy eyebrows, a thunderous laugh, and scars from a cougar attack it survived three winters back.  It doesn’t shake hands, it hugs.  Chuck Norris once tried to fight this stout when he was in Boise shooting a movie and forfeited at the first sip, saying, “Fighting is stupid” ending his career. 

It was high on the list of the tastiest stouts I’ve tried, and it filled our conversation that morning with stories of our various travels, the sign of a great stout.  I gave it a 4, but only because I personally don’t gravitate toward coffee in beer. The malt and hops do it all for me, but I thoroughly enjoyed it, coffee and all. If you’re in Idaho, give Edge Brewing’s Breakfast Stout a taste and see for yourself.  

Sip score = 4/5

Nevada City, California.  August, 2018.

Nevada City is struggling with smoke filled air and the nervous tension of a town surrounded by forest as hot and dry as tinder, sitting just on the outskirts of the apocalyptic California wildfires.  It feels like the whole world is burning and it’s only a matter of time until the scenic old west town is ashes.

But when I step into Ol’ Republic the owner, Simon, is all smiles. Every bit of him the barkeep who holds the town together.  When he greets me I have already ordered the Fresh Kicks IPA because it says right on the menu that it’s made with local “Dr. Rudi and Loral” hops.   It’s hot, I’ve been driving for about 6 hours down smoking stretches of mountainous highways, and the beer is a 5/5, though some of its perfection might have just been my gratefulness for it. Who can tell?  It’s a beer that does a fantastic job of being easy to drink on a hot day, but also flavorful and not too light.

While in the tap room I hear from a number of people about their homes being burnt down, and the depressing reality of smelling wildfire smoke day in and day out.  Some are full of steely resolve to stick it out, others sadly shake their heads and contemplate moving away.  My heart goes out to California.  Beer flows on.

Mark and David are with me, enjoying the Dark Matter ale and the Clouds of Jupiter IPA, when Simon stops by to chat and welcome us to his taproom.  When I hear Simon’s accent I know my next round has to be the Pub Ale.  There is a swirl of dusky malts dancing around in this beer and I immediately regret getting the short pour.  If you’re looking for a killer pint of good old English style bitter, this will make your day. Not everyone loves this style beer, but to my grateful tongue Ol’ Republic’s version of a classic Pub Ale is perfection. 5/5.

Oakland, California.  August, 2018.

If the idea is to taste the local drink, what choice do I have when I’m in Oakland and it’s called “Straight Up Oakland” but to give it a shot?  I feel just slightly challenged by the name.  The bartender at Spice Monkey sympathizes, as bartenders have done since before time, and pours.

In stark contrast to the stout that Mark is enjoying, it’s a very light brew, with a strong taste of fresh apples. Side by side the two drinks look like polar opposites, eyeing each other with uncertainty.  Crooked City boasts only two ingredients in this cider, fermented apple juice and yeast.  It’s not the best cider I’ve ever tasted (that honor still goes to Double Mountain Brewing for their dry cider) but the simplicity and willingness to aim for a very dry cider is admirable, and it’s got that ancient quality that fermented apples have, which I love.

It’s a bit on the sweet side for my taste, but I know a lot of cider fans like sweet brews.  As ciders go, this leans away from the sweetness, which I appreciate.  It’s not PJ Harvey, but it likes her music, and that’s pretty great on its own.

Does Billie Joe Armstrong break his sobriety when facing a pint of Straight Up Oakland cider and a crowd of fellow locals challenging his street cred?  Or does he fling the glass to floor, punch his fist in the air and tell them all to fuck off?  That remains a mystery only he can answer. 4/5.

Bend, Oregon.  July, 2018

The very idea of drinking straight, room temperature gin from a glass put me off.  But, in the adventurous spirit of the traveling taster, and since I was in Bend, I knew there was some gin sipping on the horizon.  It had to be the local brew because there is so much Juniper, the essential ingredient for gin’s distinct flavor and aroma, growing wild all around eastern Oregon.  With all that juniper there for the taking, how could they not make gin?

So, along with my caution, I swallowed my first sip.

I am not, in general, a fan of gin.  I usually prefer my martini with vodka. But on a hot day, a gin and tonic with a lime wedge on ice can be damned good medicine.  With that in mind I allowed the gin to perfume its way around my mouth, drifting up into my head. It conjured up images of the high desert, stretching out to dusky purple sunset skies, and local distillers kicking up puffs of dry dirt as they plucked from the junipers to infuse their gin.  This gin was a devastatingly gorgeous femme fatale with an Oregon juniper flower in her hair, singing in my guts like some boozy old west Lana Del Rey.

I mentioned this to the owner, as well as my affection for any booze that is local, and she let me know that in fact they use juniper from the east coast instead, so that it will taste better.  

My heart sank.  

To be totally fair, they do use “some” Oregon pine and sage to give it “a hint of Northwest flavor.”  I wanted to give it more points because, honestly, it is god damned delicious.  But since the traveling taster’s credo is all about the local stuff, I had to take one point off for ruining my fantasy.  I still tip my hat to them for making an amazing gin.  Also for somehow convincing me that a glass of straight gin can be a good thing.

Sip score = 4/5