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by Jack Curtin

I drink no cider,
but feast on Philadelphia beer.

--John Adams, in a letter to his wife Abigail


ARCHIVE: FEBRUARY 2003


I NEVER FOUND OUT IF PUNXSUTAWNEY PHIL SAW HIS SHADOW OR NOT, AND FRANKLY, I DIDN'T GIVE A DAMN. I went to the Second Annual Grey Lodge Pub Groundhog Day Hawaiian Shirt Kegs and Eggs event yesterday morning and if any further evidence is needed that the inimitable Scoats is a promotional genius, I can offer up a hundred or so witnesses who will settle the argument. The best publican in the Northeast (which is, granted, akin to being the best modern Swiss novelist in terms of competition) has now officially created another Philadelphia beer tradition.

I arrived, as did most of the attendees, in a Hawaiian shirt, mine as authentic as can be as it was created to my specifications by an aged Hawaiian seamstress on the island of Kauai nearly two decades ago (indications are that my specifications have changed, by the way).

I walked into the Grey Lodge around 11:30 to learn that the taping of Punxsutawney Phil's venture into the sunlight, or lack thereof, which was to be shown to the gathered multitude to begin the day's festivities, had gone awry. Scoats had chosen the Weather Channel and one of the local stations and taped their early morning shows but Phil's adventures were covered by neither. Hey, I came for the beer anyway.

I allowed myself to be delayed and fitted for a striking balloon hat by a doorman too large to resist and then pressed my way to the bar for a pint of cask-conditioned Heavyweight Baltus, the beer I had set my mind on all week. Those taking notes in preparation for the big test will recall that I was most impressed with a brief sampling of this fine brew during a pre-Eagles game brunch at Standard Tap last November and had vowed then to enjoy a fuller measure at the first opportunity. I keep my promises--especially to myself.

After sampling a slab of chicken/pepper/onion frittata and chatting up the Usual Suspects, I moved on to a Brewers Art Cerberus (tripel) and was then dragooned into being part of the hand-picked quartet of sages who would confer around Wissinoming Winnie, the Grey Lodge's beer-predicting ceramic cat, to determine whether there will be six more weeks of Winter Seasonals or if Spring Beers will be early this year.

The team included Scoats, that Lew Bryson fella, Nancy Barton of Yards and your humble correspondent, a stand-in for Heavyweight's Peggy Zwerver, who didn't arrive until much too late. Lew seemed disappointed at the switch, even though I did the best I could to stay with the program and exchanged a pledge of Girl Power solidarity with Nancy. Not that she meant it, as it turned out. In a quick vote, the other three played to the crowd and in the process trampled my protests that there is still a long hard stretch of winter to come. We had decided "unanimously" that spring was in the offing, they said to loud cheers. We'll see about that.

There is a somewhat distorted depiction of all this available from ringleader Bryson which you can find over here. He's put up photos of me in a transparent attempt to attract more visitors. Even I never sank that low. I mean, I want to be loved for more than just my pretty face...

Meanwhile, the big challenge for this remarkable Groundhog's Day event comes next year. Scoats has been able to pull it off on weekend mornings for two years now. Can he do so at 7 AM on a Monday? 2004 will tell the tale.

BILL COVALESKI TALKS ABOUT V10. I talked to Bill Covaleski at Victory Brewing last week to gather some information for the first installment of a weekly look at where each of our major local breweries stands this days which will begin running at The Beer Yard this week and of course had to use the opportunity to also ask him about the reported problems with some of the V10 750ml bottles. He answered every question without hesitation and graciously agreed I could share those answers with you here.

Because there are reports of some bottles of this long-anticipated 10% ABV Belgian-style brew going "sour," Victory is quietly recalling it from the market. "We don't want to make a big fuss about it because the problem appears to be minimal," Bill reported. "Some bottles have clearly gone bad but people are also drinking others an enjoying them." I can back that up with my own experience. When this story first began to develop a couple of weeks ago, I opened a bottle and found it fine, although perhaps needing more aging in the bottle. As the story continued, I opened another bottle last week and it was clearly sour and undrinkable. I've heard other complaints as well, but as recently as four hours ago I read an email from someone who said he and his friends were enjoying their V10 bottles and perfectly happy with them.

