Gold Country Beer Festival
Posted: Tuesday, July 01, 2008
by Missing Link
I attended my first beer festival Saturday. The event was titled the "Placerville Bell Tower Brew Fest". It's held annually on the main street that runs right through Gold Rush town of Placerville. The buildings in the historic town are now occupied by modern day merchants catering to people with money much as they must have in the 1860's. The shop owners were gracious in hosting beer companies that poured out their sudsy samples right inside the stores. The main street through downtown is cordoned off for the event by local law enforcement. Festival tickets were only $30. You'd probably have to be outside the country to drink for three hours with bands playing for $30, and even then you'd have to tip someone. The first thing I learned was that a beer fest is a cheap night out on the town.
I stood in a short line to get my first glass of beer, Arrogant Bastard amber. It's a great name for a beer and I think that adds to the flavor somehow. You like it before you even taste it. It was a great beer, very hoppy. I soon learned a fact about beer tasting that I didn't know. It isn't wise to begin with a strong, hoppy beer because the milder beers you drink afterward taste weak by comparison. Tortilla Flats was offering a number of other beers that all suffered by comparison to the Arrogant Bastard. I tried a Firestone amber which I didn't like at all and Black Diamond ale which rated a mere so-so.
Our group left the heat of Tortilla Flats for the cool confines of the Cozmic Café. The Cozmic is unusual because it's built up against a hillside and around an old mineshaft cut deeply back into the hill. The dining area actually extends for some fifty feet or so into the mine shaft. I tasted a Black Porter that was being poured back in the cool dank air of the gold mine. It was made by Hoppy Brewery and I can't help but think that my appreciation of the beer was unfairly influenced by the refreshing air. The mine shaft is rumored to be haunted by three ghosts, a miner and two ladies of the evening. We did not witness any phantasms but apparently the Cozmic Café building has a checkered history.
Brew festivals bring out a diverse crowd of people. I first moved to the Gold Country from Southern California back in 1976. The natives of that area of California appear to be ancestors of the original 49'ers who trekked across country or who sailed in through the Golden Gate. I hardly think Mark Twain would fail to recognize these hardy folk who came, found no gold and never left. Gold Country folk are close to the land and often wear some of it. Ragged clothing and unkempt hair and beards are popular styles in the Sierra foothills as are cowboy hats, wranglers and moustaches of various breeds.
The gold country folk are contrasted with the new gold country folk. The greenhorns have yet to succumb to the red clay inevitability of wearing your property. They look like the proverbial "Parrot Heads" in their khaki shorts and Hawaiian shirts. They've driven down from their five acre estates with the requisite three acres of vineyards to spend the evening drinking and telling self-important and lackluster jokes. One man exiting the Hangtown Tattoo parlor exclaimed to an unappreciative crowd of natives, "Sorry, they're out of beer!" He chuckled at his own cleverness and his red nose contrasted nicely with his yellow and orange flowered Tommy Bahama shirt. I feared that this fool could spark the natives into a riot of ethnic cleansing.
The one thing that all beer fest attendees have in common was a love of beer. There were beer hats and beer mugs and beer-themed t-shirts ("I Came, I saw, I Crawled") and even beer goggles. Some of the beer hats were quite creative. There was a keg and another designed like a full mug with a foamy head on it. There were even some beer accessories like a necklace strung through a line pretzels. The wearers could nibble on them in between beers.
We moved downhill from the Cozmic to Sweetie Pies where in their courtyard they were serving Lagunitas, a wonderful, smooth beer. I tasted and enjoyed Mt. Tallac Porter at the Hangtown Tattoo parlor. I wasn't inebriated enough to get pierced or inked so we moved along. I want to live long enough to see the pierced earlobes of young men drape to their shoulders. They obviously did not pay close attention in science class when gravity homework was given.
I forgot the mention that this beer fest not only had a title, it had a sub-title as well, the "Micro-Brew Stroll" which is perhaps the most accurate part of the title. It ran from six to nine in the evening and I counted 48 breweries represented. Each brewery was serving at least two beers so it was possible to sample more than 96 kinds of beer, and all for a mere $30 and a taxi ride home.
