The Official Order of Disorderly Conduct

Bull shitting my way through situations since 1981

[hey-ass-hole]

Check out my new blog

http://buymeabeerasshole.blogspot.com/

[hey-ass-hole]

Ninkasi, Eugene

I should apologize for not posting anything on National Beer Day. I am sorry America, I was drunk.

Okay, now that that’s taken care of, let’s talk about another place I have drank at. The Ninakasi Brewery in Eugene, as much as I hate to say it, is one of the best places in the Northwest to sit and have a drink. I need to bitch a little before I talk about its redeeming qualities though.

Bitch Number One: It’s in Eugene. If I can’t hate something for being in Eugene, I have to give up my title of Ass Hole.

Bitch Number Two: It is trendy and Portland cocksuckers love the stuff—even more than McMenamin's.

Bitch Number Three: It’s in Eugene.

I’m not sure if I hate Eugene more or Pullman. Right now I am leaning Eugene because it is like Portland’s rich, douchey step brother’s friend that has cool toys and likes to rub it in your face, but when you go outside to throw the ball around, you see that he throws like a girl. Pullman, on the other hand, is the douchey cousin that can throw a ball just fine, but can’t hold a job and had Coor’s Light and chew for breakfast.

The good thing about Ninkasi is that it is in the shithole part of Eugene. And I like shitholes.

I had been in town to watch the University of Washington play basketball against the UO, and not only did the Huskies lose, the weather was cold as shit, and I was in Eugene proudly sporting a bright gold UW sweatshirt.

This was a few years ago, and the Mathew Knight Arena had only been open for about a month. Definitely a Cadillac when it comes to college sports, but the sight lines suckand it is short on bathrooms. Even still, it was a very disgusting symbol of everything that is Nike, the University of Oregon, and the city of Eugene.

From there I drove to Ninkasi, which sits comfortably under an overpass in a residential neighborhood—not what I expected at all. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if Nike would have given them a little money to dam up the Willamette River, flood the city, and have a lake with waterfront seating. But they didn’t. They had a modest tasting room, outdoor seating around a fire pit, and a whole shit-load of Husky fans. A few Ducks came strolling in, but the shit talking was light, and the focus was on the beer. One of the employees even asked if there had been a game, and then what sport. I’m pretty sure that if I would have said football in February, this dude wouldn’t have known any different.

What needs to be said about them, is that this place could have been a glitz and glam hipster Mecca. It wasn’t. It could have been Eugene’s own Space Needle. It wasn’t. It looked more like a place that would fit in Spokane or Tacoma than Eugene.

It is my expectation that a stranger to Eugene would be more likely to encounter a prostitute with Hep-C than a Nike exec at Ninkasi, which is why I am willing to go there again.

[hey-ass-hole]

Hood Canal Brewing, Hansville, WA

It’s still fucking March and we are going to be in the seventies in eastern Oregon for like the third day in a row. Baseball opens next Sunday, and if the weather and the Mariners can’t drive you to drink in the Pacific Northwest, go back to California.

According to www.washingtonbeerblog.com, as of February 7, there are 290 craft breweries in the state of Washington. At first I felt a little overwhelmed because I did the math and figured out that if I drank at a different place each day, it would take me 290 days to hit each one. Then a little voice inside my liver to me to quit being a pussy because the farthest journey begins with a single sip, or some other horseshit cliché.

So here is one that I have already drank at—Hood Canal Brewing in Hansville.

“Hey Ass Hole, where the fuck is Hansville?” you ask, because when you look up the address, it says Hood Canal Brewing is in Kingston.

Well Dip Shit, Hansville is on the Rez. Look at a map of the Kitsap Peninsula. You have Poulsbo, where all the Norwegians settled. You have Kingston, where some more white people live. Then between the two, you have the Rez. It’s a relatively big reservation for the area, boasting two big ass casinos and three little communities. Suquamish—named for the tribe; Indianola—named presumably by some unoriginal honky; and Hansville—named after the white guy that fathered a bunch of bastard children with the natives (Fuck no I didn’t fact check). If you place the brewery on the map, you will discover that it isn’t really in any one town. It’s not in Kingston because it’s on the Poulsbo side of the reservation. It’s not in Poulsbo because it just fucking isn’t. It might be closest to Port Gamble, but nobody actually lives in Port Gamble, the county just uses it as a reason to have a 25 mph speed limit for two fucking miles. While true, it isn’t on the Rez, the next logical spot is Hansville. Is it close to Hansville? No. But it is close to the gas station with the trolls that is run by Asians, and everyone calls that Hansville, even though it isn’t, so therefore Hood Canal Brewing is in Hansville.

It’s a good spot. They brew on site—or what is probably more accurate—they let you come in and drink on site. It is technically a tasting room, but tasting rooms are for tourists and growler fills. This place is for bull shitting and drinking beer. It’s a local joint for sure, but at any time in the summer, there will be a tourist or two up in there.