"It's some sort of infection in the bottles that have gone sour," Covaleski said, "but it's hard to know exactly what it is, when it happened or why. Since it appears to vary from bottle to bottle, it's not even feasible to send it out to a lab for testing. What we do know is this was the first run of 750ml bottles on our new line and that things did not go as well as we'd hoped that first day. There were some delays, but a beer as big as this one, which had aged in our tanks for five months, should not normally have been affected."

The greatest irony, he said, is that he and partner Ron Barchet tend to like big beers, the ones which are often bottle conditioned and aged, in their early stages. "For example, Ron and I both prefer our own beers like Storm King and Old Horizontal when they are fresh and new, although we understand that others like to set them down for a while. Because of our own inclinations, we do make it a practice not to say that a beer will 'improve' with aging, only that it will 'change.' And change is not always for the better."

V12, the next release in Victory's Big-Bottle, Big-Beer series, is on schedule, he added, "although I'm still waiting to find out if we'll have the cartons to ship it in ready in time." This one's scheduled for an early March release and I'd be willing to wager that there will not be hint of controversy about it.

If I might steal a bit of shtick from Joe Sixpack, I wrote this section of today's upload while drinking a bottle of Victory Prima Pils and I can only say that a brewery that makes a beer this good is more than entitled to a minor problem or two now and then.

NEW SLY FOX BREWPUB WILL BE IN HISTORIC FOUNDRY BUILDING IN PHOENIXVILLE. Phoenixville's local newspaper, The Phoenix, broke the news in this story last week. You can get more details and (by tomorrow if not later tonight) see some photos of the building and the brewery equipment arriving here. I had my first look at the site as all this was going on and I can tell you the building is amazing and offers the potential for an incredible restaurant and bar. All the negotiations haven't been completed as yet, so everybody out there keep your fingers crossed that nothing goes awry.

COMING NEXT WEEK, IF I LIVE TO TELL THE TALE... Friday night is the debut of Ichor, the first Sly Fox bottled beer, on Incubus Friday, a debut that will be marked by all of the pub's Belgian style brews on tap. Saturday is a day-long excursion to Lancaster Brewing, Bube's Brewery, kclingers Publik House and wherever else our wanderings take us. It's the posse on the road. God help the natives....
[posted Monday, February 3, 2003 6:00 pm est] [end]

THE NIGHT ICHOR FINALLY POURED....AND POURED....AND POURED. We awakened here in the bucolic far suburbs on Friday morning with six to eight inches of snow on the ground and more still falling. What would this mean for the long-planned introduction of Ichor, the quadruple that was to be introduced that night as the first bottled product from Sly Fox Brewhouse and Eatery and brewer Brian O'Reilly? O'Reilly was sanguine. "This is a good thing," he assured everyone. "More people will show up." And damned if he wasn't right.

The first Ichor-ite showed up at 11:30 AM, determined to be the one who purchased the first bottle. He was, he did and he spent the next hour or so savoring it at barside table. By mid-afternoon, there were several beer fanciers ensconced at those tables and our pal Dan (of Dan & Steve fame, the Big One) said when he walked in the door at around 4 PM, the entire bar was lined with patrons who had open bottles in front of them.

An open bottle of Ichor on the bar became, de facto, the symbol of what turned out to be one of the biggest nights in Sly Fox history. Over 100 of them were emptied or left the premises in the hands of those who had designs upon emptying them in the future, some in full case lots.

By the time I got there around 5 PM the Reprobate's Table (you know who you are) was in full swing, always a good sign. I opted to start with the Renard d'Or, the Belgian-style golden ale that just gets better every time O'Reilly trots it out onto the draft system and it sure enough lived up to that reputation. A C-Quest Dubbel was next (I should note that I was drinking only small glasses and that I wasn't driving) and I think I sampled the Saison Vos in there somewhere as well. Oddly enough, the one limited-availability brew I missed on what is called Incubus Friday was, you guessed it, Incubus. Ah well, March is just around the corner...

Suddenly two open bottles of Ichor and several glasses appeared in front of us, courtesy of Dan. True confession time: I'd tasted a bottle of Ichor with Brian a couple of weeks before, shortly after the bottling, and it seemed to lack sufficient carbonation. Not that it was bad--far from it--but the possibility was raised, in my mind at least, that the final product would be problematic for consumers who would expect the beer to pour with a distinctive foamy head. No problem. As I had become aware checking out the room, Ichor looked damn fine in the glass.

