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Monticello Restaurant Beer Dream Team (Part Three)

27 February, 2011 2 comments

Finally I am getting to completing the ideal beer backbone of the bar at Monticello in Davis. It’s been a long haul, waiting to see what would sell and what wouldn’t. Actually everything has sold well. Especially so, to my delight, the dark beers. I knew that we’d sell pretty much any IPA we could lay our hands on, and the Green Flash has pleased enough people, that I’d keep it as a baseline brew.

The bar is almost finished – the top is done, and the lights are installed. One day I will get video to show off their psychadelic nature, but for now, stills and your imagination will have to suffice.

Pale Ale – North Coast Brewing, Acme

Now I wanted to replace the Poleeko Pale Ale that we couldn’t get from Anderson Valley. Short of going out-of-state, I could think of no better solution than to obtain Acme Pale from North Coast. Now I’d tried this before and really enjoyed it, but that was on tap in Fort Bragg, and I felt I was taking something of a risk getting it in bottles. My standby had been the excellent Sierra Nevada Pale, but I need not have worried – this is a lovely pale ale, which is well suited to serving at “cellar temperature”, which turns out to be 54°F from the wine chiller.

Whilst I’d rather serve it at around 50°, it responds well, with a good head, bright colour and a great nose, a little floral hop backing up a nice biscuity malt, and a little caramel. The sweetness is in the flavour too, with a refreshing citrus in a fine medium body.

Very refreshing and easy to drink, it’s well suited to drink with pale meats, salads and the nuttier cheeses.

'Brother Thelonious' and 'Lost and Found'. Like an idiot, I neglected to get the Acme Pale in the photo.

 

Belgian Dark – North Coast, Brother Thelonious

I’ve been a fan of this as long as I can remember, which is basically since I drank it at the brewery. It’s a fruit-cake of a beer, rich and dark, redolent of rum-soaked plum pudding, and with a flavour to match. It’s moderately sweet and with a little hop bitter at the finish, perfectly matched to strong, dark meats and sauces.  The mouthfeel is generous for a beer that’s described as “medium strength”, well-rounded and warming too.

Equally, I’d drink it by itself as a winter warmer, but it’s in my favourite category of fully-flavoured-without-being-cloying. Not to everyone’s taste, it’s more like an old Zinfandel, but everyone should try it at least once.

Belgian Dubbel Style – Lost Abbey Brewery, Lost and Found

This is one of those beers that I felt every bar should have – made in the Dubbel style, it’s a great sharing brew in its 750ml bottle. Not that you shouldn’t enjoy it alone, but at 8% ABV, be careful if you do.

It’s a fascinating beer, made with a wide variety of malts as well as a custom-made raisin puree. It shows in everything – the spicy fruity and heady nose to the rich, fruit-chocolate flavour in a full body. Stop and listen carefully and you’ll get notes of nuttiness, cereal and fruitiness from citrus, figs and raisins. Not to mention toffee…

Pair with hearty meats or powerful cheeses. Or chocolate cake – who knows?

For My Next Trick…

I’m not quite sure what the future holds for me at Monticello. There’s not enough call for me to man the bar full-time in the evenings, at least not yet, so for now I’m acting as a consultant, picking beers and writing notes, and back to freelancing without a safety net day job. Anyone who wants to hire a charming Englishman, with lots of chutzpah and the ability to write, let me know!

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So this guy walks into a bar…

20 February, 2011 Leave a comment

Vic’s was probably last decorated in 1945 in that special paint colour that is guaranteed to look like Gentleman’s Club Brown after a hundred thousand smokers had drunk and smoked their fill. Somewhere under there I’d often imaged a nice ivory, or at worst, magnolia. No-one had dared clean the paint for fear of the stand-out clean spot.

It wasn’t even really Vic’s bar anymore – poisoned by the tobacco miasma, Vic had succumbed to some heart-lung thing in 1973, and his brother-in-law had inherited it all, from the brown-stained ceiling to the ancient oak floor and a bar that could have been a London pub émigré from the ’50s.

 

It was one of those quiet nights at the bar, a night for me to set to polishing glassware and organising the many bottles. I’d had my traditional quiet-evening double malt whisky when he came in, shaking rain from his coat. He was tall, I remember that too, with a face like a young George Sewell. He sat down, as many had done before him, and looked around, pondering on the dusty Stubbs pictures and the railway clock that Mike had stolen from the waiting room in Stamford the weekend of the 1978 cafe race from London to Edinburgh. Mike was full of such tales, but this man knew none of them yet.

Mike was behind the bar, a cube of a man. Ex-Army, ex-wrestler and professional Cockney. He waited patiently for the chap to complete his recce, then caught his eye and gave him an up-nod.

“What are you having?”, asked Mike, putting down his own double Scotch.

“Thank you, I believe I’ll have a Guinness.”

Mike have chatted with him as he poured a nice cream-headed pint. He chatted with everyone, whether voluble or taciturn. Barkeepers do this; it keeps them sane and helps to pass the time, and once in a while, earns one a free drink (tipping being almost unknown in English pubs). It failed on thisoccasion, for the trench-coated man merely gave Mike a curt nod of thanks, and his back.

“That’ll be sixty-nine pence, please”, said Mike.

The man turned, a frown of puzzlement framed by the collar of his raincoat. “Did I misunderstand you? I thought this was on the house.” He took another sip of his Guinness, and kept his dark eye on me, still at the back of the bar.