To me, someone who grew up only 15 miles from there, the best part is that all of the beer is named after different places and geographical features unique to Hood Canal—which isn’t even a real canal, but let’s not go there—and you can get that shit all over the Northwest.

Dabob Bay IPA is my favorite because Dabob Bay is on the Jefferson County side of the canal, where I am from, and it is also the place where all of the inbreds live.

True story.

The Dabob kids would ride my school bus—and they were way the fuck out. I mean shit, my bus ride into school was like 40 minutes, these guys would do like an hour and a half each way on the bus. That’s how backwoods we are talking. I’m not going to drop any names here because that would be too ass hole for even me, but there was one kid that always had lice, and his dad was also his great uncle. This was back before meth, so I don’t know what kind of drugs they were doing, but they were almost completely subsistence farmers. And by subsistence farmers, I mean a shit house garden and animal snares (rabbits, raccoons, opossums, etc…).

There was also a different family out there with a bunch of kids. I don’t know if they all went to school, but the ones on my bus were a brother who was like a year younger than me, and a sister who was like two years older than me, and they always sat together. She wouldn’t have been half bad looking, but was really greasy and shy, and was ugly as fuck. He had this narwhal tooff that prevented him from closing his mouth all the way and pimples. Like pimples on his pimples. A shit load of pimples. Always leaking and ready to explode. In the rare occasion that they weren’t sitting together, he would talk about how he would climb into bed with her at night and she would give him hand jobs. I don’t know if anyone ever got her side of the story, but I never heard her deny it.

Looking back at it, that shit is actually really sad, but yeah—that’s what they named their beer after.

And sit and judge if you want, I am just relaying the story. And I know that if you fuckers are reading this blog, you will grab a bottle of Dabob Bay IPA, by Hood Canal, because it just became a conversation piece.

[hey-ass-hole]

Winter Update

It’s been a while since we talked. I hope you guys don’t think I went on the wagon or anything like that.

Back in November, I showed up at my mom’s house and all of my relatives were there. I was little buzzed out when I got there, so I started flipping out.

“Oh no! Fuck you guys, I won’t go,” I hollered. I was so mad, I started blindly throwing punches at anyone within arm’s reach. 

Then my brother tackled me on top of the coffee table, and my dad and uncles helped him pin me down.

When shit finally calmed down, I found out that it wasn’t really an intervention, it was just Thanksgiving. I was embarrassed and ended up apologizing. Fortunately everybody was really understanding.

A similar thing happened about a month later, but I don’t want to talk about that one.

I have been quiet because I haven’t really been any place new lately. There are still probably a million older places that I haven’t written about yet, and maybe I will get back to it soon.

I should mention that I have dropped in on Barley Brown’s in Baker City a couple of times. They do sell growlers now, and they have a tasting room across from the restaurant. It doesn’t sell food, but it sells beer on Sundays, which makes it a must stop.

I also dropped in on the Maui Brewing Company because I was in the neighborhood back in December. Their beer is just fine, but I can’t justify giving it its own write up because it isn’t the Northwest (Don’t mention all that Midwest stuff I covered this summer). They kind of pissed me off because we were going to go there for dinner and they said that they were too busy to accommodate a group of eight, but when I ran in to get a growler, the dining area was just about empty. At the bar, they had a frost strip going all the way around so that you could set your beer on it. I have to say, that was a touch of class.

Anyway, happy drinking. I’ll be in touch soon.

[hey-ass-hole]

Ice Harbor Brewing, Kennewick, WA

So we had lunch at the Ice Harbor the other day. Not the brewery, but the restaurant down on Clover Island. It is a nice place and we sat outside—a date if you will—and watched all the weirdoes walk by. The brewery just up the road serves beer, as well as has a homebrew supply store. We went there too, but it’s a shit hole.

I like shit holes.

I don’t know what it is about the restaurant though, I like that place too. It isn’t because it is expensive or down by the marina where people like to drink wine. It isn’t even because the outdoor patio overlooks the road, rather than the water. To be honest, I really don’t even have a good reason, so fuck off about it, okay.

I guess the restaurant’s redeeming quality is that it is painted face that covers the pock-mocked crackwhore. A tourist from Seattle or—God forbid—Portland could roll up to the restaurant on their fancy boat, tie their sweaters around their necks, and feel like they had just discovered something.

You will see them down their too, with their bicycles and helmets and baskets. They ride by and look at you with their autistic children in tow, judging you for not being them. That, my friends, is why the outdoor patio is on the street. It’s because those tourist sons-of-bitches are more fun to watch than the seagulls.