First sip. Sweet and malty, the faintest hint of its 10% ABV on the tongue, a much clearer sense of its warming presence in the aftertaste. Oh my, we had us a true Quadruple here. My first thought went beyond the beer itself to the broader picture: having already tasted how Renard d'Or was aging into something very special in the keg and having sampled memorable bottles of Saison Vos which were made for the GABF, and now this, the vision of what might come out of the new Sly Fox brewery shimmered like a grail, if not holy, certainly one devoutly to be desired.

Profound thoughts faded, unable to flourish in a night that was destined for more sensory delights. As Dan's bottles emptied, I ordered us another one and, turning to find bon vivant Matt (Beer Yard) Guyer had arrived, added "and bring another glass." "Another glass?" Guyer snorted. "Bring another bottle." and the rout was on.

There's much to write about today, so whatever tales developed out of the evening, such as how a few folks at the Reprobate table were apparently lusting after someone prominent on the local brewing scene, will have to wait to be told, if ever. Kudos needs must go, however, to Steve (Dan & Steve, yada, yada, the Other One), the noble driver who was, for this one evening at least, not inclined to take advantage of my kind and gentle demeanor and demand good beers from my stash as his reward.

I would see him again all too soon....

A CHANGE IN PLANS. Okay, everything suddenly went to hell over the last couple of hours. I've been doing these postings once a week of late, usually on Sunday, but now other tasks demand my attention. So let's consider this week's entry a two-fer. Part two will show up here in a day or two. Sorry 'bout that, but things have just gone weird, not least of which being that whatever apparently died in the walls this past week has reached the point where even the cold isn't enough to stave off a definite olfactory resonance. I must now be about the work of getting through the night. But I will return, daunted but unbowed. Please come back tomorrow or Tuesday to read the sordid details of Saturday's 14 hours on the road with the posse (complete with a photo of the whole gang).
[posted Sunday, February 9, 2003 9:20 pm est] [end]

THE POSSE ON THE ROAD. What follows is a tale of good fellowship (the only way 12 increasingly, um, happy people could survive nearly 14 hours crammed into various bars and a van with a shaky rear), mystery and intrigue (where the hell are we and how do we get where we want to be?), things man was not meant to know (so don't think I have any intention of revealing them here) and, lord help us, a singing brewer.

The fine grouping to the right is the posse which made that journey this past Saturday. Now it must be said up front that at least some of their number did not know they were in a posse and, indeed, might be appalled by the whole concept. Tough. We're all responsible for the lives we lead and the choices we make and, well, this is my story and I'll spin it the way I want, you know?

Our journey was put together by Dan (don't make me explain that Steve & Dan thing again, life is too short) and Bob, who are, in that order, flanking brewer-in-residence Brian O'Reilly in the rear of the photo. The rest of the group consists of another Dan, another Bob (nobody ever said we were creative), Amy, Barbie, Joy, Kelly and, of course, Steve (who would normally be standing in the back with Dan but then we couldn't see him). Libby, in the red jacket, was our driver and probably should be excused from blame. Those are the only clues I'll give you. Sort 'em out on your own, but always remember that even the brightest smiling face can hide a dark and foreboding heart.

THE BIGGEST DAMNED SAMPLER TRAY I'VE EVER SEEN. That was the first thing that struck me at Lancaster Brewing Company, where the pub is now known as the Walnut Street Grille. Name change not withstanding, the place looks much the same as it did when I last visited a couple of years back, open and appealing, a good spot to down a pint or two.

The chalkboard above the bar listed seven brews on tap--Litening Lager, Pilsner, Amish Four Grain Pale Ale, Red Rose Ale, Brown Ale, Milk Stout & Winter Warmer--and the big wooden sampler tray consisted a good two or three ounces of each, a lot of beer for the money. The first five of us in the door each ordered a tray, only to have the server cut us off at that point, explaining that "we only have enough glasses for five trays." This place was clearly not up to posse code.

I sampled my beers in the order I've listed them above. I found them (as well as a Dusseldorf Don's Monster Alt on cask which we discovered later on) okay but nothing to jump up and down about. Even the Milk Stout, which I've always liked, seemed to have lost some oomph). Best of the lot, and the one I could spend some quality time with, was the Winter Warmer.