This rather took me aback, if not aghast. I wracked my brains, seeking a clue as to what he might have heard. I looked at Mike, who was, I suspected, about to become a humourless bar steward. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean”, he said, and leaned away from the bar top.

The man licked his lips through the half-smile of a jackal, and something in me started to worry about the outcome of this transaction.

Mike look at him, and I watched as the mild-mannered barkeep bristled like a pit bull.

“This is a bar, we make money by selling beer and spirits. Sixty-nine pence, please.”

The customer leaned forward.”Where I come from, ‘what will you have?’ is an offer to buy a drink”.

“Under different circumstances, I might agree”, said Mike, “but you might have noticed that I am on one side of this bar, and you, Sir, are on the other! I am not another customer, I own the place!”

Shit, I thought, he called him “sir”. Next would be “sirrah“, and then the shit would hit the fan. I watched carefully as the duellists observed one another with equal care.

“So what you are saying is that you are reneging on your offer? That saddens me; I’d heard this was an honourable establishment.”

“As indeed it is, and notice one thing – in this establishment, on this side of the bar is a cash register. That contains the money that I take from customers in exchange for beer and spirits. We are not a charity!” Arms were folded, and Mike settled some, having felt his point hit home.

Or so he thought. Trench Coat raised himself off the stool, to his full height. He towered a head and a half above Mike, though they probably weighed the same, Mike being built like a brick shithouse. The few regular customers raised their heads above their booze and business to take note of the interchange. There was a certain tension, one familiar and fearful to me.

Trench Coat smiled again, and turned to the scant but intent crowd. “Am I right? Does this phrase not imply a friendly offer of a drink?”

Mike drew himself up. It didn’t take long. “You speak of implication, sirrah. There is an implied contract when you walk into a bar, the same as when you walk into a shop. There’s a price list…” (here he waved at the stained list taped to the bar mirror behind him) “…and you are expected to pay that price. ‘Implied contract’ is, I believe, the correct term.”

Impasse. Trench Coat sipped at his beer, put it down, watched as one man detached himself from the tables and started to walk over. Mike was started to vibrate. As I said, tension was in the air.

As Mike was opening his mouth, the third man (a regular here; I knew him slightly), reached the duelling ground. “I say, Mike, why don’t I buy the gentleman’s drink? He may be the victim of, ah, cultrural mistakenness.” He carefully placed a small pile of change on the mahogany. Mike, equally carefully, scooped the money, counted it by feel and made the appropriate change. For the first time since the man had started his argument, Mike look away as he gave the diplomat his change, nodded thanks.

“Okay, here’s the thing. You may finish your drink. You may take a piss in the Gents’ if you need. You may then take yourself outside, and never come back. In other words, drink up and get out. You’re barred.” Immobile, immovable and incensed, steely gaze on Trench Coat. Who smiled, raised his glass to his benefactor, and drank slowly and with great satisfaction before nodding graciously to Mike and walking out.

Mike looked at me. “You fucking believe the cheek of that twat?” I made a moue and shook my head, slowly. He scurried off to do his mysterious things in his office, and the Sirrah Moment was passed.

 

And of course, in a normal life, that would have been it. But Mike was grumpy for days, which passed creakingly slowly into weeks before normal service ad good humour was restored.

It was about three months later. It was again, a quiet night. Mike was working his magic in the cellar, I was chatting to some random bar fly. It was late. The door opened, and in walked a tall, trench-coated man, who battered the drops from his coat before walking toward the bar. The familiar pocked face was to me, unmistakable. Unwilling to tackle this, I dived under and behind the bar, opened the cellar door and called to Mike. “I think it’s him again. Trench Coat”.

A frantic moment of wooden-cask movement later, and Mike stood next to me. I knew the look on his face, saw the two sets of eyes meet, felt the same atmosphere. Ignite blue touch paper and stand back – thus it was printed on every British firework, and having started the fire, I withdrew.

Mike made the opening thrust, as I knew he must. “You’re barred! I told you once before, and I do not expect to have to repeat myself!”

No half-smiles from Trench Coat, rather, surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“You. Are. Barred. Like I said, leave, and don’t come back. You are not welcome.”

Trench Coat placed his hands on the bar top. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. I’ve never been here before. In fact, I only arrived in Norwich for the first time, yesterday.” A gentle voice, again familiar, and surely there could be no mistaking this face. but now I was uncertain, and so, it seemed, was Mike. He leaned closer, scaned the visitor’s features. Maybe the hair colour? Maybe less facial scarring? Jaw line a little different?

“Although if you really want me to leave, I’d gladly do so. I’d hate to be the cause of any upset…” He began to button his coat and turn away.

Mike looked quickly at me. I shrugged a little; my memory is fallible. I made a gesture to Mike that I hoped said “I may be wrong, it’s a quiet night and God knows we could use the business; your call”.

Mike’s a tough nut, not to be messed with, but he does like a full till at the end of the night, and this fellow did appear to be well-heeled, looked tired and in need of several drinks. “I’m sorry”, he said, smiling, “but your face is familiar. I apologise, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Trench Coat unbuttoned again, sat on a stool. “Thank you.”

“It’s uncanny”, said Mike, “You must have a double.”

“Very kind”, was Trench Coat’s response, “I believe I will have a whisky.”

 

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