Now the brewery in Old Town Kennewick, on the other hand—not but a mile away—is the kind of place that those Portland cocksuckers would never dream of riding their bikes past. In fact, they wouldn’t even believe that there is a good place to drink in there.

You could live your entire life in the Tri-Cities and never know that the restaurant is there, but be a regular at the brewery. You can say “hell” or “shit” at the brewery. The brewery crowd either just got off work, or just hawked some busted-ass weed eater at one of the nearby pawn shops.

They have a patio too. It overlooks the parking lot, but instead of seeing yacht-people, you get to watch winos dig for cans. Either way, you are going to feel better about yourself.

My buddy Mark and I drank in there one night many years ago. All I remember was that each time a train whistle blew, someone spun the wheel, and that meant I had to drink more.

And of course, whichever establishment you choose, the beer is pretty fucking good.

[hey-ass-hole]

The Pike Brewing Company, Seattle

If you have been to Seattle, you have tried their beer. Probably the Kilt Lifter Scotch Ale. It’s really popular and they sell that shit all over the Northwest. I wouldn’t say it’s the first or the last, but it’s okay. The brewery itself, is built into the Pike Place Market, which might be the most famous tourist destination on the West Coast that isn’t Disneyland. For being in Seattle, the atmosphere kicks ass.

The whole joint is built around a big fermenter, and as you sit, the beer is being brewed around you. They have a full restaurant and bar, and the food is excellent. Last time I was there, I had a crab and artichoke pizza.

Have you ever had a crab and artichoke pizza? No you haven’t, and that’s why I am a better person than you.

They sell growlers of beer, which is great, but I had never gotten one before this last time because they are a pain in the ass to carry when you are on foot. But this last time I went with Shanna, Cowboy Pete, and Pete’s old lady Krista. Shanna had not been to Seattle so we took her to get drunk.

We hit some bars and beer joints, had drinks with a wino with his own Facebook page at the Hard Rock, then did dinner at Pike.

We were drunk when we got there, and fucked up when we left.

We sat in the 21 and over section which was nice until some high school kids came in and sat near us. They were good kids though.

Between the four of us, we drank one of everything while we were there. I also decided that it was finally my day to buy a Pike Brewing growler. I don’t remember what went in it, but it came with a growler koozie and neck lanyard.

Leaving that joint, we were really a sight because the four of us had a walking around jug to share. As we headed to the ferry dock, we had to walk down First Avenue past the winos and hookers.

I’m not going to lie—they were jealous.

We ended the day at some hole in the wall tavern that didn’t seem to mind that we brought our own beer in with us. We drank their beer primarily so that we would have some in the tank for the ferry ride home.

The Pike Brewing Company is an institution in Seattle for tourists, which is most of the population when you count all of the goddamned Californians. When you visit, you don’t have to go see the Space Needle. You don’t have to do an Underground Tour or ride the ferry.

But motherfucker, you have to get drunk at the Pike Brewing Company.

[hey-ass-hole]

Broadway Brewery, Portland

We all know that there are a lot of great breweries in Portland. It is kind of one of those statements that we don’t even need to say—it’s just assumed. Sort of like how there are a lot of drug dealers in Tacoma. At last count, there were seven million breweries in Portland (Hell no I don’t fact check! This isn’t a goddamned research paper), some of those breweries are so cool that people fly on airplanes just to say they have been there.

The Broadway Brewery is not one of those.

It sits on NE Broadway Avenue near the Lloyd Center Mall and up by the Rose Quarter. I think I was there after a hockey game or something, but I don’t know, I was really drunk. I think it was a hockey game because I have a picture that proved I was there wearing my Tri-City Americans sweatshirt. I was also drinking a sampler tray, which I rarely do, and smiling. I think it was safe to assume that I did not get any shit for being an Ams fan in Winterhawks territory.

Minor league hockey fans are nuts, people in Portland are cocksuckers, and I am an ass hole, so intertwine the three and you never know what will happen.

With all that being said, this place had some good qualities. It was nothing special in a place where you ain’t shit if you aren’t some sort of a hippy/vegan/artsy/cocksucker gimmick. The Broadway Brewery does pride itself in using organic ingredients in its food and beer, but that isn’t a bad thing. They filled a mason jar with one of their nitros for me and I drank the shit out of it when I got to the hotel.

Would I go there again? No, but that is because there are eight million other options in town, so why go to the same place twice? I wouldn’t call the cops if I woke up there some hungover Sunday morning either? Fuck no, I’d just order a vegan seafood omelet and see what the hell they would come up with (don’t worry, I wouldn’t eat it).

[hey-ass-hole]

Crescent Brewery, Nampa, ID

It is about damn time for me to get back to writing about the Northwest. It is also time that I throw Idaho a little love because there are some good places there.

Fortunately there are some shit holes too.

