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5 O’Clock Somewhere

Drinking the World Every Afternoon

An American-Style Beer That’s Not for Americans

Jan.10.17

An American-Style Beer That’s Not for Americans

by Dave Hazzan

Barley wine in Brussels

Here in the undisputed capital of beer lies the undisputed capital of beer pubs, The Delirium Café. Like most pubs in Belgium, it calls itself a café, though coffee is in short supply.

At The Delirium Café, there are at any time between 2000 and 3000 beers on offer, which puts it in the Guinness Book of World Records as the pub with the most types of beer available—including one barley wine.

Brasserie Sainte-Helene Barley Wine, like all barley wines, is not a wine at all. It’s a very strong beer—12 percent ABV—that somehow got a fancier moniker. This is not a beer for knocking back during the baseball game or at the pub with your buddies. No, this is a beer for getting knocked on your ass.

Contrary to what’s going on in the rest of the beer world, Belgian brews are declining in potency, at least according to Belgian beer expert Luc De Raedemaeker. He says a combination of changing tastes and stricter drunk-driving laws are lowering the alcohol content in traditionally strong Belgian beers.

This makes them more like “session beers,” so-called because they are suitable for a session of drinking with your buddies. In England, where they typically drink low-alcohol beers, it’s common to go out all night and drink out of fat pint glasses. In Belgium, a drinker will typically only have a few beers out of small glasses.

But the whole point of a barley wine is that it’s strong; this is the only known definition of barley wine. And that definition doesn’t even hold all the time. Beer blogger Martyn Cornell says there is little difference between a barley wine and an old ale. He says the term is “effectively meaningless,” and doesn’t really apply even to strong beer, since strong imperial stouts are never classified as barley wines.

At the Delirium Café, however, there is such a thing as barley wine. When I asked the bartender if barley wine really is real, he looked at me with the kind of incredulous look you give someone before a strong slap.

It was indeed real, but they only had one of them available, and he had to dig through thousands of bottles in the back before he could produce the 375 ml bottle of Ste-Helene’s. Real, but not terribly popular.

Ste-Helene describes their barley wine as an American-style beer, but it doesn’t taste like any kind of beer I’ve ever had in America. It’s strong, malty, dry, and after finishing half the bottle, it feels like you’ve been clubbed across the back of the head.

By the time I finished, it was like I’d been sitting in the pub for an hour and a half. Barley wine, whatever it is, is not for wimpy North Americans. Only seasoned European drinkers should be allowed near it.

Never Put Down to the Supernatural What Can be Explained by Booze

Jan.23.17

Never Put Down to the Supernatural What Can be Explained by Booze

by Olga Kovalenko

Cider in Dartmoor

Our hiking trip to Dartmoor, in southwest England, was a spontaneous affair. The winter was mild and no snow was forthcoming, so we grabbed our hiking boots, warm clothes, a flask of whiskey, and set off toward the wilderness of the moor, untouched by humans or a GPS signal.

As the setting for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s spooky tale, The Hound of the Baskervilles, Dartmoor always intrigued me, but local mysteries don’t end there. The region abounds with legends of the supernatural: pixies, a pack of spectral dogs, a headless horseman, a large black dog portending death, a beastly cat, a few restless ghosts, and a strange apparition called ‘hairy hands’ that likes to steer unaware drivers into ditches.

At first glance, Dartmoor seemed harmless. The moor was surrounded by cozy villages and attracted a large number of weekend hikers. If we were going to experience anything supernatural, we would not be alone.

Our first and only mystery occurred when we started putting on our hiking stuff. Instead of my favorite, high-quality, water-resistant boots, I discovered a pair of suede cowboy boots that I hadn’t worn since my university years. It was a real surprise to see them in the British countryside. Either I took the wrong shoe bag without looking inside, or the Dartmoor pixies had played a trick on me.

There was nothing I could do except go onto the moor in my everyday shoes, which got soaked in no time and made me look even more amateurish. The moor swarmed with serious hikers wearing knee-high rubber boots, water-resistant clothes and binoculars. I presumed they were out to spot a deer, or a Dartmoor pony, or a headless horseman. I hadn’t seen much wildlife except sheep.

The moor was even more beautiful than I expected. It became even more so when we put some distance between the wet grass and our feet, stopping at an inn. The fire was blazing and the landlady bustled around it. I changed into my dry cowboy boots. The bar was full of weathered, hirsute locals. There were a few bikers sporting leather pants and grim looks.

As the inn filled with hikers and their decidedly non-spectral dogs, we cradled our drinks by the fire. I had to try the cider. All the cider I drink in London comes from the West Country, and I was excited to sip the real deal in situ. This one was a local Devon cider, the bartender said. The amber liquid and was thick and pleasantly refreshing, not too sweet and not too dry.