Food, on the other hand, was pretty impressive. I had a bowl of White Bean Chili with Chicken nicely spiced up with Jalapeno Peppers which was a tasty a dish as I've enjoyed in quite a while, and the attractive Greek Pizza that many others chose was equally well received.

My general ambivalence about the beers and inclination toward the Winter Warmer might just be evidence of my predilection toward big brews this time of year, or it might reflect something a bit more intriguing. We'll get to that in a paragraph or so, after we finish with the next segment, which I call...

DESPERATELY SEEKING BUBE'S. Yes, the way to pronounce Bube's Brewery is indeed "boobies," and, appropriately enough, the jokes that inspires and a resultant mental image of a horny, frustrated teenager striving for something he might never achieve would be the perfect icon for the second leg of our journey. Truth be told, we seemed to be lost a goodly portion of the day (at one point, we literally drove complete around a single building and continued the way we were headed all along), but locating Mount Joy, PA seemed beyond our capabilities for a while there. How did we while away the time? Check the posse roster above and see if you can guess which traveler's name and that of our intended destination lent themselves to a series of adolescent jokes equal to those inspired by "Bube's."

We finally arrived at the extraordinary building, once a 19th century brewery, which is now home to Bube's and a museum. Trust me, it's more impressive even than the photographs on Bube's website can begin to show. On a day when the nation was on "orange alert" (This is your government. There's something scary out there. We don't know what. Or where. Or when. Be afraid.), we may have been in a location even safer than Big Time Dick Cheney's undisclosed digs when we were down in the catacombs at the deepest level of Bube's. Don't tell him, though. Those Secret Service agents would really clutter up the place.

There were four Bube's beers on draft (along with Troegs HopBack Amber and Stoudt's Winter Ale) and I had the Steam Beer, which was the most interesting and, by general consensus among those who tried a sampler, best of the four. I'm sorry to report that it wasn't impressive, not bad but surely nothing special. Once again the food looked eminently appealing and I'd have to say that it was evident that everyone in the place was having a good time. I left with the feeling that, were Bube's closer and more accessible, it would be a pub I'd visit regularly and a place where I'd probably want to try a dinner or two in one of the four restaurants on site. But I'd be going for the ambiance rather than the beer. Which brings me to....

A POINT OF PERSONAL PRIVILEGE. So what's up? Am I, the kinder, gentler beer writer, suddenly turning into One of Them? Will these weekly words of wisdom soon be filled with profound and self-important pronouncements about "nose" and "balance" and "hints of unwashed artichoke" that tickle the tongue and tantalize the taste buds? Geez, I wonder if I could pull that off? I'd be rich and famous and...

Oops. Went slightly astray there. Sorry 'bout that.

The thing is, I'm just plain spoiled. Go out of my driveway and turn left and it's a ten minute ride to Sly Fox, maybe 30 minutes to Victory (with the Drafting Room, a truly fine beer bar, right smack in the middle of the two). Out the driveway and go right and it's about half an hour to 45 minutes to Standard Tap, Monk's, Ludwig's, Nodding Head and other downtown spots, ten minutes less than that to Dawson Street Pub in Manayunk. A little more time and effort and I can be at McMenamin's in Chestnut Hill or the Grey Lodge in Frankford. Comes to that, I do happen to have an in of sorts at the best damned beer distributorship in the whole freakin' area.

Spoiled, I say. Spoiled.

And quite happy about it, thank you. If that means it takes a lot to impress me these days, so be it.

That's it. Move on. Our story resumes in the next paragraph.

IF THIS IS ETTERS, IT MUST BE KCLINGERS. This is the "new" Kclingers, not the old one, the Publik House and not the Tavern. Looks new too, which takes away some of the charm. New and unfinished, I should say. While there seems to be some deep dark mystery about it, everybody seems to know or assume that a Rogue Brewery was, and still apparently is, due to be part of this location. The two story location of same is fairly evident looking out the rear window of the main level over the space it will occupy and, as the ever-vigilant O'Reilly pointed out to me, any sharp-eyed individual standing in the parking lot can see a fermenter sitting in the window of one of the unfinished rooms on the third level.

Yep, there are three floors to the place, only two in use (aside from a pair of restrooms on the third. And lots of people. And beer. Oh yes, enough beer options to satisfy virtually any taste.