The Crescent Brewery sits in Nampa, Idaho—a Boise suburb. I don’t know shit about Nampa, but I did have a Garmin and a ride so I figured things would be good. I am not able to give you street by street directions, but fuck, it’s easy to find. All you have to do is imagine that you are a crackhead that sucks cock for drugs. Then walk around town, get picked up by a stranger in a van, and the place where they drop you off will be the Crescent Brewery—under the bridge, down by the train tracks, where there are no street lights.

I suppose you could also start smoking crack and sucking cock, but I would rather just drink beer.

I was dropped off so that my girlfriend could take her kids to their dad’s. Going with was an idea that I also liked about as much as turning tricks for drugs, so I decided to drink beer. As we pulled up there were no cars in the gravel lot, the sign said open, and two girls and a guy were standing out front smoking cigarettes. They stared at us like it was the first time someone got out of a car and wanted to go drink.

Shanna asked if I still wanted to go in there.

Fuck yes, I still wanted to go in there.

She sped off before I could change my mind, but I wasn’t going to anyway. The smokers eyeballed me all the way to the door.

I broke the ice.

“How you folks today?” I greeted them.

I passed the test. They broke the stare and mumbled some “fine” and “yeah alright”. I entered and sat at the bar. Two ol’ boys were drunk at one end, and another was reading the paper at the other. This place was dead and I killed all conversation when I came in and sat down.

One of the drunk ol’ boys went to the juke box and paid for some eighties metal and one George Strait song. The barmaid left her conversation with the other and brought me popcorn and asked what I wanted and where I had found out about this place.

For the first time, I was intimidated. This girl looked like she knew how to fight. I don’t know what her name was so we will call her Crystal.

“I don’t remember. The internet I guess.”

“But where on the internet?” My answer was not good enough.

“I don’t know.”

“Was it Facebook? Do you follow us on Facebook?”

“I do not follow you on Facebook.”

“Well we have a Facebook. You should follow us.”

That seemed reasonable to me. She went and got her phone and showed me the screen.

Contrary to first impression, Crystal was very helpful in explaining how to “Like” an establishment on Facebook. I didn’t want to ruin it for her, so I just played along.

She poured me a beer and I sat and drank it. She went back to talking with the drunk ol’ boys.

Then the smokers came in. One of the females came behind the bar and asked me how I had heard about the brewery. I told her on Facebook.

One of the dudes smoking was clearly the brewmaster, and this girl I was talking to now was his old lady. It also became apparent that Crystal was their offspring. I think the other folks working were kin too. One of the boys even came out of the back room, grabbed a pint glass, filled it off the tap, and went back to what he was doing—much like little kids come in the house from playing and grab some water off of the tap on the fridge and go back to playing.

Then the drunk ol’ boys started talking football with Crystal. They were Raiders fans for some reason. She was a Seahawks fan. One of them asked me if I was a Cowboys fan.

“Fuck no, I aint no Goddamned Cowboys fan.”

I explained that I was a lifelong Seahawks fan. Then the ol’ boy pointed out how Cowboys fans generally have a very limited knowledge of the game of football. Crystal added that she was a girl and still knew more than most Cowboy fans. We all agreed that was probably true.

Then I drank another beer.

Crystal’s mom and I were talking about how good beer drinking is, and about collecting growlers. She was impressed with my 45.

All of a sudden, I was part of the family.

Some other ol’ boys came in but they were sober. They had clearly never been there before and we stared at them for a while.  We weren’t trying to intimidate, but it was just a shock to us all that they found this place because of the location.

“How’d you boys find us?” Crystal’s mom asked.

“Driving by.”

I guess that was the right answer even though there could have been no way that they were “driving by” unless, of course, they had just raped a crackwhore and dumped her body.

[hey-ass-hole]

Midwest Top Ten

The last thing I will say on the Midwest before I go back to writing about the Pacific Northwest, God’s country, is that there are a lot of good breweries. I have not been to all of the listed ones, but I know enough about them to give a recommendation. They are in alphabetical order because I am not experienced enough in the area to rank them. If any of you ass holes know of any I missed, by all means, say some shit, otherwise they don’t exist.

Ale Asylum, Madison, WI

American Badass Beer, Detroit

Bell’s, Kalamazoo, MI

Evil Czech Brewing, Mishawaka, IN

Founders Brewing Co., Grand Rapids

Lakefront Brewing, Milwaukee

Latitude 42, Portage, MI

Old Peninsula Brewery, Kalamazoo, MI

Sun King Brewery, Indianapolis

Three Floyd’s, Munster, IN

[hey-ass-hole]

Sun King Brewery, Indianapolis

My final entry from the Midwest.

I was completely ignorant to the existence of Sun King in Indianapolis. If it wasn’t for my girlfriend’s cousin living down there, I would still be in the dark. We were posted up on the patio of some nice place in some hip neighborhood. There were a handful of breweries around but we had the kids so we went to a restaurant that served a good selection. I quickly came to realize that Indianapolis has a rather underrated craft brew scene.

