Back Road Brewery, La Porte, IN

The other brewery in La Porte is not in as great of a location. Apple Maps had a hard time finding it, but sometimes Apple Maps can’t find its way out of a parking lot. My friend Jen played copilot as we took the “Where’s the Bathroom?” tour of La Porte.

As I think I have mentioned before, It’s called the “Where’s the Bathroom?” tour because anytime you get caught someplace that you shouldn’t be, all you have to do is tell them that you were looking for the bathroom, and instantly your sin will be forgiven.

We drove through neighborhoods, under overpasses, over underpasses, and even on both wrong sides of the tracks. Finally, in an industrial area we found it. It seemed like it was closed, but there were just enough cars out front to make us question this. There was very little that identified it as a brewery. It sat strategically in geographic location that never got sunshine, and always had a freight train going by.

When we pulled up, we could see people drinking through an open door. It clearly wasn’t a bar. It looked more like a tasting room or a warehouse.

But fuck it, they were drinking.

We crossed the parking lot, which was surprisingly absent of heroin needles and used condoms. Nobody acknowledged us when we walked in. Nobody tended the doors, and there were empty shipping boxes all over hell.

We stood there awkwardly and invisibly until I finally asked if they were selling beer or having a private party. As it turned out, these were a race of people that couldn’t see until they were spoken to. I thought they were just ass hole honkies.

“Oh just go through that door, beer is in there,” they cheerfully pointed to a doorway that held their riches.

We went through the door and a fat hipster was tending the taps. We tried their beer and it was good enough. Jen isn’t a beer drinker, but she made a good effort. Bartender introduced her to a blueberry amber something that she liked well enough to drink. I tried it, but it wasn’t for me.

He introduced me to a hefeweisen–except he pronounced it hefee-wee-sun.

That bothered me. I felt like he had a reason for saying it like that, but I didn’t ask. I figured that his reason would be stupid, but it would make me feel stupid because he wouldn’t be smart enough to realize it.

Hefeweisen is a German word that means heavy wheat. It should be pronounced with the w making the v sound. The ei verb combination always makes the eye sound in German, and the s should make hard sound–not a soft sound.

Heffeh-vie-zun. That’s how you fucking say it.

I drank the amber because he knew how to say it. It was good and then we got to bull shitting.

He asked where we were from. Clearly he thought that Jen and I were a couple. For the record–Mom–we are not. But I do understand why he thought that. He might have just recognized that there are certain benefits to our friendship.

Wink-wink, nose tap.

She is from a small town that was only about 45 minutes away, so that’s what we went with. The hipster bartender had never heard of it.We tried to explain it, but apparently he doesn’t spend much time paying attention to Earth.

One of the folks that was drinking in the front when we came in, came back to get a beer. Bartender asked him if he knew where the little town was, but he didn’t know either.

“Well how long have you two lived there?” the new person to the conversation asked.

I could tell Jen was getting uncomfortable with the suggestions that we were a couple, so I made sure to alleviate her embarrassment.

“Oh we are not together,” I said. “She is just my favorite cousin.”

I said this with a straight face and Jen didn’t argue. The two fellas chuckled nervously but they weren’t convinced either way.

The small talk continued and was actually pretty pleasant. It became clear that they had really been closed since before we got there, and the people drinking around the table were employees and friends. The new fella to join the bartender and us was the masterbrewer.

We asked questions and learned about the brewery. To our surprise, it had been there for about 25 years and was the oldest such joint in a specific regional area that I can no longer recall. They also, unlike most in the craft brew world, hold a disdain for the other local craft brewery in town.

Usually, craft breweries root for each other to be successful–often sharing resources and sometimes even recipes–because having multiple brewers in an area brings in revenue for all. Beer tourism is a thing. People like me write blogs about it.

These folks had nothing good to say about the other brewery. I asked why, but they didn’t really have a good answer. It was all mostly gossip and bull shit.

I am not going to complain though, they were really nice to us. We ended up at their table shooting the shit and telling stories. Most of them were 25-35, and all seemed to be coupled off–good looking girls were with fugly guys, and Handsome Jacks all had their Marie Lavouxs.

Then there was the drunk old guy with the Lincoln Continental parked out front. I have no idea what his role was there, but I will assume that he was the mayor of La Porte. We talked of politics, and he was a right winger–which doesn’t really fit in with hipsters, but I guess that him more interesting. To his credit, we were in agreement that Governor Pence is a big piece of shit, and a likely closet homosexual.

There was also a pretty girl in a short skirt from Canada. I like Canada and Canadians, so it was nice to meet her. In the Midwest, everyone here treats Canada like it’s a foreign country.

As she and I discussed the glories of the north–except of course Quebec because fuck those Frenchies. As it turned out, she was from Victoria. I love Victoria the most, with Whitehorse and Kelowna being pretty high too, because I have drank at every bar in those cities.

No, I am not exaggerating. I have drank at every bar in those cities excluding the wineries and Asian restaurants.