The downstairs level, where we went first, features a "dead guy" in a plexiglass coffin in the floor in front of the bar. Not your everyday decoration, that. I had an Anchor Liberty Ale, a beer we don't see often enough around these parts. There was a solid selection of 30 or so brews on draft at that bar, an equal and more impressive number upstairs. I tried the KClingers Brown Ale (brewed by Weyerbacher) when we moved up while others were drawn to one of the full range of Rogue beers on tap, or Samichlaus or Burgerbrau Wolzzacher Hell or cask-conditioned Burton Bridge Old Expensive Ale, an English strong ale which all five of us who tasted it found undrinkable.

I didn't notice until too late, as we were leaving, the Lancaster Dubbel on the menu. I would have liked to have tried that.

YOU WANT JALAPENOS, PAL, WE GOT YOUR JALAPENOS RIGHT HERE. Appalachian Brewing Company in Harrisburg don't get no respect from a lot of local beer writers and I'm as guilty as the next guy. No more, though. I had a truly fine cask Porter as soon as we settled in at a barside table on the second floor and followed that with a couple of pints of Hoppy Trails IPA to accompany an amazing Firestorm Chicken sandwich. Lots of places promise Jalapenos with nachos, sandwiches and the like and what you get is a few pepper slices tossed here and there. Not this time, no siree! It was wall-to-wall peppers atop a perfectly grilled chicken breast, with Pepper Jack Cheese and wing sauce to boot. Even a teetotaler would have to down a pint or two to finish this one.

Part of my pleasure at ABC, aside from the quality of food and beers, may have had something to do with space. This is, as you know if you've been there, one humongous brewpub. Even with a lot of people there (the downstairs was pretty much filled up and the second floor crowd, while smaller, would have been considered a smashing success by a lot of pubs I know.

A SONG IN HIS HEART AND BEER ON HIS MIND. O'Reilly began to sing as soon as we got back into the van outside Appalachean. A semi-Oldies station was blaring on the radio and he'd make up new lyrics, mostly pertinent to the situation, working in a bit of jazz-like scat when he ran out of words. It was actually pretty good but it also became evident that it was part of a master plan to browbeat us into making a final stop at the Stoudt's Brewpub in Adamstown.

Stoudt's had always been on our tentative itinerary if time permitted. Amazingly, we were only a half-hour behind when we left Appalachian, but that made it 9:30 PM and Stoudt's closes at 10 PM on Saturdays. We might, just might, make it there by 10, but what would be the point? "You get us there, I'll get us in," promised O'Reilly, and carried the day.

We pulled into the Stoudt's parking lot at 9:59 and O'Reilly was out of the car in a flash. He rushed to the door...and went in. Turns out that 10 PM closing thing isn't, well, real. There were several people inside, a few just getting their meals. And, think about it, even if it were, would you, as a bartender, turn away a dozen thirsty souls just to maintain a schedule when you could see at a glance that they were definitely big tippers? I think not.

The Stoudt Pils I had was, not really surprisingly, the best beer of the day. O'Reilly assured me that the Fest was even better. Afraid that he'd break into song, I didn't argue.

Back in the van, he continued his songfest, including this memorable couplet as part of an ongoing attack on his good buddy, me:

"Jack Curtin, was a beer writer, a story giver
Couldn't keep up with Lew who has a bigger liver..."

How sharper than a serpent's tooth, as they say.

When song failed, the poor lad was reduced to inchoate demands. "Fancy Pants!" he cried out as we passed Reading. "Victory!" he yelled as we slid by Downingtown. "Ortlieb's," he tried as we rumbled into Pottstown (that one turned some heads) and finally, one last desperate plea: "Bill Moore's house!."

I think we're going to have to look into his contract. Surely there's another brewer eager to wander the highways and byways with the likes of us...? Maybe not.

Here endeth our tale of woe. Take from it what you will.

LORD, WILL HE EVER FINISH? Done, done at last. And yeah, it's maybe the longest web posting in all of cyberdom (over 2300 words), but think of it this way. Since there will be no column next Sunday as I will be in San Francisco to attend the Celebrator bash, the Toronado Barley Wine Festival and visit our troops abroad at Anderson Valley and Anchor, this overload of blather should fend off any withdrawal pains you might normally suffer.