We were seated outside by the canal that ran through town. The cousin that the kids call “Uncle Josh” suggested some Midwest beers, but I was happy to say that I had already tried the ones he had mentioned. The waiter came out and immediately suggested the dark IPA by Sun King. He told me that they only brew a limited amount, and that this was the only restaurant that carried it on tap. Uncle Josh also spoke highly of it, so there it was. That is what I drank.

My girlfriend had their golden ale, which impressed me. She drank it and liked it. I liked it too. When she gets to beer drinking, it is all about the Michelob Ultra. I drank one of those one time. It tasted better than the tap water in the basement, but wasn’t as substantial.

Mr. Waiter and Uncle Josh were correct, the dark IPA was so solid that I had to swing into the brewery on the way out of town.

I have been to Chicago. I have been to St. Louis. I have seen their slums and ghettos. I know that much of Detroit is worse. My expectations of Midwestern cities is very low. Indianapolis is a breath of fresh air. I am sure that it has its spots, but it was a very impressively clean and pleasant city. Traffic was reasonable, streets were marked, and I don’t remember seeing any homeless. The brewery was off the freeway and easy to find. I parked, left the family in the car, and went in.

The brewery is clearly a brewery. It is not built to be a shiny cornerstone of the community, but a solid functional brewery. There is a door to the office of the warehouse through which you enter. Once inside, a lady checks your ID. She sits in a booth in front of the entrance. You cannot enter through the exit so don’t get any crazy ideas. The door to the warehouse is completely transparent, but you can’t see everything—only enough to create excitement. You can see that some people are drinking around tables. You can see that pallets of beer are stacked to the ceiling—nay, stacked to Heaven.

Do you remember when you were a kid in the admission line at Disney Land?

It’s like that.

For some reason they did not charge a cover. They fucking could have. I would have paid it. I stepped up to the bar. I don’t know how many taps there were, but there were a lot, and I know that they were all good. There were two fellas pouring beer. You could tell that wasn’t their primary job—shit, they might not have even been on the clock—they did not pour beer out of necessity, they poured beer out of love.

Love beer is the best beer.

I bull shat with them for a little while. We discussed beer in the Northwest. They were not from there but looked the part.

It was very apparent that Sun King was the big boy in town, but they had also not lost their small time personality. If I am to ever see Sun King beer out west I will certainly drink it in front of people, and explain that even though it is not Northwest beer, it is still respectable and worth a taste.

[hey-ass-hole]

Iechyd Da’s, Elkhart, IN

If you know how to pronounce this name, you have obviously been there. I hear the locals say “Yachk-EE-Daws”. That is how I will pronounce it. It sits down by the river and McDonald’s in Elkhart, Indiana, which is actually a pretty large small town that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be nice or a ghetto. This brewery, however, is very nice. A fair metaphor would be that Iechyd Da’s is the prettiest girl in the trailer park, and she doesn’t have any brothers, so she is as pure as the snow that has been in the yard overnight. It isn’t 100 percent pure, and it has been walked on a little, but the dogs haven’t pissed on it yet.

A great place when you would have happily settled for a shittier spot. So good in fact, you will intentionally go there again.

This was my second visit.

I posted up because I was waiting for my girlfriend and her mom and aunt to go shopping. Looking back, I can’t really remember how I ended up going in the first place, but I did. I drank a lot of beer. I started at some fancy bar and worked myself down. The first joint was so fancy that when I went in, I caught a waitress eyeballing the old Adidas sandals I was wearing. I ordered a beer, sat and drank, and then politely moved on.

When I got to the end of the strip, it was like I was a Wise Man in Bethlehem—the star had guided me to the manger. I was saved.

But they didn’t open until three, and it was 2:54.

There lies an ethical question. What do I do? Do I just creep at the door for six minutes? Do I just say fuck it and leave? There really wasn’t any place to go play it off except McDonald’s, but fuck, I still had my dignity.

My first thought was, “Maybe one of their employees was so excited that they decided to unlock the door six minutes early.”

That did not happen.

Then I thought, “I will nonchalantly walk down that way for a block or so, then inconspicuously walk back.”

That was a solid plan, but then it was only 2:57.

So then I went the other way and back. That had to be good, but at 3:02 it was still locked. I couldn’t be mad at them, beer drinker's time is always is little later than what the clock says.

Then I thought, “Fuck, I will just walk over there, make a phone call—or at least feign a phone call—and give them a chance to open.” And so I did. Right on cue, because she was shopping, my girlfriend did not answer her phone. I left a voice mail and then slowly walked back to the bar.