The Back Road Brewery in La Porte, Indiana is a good place. It’s quirky, and I don’t know how it gets enough traffic to stay open. I think it must survive because it is real. The people there are real, and being real is what gets you a membership. I will drink there again.

 

New Paradigm Brewing, Elkhart, IN

New Paradigm is an excellent testament to the importance of a solid location to the success of any establishment. It sits in downtown Elkhart, which isn’t exactly a tourist mecca. In fact, let me list some reasons why you might find yourself on that particular sidewalk that is adjacent to the post office and train station:

1. You are going to a show at the Lerner–This seems like the best reason. I know they have David Allan Coe coming up, and I love me some shitty old school Country, so I will most likely be hitting up New Paradigm to pre-funk.
2. Your level of alcoholism is so ridiculously high that a trip to the post office cannot be made without a pre or post libation.
3. While waiting for a train at the rail crossing, your car stalls, and you decide to walk away from it and pretend like it is someone else’s car.
4. While waiting to catch a train at the depot, you decide to have a beer.
5. While waiting for your dope dealer at the depot, you decide to have a beer.

That’s really about it.

The joint itself, is actually pretty good. I swung in on purpose on a Friday after work. I had to go out of my way to do it, which unless I worked for the post office or Amtrak, I would have to do regardless. I stopped because it says “New Paradigm Brewing” in the window and I like craft beer. I hope this place survives.

I entered and sat at the bar. There were three people sitting at the bar dead smack in the middle, no stools between them. They were eating burgers that looked good and not conversing with each other. They didn’t look mad at each other, and they obviously weren’t strangers. The person in the middle was the wife to one of the fellas on either side. I’m not sure which one.

Maybe it was both. It wasn’t my business.

The bartender brought me a beer list, and was pleasant about it. By the way he carried himself, I feel as though “proprietor” might have been a better word than “bartender”. They had four of their own beers on tap, then a bunch of other local beers from the Michiana neighborhood.

And Miller Lite.

I ordered one of theirs. The Big Hopbowski they called it. It was fine. Not special, not offensive. I generally get uncomfortable when I go into a place and they are carrying other people’s beers. It seems to me like having a supermodel girl friend and spanking it to fat girl porn. Mill Creek Brewing in Walla Walla really pissed me off for that reason. They had a wide variety of their own, but always had Coor’s Light on special. The difference in this case, was that the Mill Creek was right downtown in a perfect location that adjoined the trendy Walla Walla shops and downtown scene to Whitman College. The Mill Creek was the place to go.

The New Paradigm was in a situation where they just needed to get people in the door. I could not begrudge them.

I was disappointed that there were not more people in there. It was four o’clock on a Friday, and the Cubs and White Sox were only five minutes away from a first pitch in an interleague game. The game was on, but there was a lot of atmospheric potential that never materialized.

They had hard liquor and a pool table for fuck’s sake!

And then just as I was thinking about it, three hipster girls came walking in. They sat at the other end of the bar. I couldn’t tell what was ordered, but two of them had beers, and the other one had white wine. At least they talked to each other, which was far ahead of the odd little ménage-a-trois to my immediate left.

I found myself not feeling it as I sat there and drank. We have all been there. That moment when you are in a spot, and for whatever reason, you just don’t feel like being there.

The final straw came when a fat-bellied hipster dude with dandruff and a tie came and sat down next to me. He was greeted by the proprietor and ordered a beer by some other brewery. I was offered the opportunity to keep drinking from with a light finger point and a “Doin’ awright?”

“Nah, I’m good, but thanks,” I said. Then I left.

I felt guilty for not buying three more beers and a case to go, just so they could keep their doors open, but fuck. Unlike those hipsters, I can’t go around saving the world.

Rant and Rave Volume 1

Today marks the about-a-month-or-so anniversary of my move to the Midwest. I shouldn’t complain too much because you guys have all been real nice to me, but I might anyway. Maybe this is all shit that should go in the “Biographical Information” section, but I don’t really care. This is more of a rant or a musing about what I have learned so far.

Sorry if I piss you off.

The thing is I am an ass hole. I say sharp and abrupt things with very little concern for people’s feelings. I do not do this for the sake of shock value or to make me feel better about myself, I do this because the things that I say are a real time commentary of the way that I view the world at that particular moment. With that being said, let me provide a little commentary on the beer I have drank, the shit I have seen, and whatever else tickles my pickle over the past month or so.

Early on in my Michiana experience, I picked up some Sunspot by Greenbush Brewing. It tasted like shit. I could give you some snobbery break down of it, but that isn’t how I roll. You won’t hear me speak of IBUs and aromas on this blog. I don’t believe in either of those terms. Ratings, awards, honors, honours with a u, and other such subjective bull shit do not appeal to me–and this is my blog, not yours. There are two ways that something can taste. Good and bad. That is it.

Fortunately, I was able to plug my nose and suck it down and then go buy some other stuff. Robert the Bruce by Three Floyds was a solid choice. It’s a Scottish ale, and there is not much that beats a good Scottish ale. I could drink that shit all day–but I didn’t because I only had six and they were expensive. I stretched them out for a week, which was very difficult. We had a 19-pack of Miller Lite, so my routine was to drink one of the good beers, then follow it with three of the piss-waters.