Finally, I leave you to ponder in my absence a disturbing photograph which was delivered to me in the dark of night by a mysterious and somewhat frightening individual unknown to me. Bemused by what it reveals and convinced that it requires some interpretation, I have entitled it respected beer writer and unknown companion.. Note that it is not necessary to apply this title left-to-right...but things do seem make more sense that way.
[posted Tuesday, February 11, 2003 5:45 pm est] [end]

LUCY TO THE RIGHT OF ME, LUCY TO THE LEFT OF ME...

                    

...and just before the shutter clicked (or whatever it is that happens on digital cameras) one of these fine ladies whispered into my shell-pink ear, "you're getting a Lucy sandwich." I must acknowledge that an inappropriate image or two did immediately flutter across my consciousness, together with a fleeting conjecture on the disasters for all involved which might have resulted had this moment occurred during my wayward youth. In these, my solitary and declining years, however, I quickly regained my focus.

There is much to be said for maturity...not all of it good.

And so, understanding the strength of will that made it all possible, welcome to the longest Liquid Diet posting yet (since the champion it dethroned was the "Posse on the Road" entry two weeks ago, it's hardly an historical moment, I guess), a report on a five-day California sojourn which included visits to Anderson Valley Brewing Company and Anchor Brewing Company, a pair of fine San Francisco brewpubs (21st Amendment Brewery & Cafe and Magnolia Pub & Brewery) a memorable night at what might well be the greatest tequila bar in the whole wide world (featuring a bartender who was personally requested to accompany the president of Mexico on a recent European trip) and an afternoon at the famed Toronado Barley Wine Festival (followed by a special "back room" tasting of dozens of other beers on the day after) and,, most especially, the grand 15th Anniversary Party for the nation's best brewspaper, Celebrator Beer News.

Here's an interesting bit of synchronicity, by the way. The three major elements on this trip--Anderson Valley, the Toronado and Celebrator--all came into existence in 1987, as did several other beer-related entities on the West Coast (and Stoudt's Brewing in Adamstown, come to think of it). When the craft brewing revolution finally burst upon Philadelphia back in 1995-96, I wrote that "Philadelphia has, as Philadelphia will, come a bit late to the party." Well, perhaps we have here a benchmark to indicate just how late.

So anyway, how was the weather while I was gone last weekend?

SOME BACKGROUND FOR THOSE WHO CAME IN LATE. One of the things I do to sustain my meager existence is write for Celebrator. In fact, a regular column covering this area and as much of the East Coast as I can manage will begin in the next issue, which should appear in late April, and we're in the process of finalizing arrangements to give Celebrator at least limited distribution in this area's bars and pubs alongside Ale Street News and Mid-Atlantic Brewing News. So when editor Tom Dalldorf told me about the 15th anniversary bash at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall, I was tempted to fly out for it, but hesitant. I then realized the party was happening on the weekend of the Barley Wine Festival and moved to the verge of commitment. Dalldorf closed the deal in a later message by pointing out that all the writers would be trotted out on the stage to be applauded by the gathered throng. I was definitely in. Hey, I haven't been applauded in a long time. Okay, never.

Enter Matt Guyer, owner of The Beer Yard, where I also help support what passes for a lifestyle by providing and maintaining all website content and performing other duties too complex for the full-time staff, or, heaven knows, management. Desperately fearing that I might enjoy myself entirely too much, Guyer offered to accompany me across the country and, since this could easily serve as a business trip, have the Beer Yard pay for accommodations and an auto rental for the trip to Anderson Valley. Not quite a Hobson's Choice, but close enough. In short, too good to refuse. Now Guyer is a mysterious sort, given to wandering off periodically and then popping up again seemingly out of nowhere. I think it fair to say that he has an attention span which is often chronologically challenged. So please assume that, even if not specifically mentioned, he is somewhere present during all the stories to follow. Or maybe not.

How It Works This Time. To simply things and to avoid your having have to scroll down this page forever and a day, I have broken this posting into five daily reports, each of which is linked immediately below. At the end of each of those are links to the subsequent one or, if boredom has set in or a new day unexpectedly dawned, a link back to this page. To this very spot, in fact. The fun begins with a click below.

Thursday, February 13: Boonville

Friday, February 14: San Francisco Dreaming

Saturday, February 15: Toronado Barley Wine Festival

Sunday, February 16: Private Tasting & Celebrator Anniversary Party

Monday, February 17: Unleashing the Inner Tourist

[posted Sunday, February 23, 2003 11:55 pm est] [end]

Malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.

--A. E. Houseman

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