Success! It was open. As soon as I broke the plane the barmaid gave me a very cheerful, “Hi, come on in.” There is a certain perkiness that only exists at the beginning of a shift. I’m sure that five hours in the future would have been met with not so much as a nod in my general direction.

I posted up at the bar. Somehow there was some dude in there ahead of me. I have good beer drinking instincts, but I had been casing that joint since ten minutes before it opened and that fucker still beat me.

Whatever.

I sat down. The barmaid introduced herself. She told me her name but I don’t remember because I didn’t really give a shit. I told her mine because that is what I am used to doing when someone is all like, “Hi, I’m So-and-So.” She remembered it the whole time too.

I ordered a beer and drank it. Some other dude came in and sat at the bar. She remembered his name too. Some people are really good at that sort of shit. I never have been. I think it is because I really don’t give a shit for strangers. Hell, I don’t even give a shit for a lot of people I know.

I ordered another beer and drank it. Some young couple came in. They asked a lot of questions about how things worked, and made me wonder if they had ever been out in a tavern before, let alone a brewery. They were really thrilled that the barmaid gave a shit to know their names, and she was thrilled that she could explain shit she knew to them?

Some examples of stupid shit I heard:

                “So you guys make the beer here?”

                “Do you ever have Budweiser on tap?”

                “Is the food made here too?”

Fuckin retards, but the barmaid loved them.

Eventually my girlfriend found me, along with her mom and her aunt, so we sat outside on the patio and drank more. They had a cornhole game set up out there. We didn’t play, but someone else did.

As it turns out, cornhole seems to be the state game of Indiana. I don’t know if that is really true—but they sure love their cornhole back there. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the fact that they just love them some corn, but out west, we always associated the word cornhole with something else.

But it is a fun game.

[hey-ass-hole]

Evil Czech Brewery, Mishawaka, IN

What a great name for a brewery. Especially when everything in the area is all about being Irish. But why shouldn’t the place of the North America’s premier Catholic university also be a good drinking town? And it is a good drinking town—if you are 22 and don’t know any better.

There are plenty of nice places to go around campus. The chain restaurants are well represented, and I can only imagine the Hooters down the road is one of the busiest in the country.

Fuck Hooters. It was Taco Tuesday at the ECB.

South Bend, from everything I can tell, is relatively void of good places to drink. It is really just the town Pullman and Corvallis are desperately trying to become. Basically it is the bizzaro Eugene. Where hippy culture spills out into the community, in South Bend the upper-class Catholic culture is what gets you.

ECB is a breath of fresh air. It sits in Mishawaka, which is to South Bend what Springfield is to Eugene. The building is very unassuming on the outside. It could just as well be an attorney’s office or an orthodontist. Inside, it is a full functioning restaurant/bar with character good enough to be a joint in the Northwest. It is one of the few drinking holes in town that seem to function independently of the university—but not in spite of it.

If Notre Dame were to shut its doors tomorrow, Hooters would be gone; Buffalo Wild Wings would be gone; fucking McDonald’s might even be gone; but the Evil Czech would still be there.

When I got there, I sat down, and was advised to drink a pint of the porter. I did and it was good enough. None of the beer I tried was bad, and most of it had an above average alcohol content. I was so happy to not see any sort of Irish stout that was whoring itself off of the university, that it took me two beers before I asked the waitress what they had for a Pilsner.

For those of you who don’t have a fucking clue, a Pilsner is the style of beer associated with the city of Plzn in Czech Republic. Someone from Plzn would be a Plzner—thus Pilsner.

There was no Pilsner on tap—and not that I am the biggest Pilsner fan—if I am in a Czech bar, I better fucking try a Pilsner. I don’t think the girl serving understood why I asked, but she did say that the brewmaster only makes one batch of Pilsner a year, and that is on the anniversary of when the Allies liberated Czechoslovakia in World War II.

That’s pretty fucking cool.

Ironically enough, I was sitting there watching Germany destroy Brazil in a World Cup game. There had to be some sort of off colored remark to make there, but I felt it was better to keep it to myself.

[hey-ass-hole]

Latitude 42, Portage, MI

Kalamazoo, Michigan is blowing up the craftbeer world right now. This was my second visit, and I haven’t had the opportunity to hit it too hard, but I am sure a pub crawl will be in my future. Outside of downtown, in the suburb of Portage, sits Latitude 42.

The first thing on the beer list that spoke to me was something billed as a Northwest style pale ale. I don’t know what would make it “Northwest” besides the hops, so I asked the server where the hops were from. If she would have said the Yakima or Willamette Valley I might have danced a jig.

Come to find out they use local hops from a local farm, so I can’t hate on them for that. If she would have said California, I would have asked for the brewmaster and made a scene.