Before you purists start bitching at me for drinking something as common as a Miller Lite, go fuck yourselves. Piss-water beer has its niche. I mean, shit, McDonald’s isn’t fine dining, but when the kids are in the car, or you are on a long haul, sometimes you have to do it. And when you do it, you are going to supersize that shit because go big or go home. Fuck no, I don’t want McDonald’s for dinner every night, but unlike some of you snobs, I can’t afford to drink four craft brews a night.

The other nice thing about shit beer is that it lacks substance and creates less of a hangover. If I want to drink six Miller Lites I will still function and not get a big ass headache. It doesn’t work that way with a craft beer. Craft beer is not meant to be pounded. Same thing with one of those fancy restaurants that you need reservations for. Good expensive food, but with small portions.

And while I am thinking about it, Michiana is a stupid fucking name. I lived on the Washington-Idaho border for four years, and the Oregon-Washington border for eight. We didn’t start combining names to make our own bullshit region. No. We despised the ass holes across the border, agreed on nothing except that all those fucking Californians need to go back home. Fuck Michiana.

However I will concede that Washingho would have been a cool name for everyone in Spokane Valley-Post Falls and Pullman-Moscow.

I think it is also a waste to be drinking a good craft beer when you are already drunk. Anybody who has ever drank beer has drank themselves to the point where they can’t taste it anymore. What the fuck is the point in that? If you are going to get drunk, do it right.

Busch 30-packs fit perfectly under a college dorm bed for a good reason. That should be any 19 year-old’s go to. The hipsters are ruining PBR for me. Why do they like that shit?

I went through South Bend yesterday and had sometime to kill. I had been to Evil Czech and loved the shit out of it last year, but I wanted to find a place that I had never been before. I used MapQuest to search craft breweries and it took me to three different places that had either been shut down or never existed. I stopped and walked around at Notre Dame a little and remembered that the only thing more irritating than college kids is rich college kids. It made me miss sitting at the Ram next to Husky Stadium in Seattle before UW games. I ended up leaving town without having a beer, which was a damn shame.

A goddamn shame.

You fuckers go on and have yourselves a good week this week. Later.

Bell’s Brewing, Kalamazoo

So here it begins, my first new post from the Midwest. Since I visited last summer, I have gotten married, moved to Indiana, and listened to everyone tell me about how shitty the winter is going to be.
 

Don’t worry, I’m sure it will be awful.

I have also heard relayed with the same passion how great the beer is out here. Again, this is not anything that I doubt, but have you been to Portland, Seattle, and Bend? We did pretty well out west with our beer.

Sometimes it snows there too.

I admit that people in the Northwest have a tendency to talk about the local beer scene like they are the only ones in the country, but shit, I think we can claim some expertise.

Now with all that being said, Kalamazoo, Michigan is a damn good beer town. I have no complaints, but it isn’t Portland yet. It isn’t even Bend. It is about even with Spokane–and that’s okay–there is good drinking in Spokane. It’s way better than Boise.

Way better.

Fortunately I have people in Kalamazoo, so if I have too much of their better-than-Boise beer, I can call someone for a ride.

On this particular trip, my parents from Washington state were visiting so we took them to Bell’s. I had been to Bell’s a couple years before and had enjoyed it. Midwest Beer 101 at the University of Beer Drinking starts with a lesson at Bell’s.

The time I had been before, we took the kids (because Michigan lets you take kids to a tavern) and sat outside. The young man who is now my stepson was four years old and took his wiener out and pissed on a tree. It startled me when he did because I was pretty sure he wasn’t drunk.

This time, he was six years old, and was one of five cousins his age in a one table party of eleven. We sat inside and the place packed. Since my previous experience, they had built an addition to the indoor seating area, and hired a bunch of waitresses so you didn’t have to order at the bar.

I don’t mind ordering at the bar–especially when I can send a kid up to get me another pitcher. You can’t always count on a waitress to come by or get your shit right.

When our waitress finally came by, she didn’t get our shit right.

My wife didn’t drink on this adventure and ordered some sort of tea because, well, who the fuck knows. They never brought it.

I inquired about buying a growler to add to my collection. I couldn’t get one in the restaurant. I had to leave through the bar, out the front door, through the parking lot, go around to where their store was. Then when I got there, they only had four beers on tap and I couldn’t sample at the store, I had to sample at the bar.
 

Well fuck that. I would rather call my cable provider.

The growlers were pretty bad ass though. They were the big beer stein style and only cost $18, but since I couldn’t sample, I had to settle for some of their Two Hearted Ale that I could just as easily get at the store. It wasn’t worth taking a risk and winding up with a growler full of something shitty.

I have to give Bell’s credit though. The shitty service and the run around to get a growler added to the Seattle ambiance that this place has. They are a very good joint to sit and drink at, and they keep hipster waiters and waitresses on hand to really send home the authenticity. There was even a butchy with a blue mohawk. The 65 degree July day made may really feel at home as well.

This is the brewery that the rest will be compared to.