I didn't sample that many beers and the glass I was given for the samples was at most 8 oz in volume. Most of the brewers were not giving a full pour and some servers, mostly males I noted, were prone to giving the ladies a taller glass with a fuller head than us gents received. I may write an advisement letter to the organizing committee. I'll lobby for more elderly women pourers next year. It's time we stand up for a little gender equity at the beer fest.
Alcohol does tend to make people's inner selves more outer, and some people are not well suited to it. I was in a rather long line that wound its serpentine path through the Empire Antique Shop. My cousin was even inebriated enough to buy an ancient cork screw. It occurred to me that Mark Twain reincarnate would have remarked that the merchandise in the shop had not changed at all through the years and that the last few generations of inventors must have been degenerate drunks.
We at long last find ourselves at the front of the line where some heating trays full of sausage slices sat hot and drenched in their juices having now simmered there for some few hours. A couple of cranky old women came into the store, took one look at the length of the line and another at the sausages and exclaimed that it was beneath them to wait in the queue. I decried the injustice of denying pork products to old ladies. My inner self, that part of me that is fundamentally kind to senior citizens, told the gaudy crone in front to jump into line and grab some weenies. She immediately took me up on my generosity and speared several hunks of sausage on a wooden toothpick.
I backed up to give her room to wield the toothpick and was delivered a stiff forearm shiver to the kidneys that any NFL tackle would have approved of; that, delivered by her aged gal-pal who had snuck up behind me to dredge out some weenie chunks of her own. My inner self was inebriated but bruised by the ruffian/octogenarian. I was tempted to report her to the authorities and have her sampling glass crushed underfoot like a good Jewish wedding. With what I considered a great generosity of spirit, I simply excused myself for running into her forearm and consoled myself with a sample of Moosehead.
We soon came to another band which was playing with great energy and to a large crowd. Ron Thompson and His Resistors was a small band that featured Ron, a bass guitar player and a drummer. They produced great music with even greater volume and Ron played excellent blues guitar. The crowd was appreciative and as I've found with any group that boasts a good guitar player, there were guitar groupies sitting around on the equipment cases or playing air guitar in front of the band. Ron played some slide guitar techniques and his energy was tremendous.
I witnessed a travesty of dancing in front of Ron's band. A man about my age with gray hair, Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans was dancing as if he'd sat on a hill of fire ants. He and his partner simply bounced and bounced around each other until I calculated that either their bowels should begin a frantic movement or they should break an ankle.
Ron's performances were energetic and extended. It was impossible to tell if the couple was chemically enhanced or if they were simply determined not to stop before Ron did. In any case their dancing stood in hideous contrast to the elderly couple that danced so beautifully together in the Tortilla Flats parking lot. I wondered if in my letter of advisement I shouldn't suggest that there be a ban on middle-aged, chemically-induced dancing next year.
Our group left Ron and his music for the Placerville News Company where Fanziskaner & Spaten were serving samples of pale ale. It's German beer and the Germans are supposed to know and appreciate good beer. I think they keep the good stuff for themselves after tasting this stuff. One of our group commented that, "it tastes like feet" which sparked my imagination. I let the comment stand on its own merits since the beer simply tasted bad.
We passed What's the Scoop Ice Cream parlor and three firefighters emerged with giant waffle cones of ice cream. With all of the fires in the state at the moment, and that they cannot drink on duty, one could hardly begrudge them an on-duty cone.
It was about this time that I thought to myself that I hadn't heard a single glass breaking. I mean they gave us glass glasses and everyone was drinking heavily and there were at least 96 beers to taste. But not a single glass had yet to hit the pavement. Almost at this instant I heard the tinkling crash of a glass on the sidewalk. The crowd jeered in unison as if it had also been waiting. After that initial glass I heard several others crashing down during the fest and each was followed by a jeering from the crowd.
By the end of the night the gutters were running with unwanted beer and Ron was in full flame and fury on the guitar. The crowd was well lubricated and their appreciation of Ron's guitar playing had grown proportionally. He had achieved "guitar hero" status eclipsing even Stevie Ray Vaughn in stature at least for one night. I'm happy to have saved my program or I would not have recalled his name.
Soon Ron ended his last set and the merchants closed their shop doors. The crowd began to mope away into the night, sad that another beer fest had come to an end but in search of an after-party. Local teenage descendents of gold miners with tattoos, dark glasses and big smiling pit bulls roamed away in groups and up side alleys into the darkness. We went down the street and sat on a bench while my cousin called for a taxi that never arrived.