I must also say there is something homey about ordering a Northwest style pale outside of the Northwest. Are the cheese steaks better in Philadelphia? Fuck yes. Is Chicago style pizza better in Chicago? No shit, Sherlock. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to order one in a joint in eastern Oregon. All I can do is concede that this is the best I can do in Pendleton and enjoy what I have.

That beer was the best I could do in Kalamazoo, and I thank the people at Latitude 42 for it.

NOTE: French fries and French toast are not better in France because, well, fuck France—French bread, maybe.

The point I am trying to make is, the good folks at Lat42 put their balls where their mouth is and made an attempt to tip their hat to the Northwest. It was good enough that I give them high regards for trying, and if nothing else, the beer tastes fucking good.

But don’t you worry, there are other beers there too. I bought a jug of some red something-or-other and it was bad ass two days later when I drank it. Growler life is a real testament to the quality of a beer. I never buy one without tightening the lid first. Not to brag, but I am 6’3, 240, with huge hands. I can tighten a cap better than any bar maid, but that doesn't mean that they will all survive.

The atmosphere deserves a shout out as well. I was there on the fourth of July for lunch, a lot of other places in town were closed, and I really don’t think that they expected the crowd that they got. We have all been in places like that before and have been frustrated because the staff not been able to keep up. What really impressed me, was that there was a sense of this aint no shit on the part of the staff. They were working hard, you could see it in their eyes, but you couldn’t see it on their faces.

For $8.50 I had a personal meat lovers pizza and bowl of beer cheese soup. Fucking amazing. My girlfriend had a goat cheese and shrimp pizza. I don’t like goat cheese as a general rule because goat cheese tastes like goats smell and that bothers me. At Lat42, goat cheese tasted like goat cheese, but not like goat. That is a truly amazing feat.

NOTE: Google “goat dairy near me” or some shit like that. Call up, ask the farmer if you can come check it out. You will either swear off goat anything forever or suck on the teat of the goat yourself.

Goddamned disgusting.

Latitude 42, with that being said, would be a top notch spot in Portland or Seattle. It is that good, goats or not.

[hey-ass-hole]

Sick-N-Twisted Brewing Co./Naked Winery, Hill City, SD

As I have said before, Hood River, Oregon is a good drinking city. A great spot for beer drinkers—believe it or not—is The Naked Winery. For five bucks, your old lady can sample a shit load of wine, stay happy, and they keep local micros on tap. The little woman even gets to keep her wine glass—and if you show up with a buzz to drink beer and watch wine tasting, as long as you ask nicely, they will probably even let you drink beer from, and keep a wine glass yourself. I have been in there several times and have enjoyed it.

The one in Hood River is not the only one. I know there is one in Bend, and I think there are others in Portland and on the coast. I had no fucking idea that these things existed in South Dakota too.

South of Rapid City, there were signs all over the place. I didn’t think a whole lot of it, but I was curious as to how large the chain was, and whether or not it even was a chain—this is the kind of shit you think about when you are on day three in the car.

As we drove through Hill City, the unmistakable “Brewery” sign in the Naked Winery parking lot got me to swing in. The family sat in the car and I went in solo.

I didn’t think they were open, so I announced my arrival by saying, “I will be quick and I have cash.”

Looking back, I realize that is probably also the way someone would probably hail a prostitute—which does, in fact, make said statement the appropriate way to hail service in The Naked Winery.

The bar maid was happy to serve and happy to bull shit about beer, which was nice.

I tried a few samples. Things like: Nut Hugger, Panty Dropper Porter, and some milk stout with the word udders in it. They were good, but that wasn’t the important part.

The important part was that it was beer, and the girl running the show was from Portland, and yes, that Naked Winery in Hood River is the flagship of the chain that the one in Butt Fuck, South Dakota is in. It was like shopping locally so I felt good about my experience.

I also think leaving the kids and girlfriend in the car while I sampled beer was also a nice touch of Pacific Northwest class.

There also appears to be a few other brew houses in the area, so hopefully on my next trip through I can drink the Black Hills dry.

[hey-ass-hole]

Ten Sleep Brewing Co., Ten Sleep, WY

Ten Sleep Brewing Company

I am going to go ahead and deviate from the norm here a little bit. My focus has been on Pacific Northwest craftbrewing, but I am currently on a trek in the Midwest, and it needs to be pointed out that there are a lot of good craft brews in other places.

As far as the craftbeer boom of the last ten to twenty years goes, Portland and Seattle like to act like they are the first and the last, but that just isn’t how it is.

Listen ass holes, the beer in the PNW is very good—maybe even the best—but good beer can be brewed anywhere. I know we like to claim a lot of shit but come on. I concede that our metro areas are the rainiest; our mountains are the volcanoiest; and our arm pits are the hairiest, but it isn’t like France couldn’t lay claim to the same shit.

And I sure as fuck don’t want to live in France.

With all that being prefaced, I am going to boldly state that the Ten Sleep Brewing Company in Ten Sleep, Wyoming, is one of the best that you will find—and I have never even been there.

While on the drive out to Whitebread, Middle America, the woman and kids and I drove through Yellowstone, then across the Big Horns to Mount Rushmore. I had every intention of cruising through Ten Sleep because my buddy Ilg said he knew some of the folks there.

Ilg is from Wyoming—not Ten Sleep or anywhere close—but it is a known fact that everybody in Wyoming knows everybody else in Wyoming. It’s like if all the houses on the cul-de-sac were a hundred miles apart and shot trespassers on sight.

Unfortunately, we drove through Wyoming on a Monday with a tight schedule. I had written it all up to a near miss, when Ilg called me up and informed me that he was able to pull some strings and the Ten Sleep people were willing to open up just special for me. I wasn’t able to make it because by that point, we just couldn’t get there and get to our hotel at a decent hour, but shit that was nice of them to offer.

I promise that at some point, as soon as humanly possible, I will show up in Ten Sleep and drink there. I also need to make sure that I encourage the rest of you to do the same.

I think what you all need to do is get in your car and roll out to Ten Sleep. I don’t know what the hotel situation is like or how to explain how to get there, but ask someone in Wyoming, they will probably know the people.

[hey-ass-hole]

Full Sail Brewery, Hood River, OR

As a general rule, I don’t get too impressed with the big boys in the craft brew world. I have no disrespect toward them, but they just don’t fascinate me. If Budweiser is like the NFL, Full Sail would be the Notre Dame or, I guess in their case, the Oregon Ducks. That’s still high end football. I watch FCS football. I went to Eastern Washington. I also like high school football. I like the mom and pop shit hole beer joints.

But I have tailgated at some big schools too. I have stories about a trip to Provo to watch Washington play BYU, and if the craft beer scene was better there, I would even write about it some. I have been drunk at quite a few Pac-12 stadiums and more.

Full Sail Brewery is the Boise State of craftbrew world. It’s local. It’s solid. It could stand to move up a little and make some more money, but at some point, you have to be happy where you are.

Do they have a lot of guys playing on Sunday? No.

Does Full Sail complement Thursday night football on ESPN? Yes it does.

It is owned by its 47 original employees, which drives itself to put a better product out there, rather than mass produce some watered down bull shit. But with that being said, their product is very consumer friendly.

Consumer friendly isn’t always bad, though. Why would anyone sell a product that they don’t think people will like? The issue is when the product has nothing unique about it—when it just tries to look like everyone else. Full Sail still has its character.

I was there once when they were giving tours. The old boy showing us around was informative and took us all around. He even let us taste the barley. At the end we all got a complimentary Full Sail pint glass, which was cool. The docent told us that they used to fill those glasses with beer when they handed them out, but too many winos were taking the tour for the free drink, so the city made an ordinance that disallowed them to give out free beer. He also told us that when we ordered food in the pub and set those glasses out, that servers usually always forgot to include the price of the first one on the tab.

Well that was all I needed. I ate a burger and drank a beer.

Would I pay ten dollars for a beer that came with a free hamburger? No.

Would I pay ten dollars for a hamburger that came with a free beer? Hell yes I would.

[hey-ass-hole]

Atomic Ale House, Richland, WA

So here is some shit I struggle with: Taverns or bars or public houses, or whatever the fucks that don’t have TVs. Or if they can’t have a TV, how about a juke box? Or a pool table? Fucking Something.

The Atomic makes food as well as beer, so I guess it counts as a restaurant. But why the fuck would you say, “Gee, I want to brew beer, but I want to do it in a way that encourages healthy living and spending quality time with the people you love.”

Not saying that shit is bad, but it’s like sitting down to a juicy steak and saying, “Gee, Smarties are my favorite candy. I hope I can have them for dessert.”

Fucking dumb.

At the Atomic you can play board games. That’s right. Motherfucking board games. If Mormons went to the tavern, this folks, is how they would do it.

“Can I get a thing of fries and a lemonade?” At the mortherfucking brewery!

Next thing you know, you will go into a place like that and they won’t be selling beer.

“Yeah we call it a brewery, but drinking is a sin.”

You know what else is a sin?

Stupid shit.                                                                     

The food and beer are both generic in this place, and if you walk up the road, there is a joint with sports on the TV and a rotating 50 micros on tap.

Now why the fuck would I go into the LDS temple of breweries when I could go try something I have never had before and watch the Seahawks?

Now I am not going to ask you not to go into the Atomic. Even a shitty brewhouse is better than drinking Bud Light in the back of a Denny’s, but just make sure you are on good behavior. You wouldn’t want to get caught saying shit or fuck in this place.

And the girls are wearing their purity underwear too—or at least that is what I have heard. Mormon girls do wear that shit right?