Alcohol does tend to make people's inner selves more outer, and some people are not well suited to it. I was in a rather long line that wound its serpentine path through the Empire Antique Shop. My cousin was even inebriated enough to buy an ancient cork screw. It occurred to me that Mark Twain reincarnate would have remarked that the merchandise in the shop had not changed at all through the years and that the last few generations of inventors must have been degenerate drunks.
We at long last find ourselves at the front of the line where some heating trays full of sausage slices sat hot and drenched in their juices having now simmered there for some few hours. A couple of cranky old women came into the store, took one look at the length of the line and another at the sausages and exclaimed that it was beneath them to wait in the queue. I decried the injustice of denying pork products to old ladies. My inner self, that part of me that is fundamentally kind to senior citizens, told the gaudy crone in front to jump into line and grab some weenies. She immediately took me up on my generosity and speared several hunks of sausage on a wooden toothpick.
I backed up to give her room to wield the toothpick and was delivered a stiff forearm shiver to the kidneys that any NFL tackle would have approved of; that, delivered by her aged gal-pal who had snuck up behind me to dredge out some weenie chunks of her own. My inner self was inebriated but bruised by the ruffian/octogenarian. I was tempted to report her to the authorities and have her sampling glass crushed underfoot like a good Jewish wedding. With what I considered a great generosity of spirit, I simply excused myself for running into her forearm and consoled myself with a sample of Moosehead.
We soon came to another band which was playing with great energy and to a large crowd. Ron Thompson and His Resistors was a small band that featured Ron, a bass guitar player and a drummer. They produced great music with even greater volume and Ron played excellent blues guitar. The crowd was appreciative and as I've found with any group that boasts a good guitar player, there were guitar groupies sitting around on the equipment cases or playing air guitar in front of the band. Ron played some slide guitar techniques and his energy was tremendous.
I witnessed a travesty of dancing in front of Ron's band. A man about my age with gray hair, Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans was dancing as if he'd sat on a hill of fire ants. He and his partner simply bounced and bounced around each other until I calculated that either their bowels should begin a frantic movement or they should break an ankle.
Ron's performances were energetic and extended. It was impossible to tell if the couple was chemically enhanced or if they were simply determined not to stop before Ron did. In any case their dancing stood in hideous contrast to the elderly couple that danced so beautifully together in the Tortilla Flats parking lot. I wondered if in my letter of advisement I shouldn't suggest that there be a ban on middle-aged, chemically-induced dancing next year.
Our group left Ron and his music for the Placerville News Company where Fanziskaner & Spaten were serving samples of pale ale. It's German beer and the Germans are supposed to know and appreciate good beer. I think they keep the good stuff for themselves after tasting this stuff. One of our group commented that, "it tastes like feet" which sparked my imagination. I let the comment stand on its own merits since the beer simply tasted bad.
We passed What's the Scoop Ice Cream parlor and three firefighters emerged with giant waffle cones of ice cream. With all of the fires in the state at the moment, and that they cannot drink on duty, one could hardly begrudge them an on-duty cone.
It was about this time that I thought to myself that I hadn't heard a single glass breaking. I mean they gave us glass glasses and everyone was drinking heavily and there were at least 96 beers to taste. But not a single glass had yet to hit the pavement. Almost at this instant I heard the tinkling crash of a glass on the sidewalk. The crowd jeered in unison as if it had also been waiting. After that initial glass I heard several others crashing down during the fest and each was followed by a jeering from the crowd.
By the end of the night the gutters were running with unwanted beer and Ron was in full flame and fury on the guitar. The crowd was well lubricated and their appreciation of Ron's guitar playing had grown proportionally. He had achieved "guitar hero" status eclipsing even Stevie Ray Vaughn in stature at least for one night. I'm happy to have saved my program or I would not have recalled his name.
Soon Ron ended his last set and the merchants closed their shop doors. The crowd began to mope away into the night, sad that another beer fest had come to an end but in search of an after-party. Local teenage descendents of gold miners with tattoos, dark glasses and big smiling pit bulls roamed away in groups and up side alleys into the darkness. We went down the street and sat on a bench while my cousin called for a taxi that never arrived.
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