There might well be a connection between drinking copious amounts of cider and having supernatural experiences, but unfortunately we weren’t there long enough to find out.

All the Drinks in the U.S. of A.

Jan.20.17

All the Drinks in the U.S. of A.

by Cara Parks

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Well, it happened. It really happened. There have been a lot of moments since Nov. 8, 2016, that have caused the world to stare, gobsmacked, at the smoking refuse that is public political discourse in the U.S. today, and each time, there was a sense, among some, that somehow this day would not come to pass. But of course it was going to happen, and now it has. There’s nothing much to say. There’s everything to drink.

So let’s raise a glass of wine and toast the demise of our democracy the Roman way. Vale! Let a single tear roll down your cheek. This is your mourning drink. Savor it. Let it trickle through the sandbox of depression that is your brain and fill the cracks in the empty plastic bag that was once your soul.

Mourning time is over. Move on to a shot of vodka. Toast our new Russian overlords in the style to which we will soon become accustomed. Ваше здоровье! Feel it burn away the vestiges of your belief in inevitable societal progress.

Now for a shot of baiju. Get it while you can, before the trade war with China really gets going.

Feeling a little better? No? Don’t worry, we’re just getting started.

Have a margarita before you can only get tequila by surreptitiously crawling over a border wall, Berlin-style. Ah, how we shall laugh when we tell our children of the days when tequila flowed freely and civil rights were respected and icebergs existed. Haha! Ha!

Now have a gin and tonic and cheers our fellow contestants in the race to the bottom of the political garbage fire in the U.K. Let the best pandering win!

Admit it, you’re feeling a littttttttle better now. Don’t.

Drink a martini in a wine glass filled with ice. Why would you possibly want such a thing? You don’t. But that’s what martinis look like in this brave new world. Drink it really fast, and you might not taste it. Good luck.

Perhaps you’re trying to stagger away now, but your legs won’t work. You shouldn’t have taken that shot of baiju! Now it’s too late. What are you going to do? You’re trapped in a foggy fugue state, filled with impotent rage and crushing sadness. Perfect! Now you’re ready.

Take a bottle of the alcohol of your choice and use it to crush a bag of Cheetos into a fine dust. Pour that dust into the alcohol and drink deeply. You have now consumed the essence of your opponents. Let the magic of this act imbue you with artery-clogging strength. Feel the courage of your enemies filling your veins.

Get a cup of coffee. Pour it into your eyes. Allow the caffeine to drag you away from the sweet, sweet void you were headed toward. Let one more tear fall. Farewell, sweet void. Farewell.

Get a bucket and fill it with coffee. Submerge your entire head in it. Let out a silent scream. It still happened. It will still be happening. It’s always happening.

Now stand up.

Photo by: Julia DeSantis

“Happy” Hour in D.C.

Jan.19.17

“Happy” Hour in D.C.

by Haley Gray

Beer in DC

In America’s capital city, nothing is more predictable than Happy Hour.

D.C. is not a city of politicos, necessarily, but rather of exceptionally motivated professionals. People put their work slacks on Monday-to-Friday, grind through their day, and rely on alcohol to return their body to a sustainable level of calm when their time in the office is done.

Tonight I’m drinking in Jackpot, a neighborhood dive, or so the bartender tells me. You can find it via an inconspicuous door off 7th Street in Chinatown, which leads down to a dim-lit basement. A warm glow emanates from low-hanging light bulb, but the contours of drinkers’ faces are mostly lit by blue glow of the three flatscreen TVs behind the bar (all playing sports). Bare walls are flanked by stacks of spent kegs. Drinkers gather and talk about their bosses and failed Tinder dates as they nosh on baskets of free popcorn. This is not a tapas crowd. This is a drinking crowd.

Not ready for hard liquor, I order a Gose from the ample beer selection. The bartender, his voice hoarse from shouting over the noise every day, tells me that today is slow.

“Happy Hour is usually off the chain,” the bartender tells me as I sip on a $7 Gose. (That’s not a bad pricetag for this city.) But today, Jackpot is far from full. I slid into a spot at the bar with no trouble.

I ask him if he thinks business will pick up tonight. It’s only 6 p.m., but he says he doesn’t know. “Most of our customers left for the weekend, I think.”

On the eve of Donald Trump’s presidency, Washington is not humming the same way it did last Thursday. The streets are flush with visitors, with fewer J Crew-clad paper pushers.

The buses crawl between motorists clogging the roads, clustered on a portion of the city’s throughways thanks to the guarded red and green zones–the areas shut down by security for tomorrow’s event. On foot, movement is much easier. Wide-open streets, bare enough to see strewn trash blow over their asphalt surfaces, funnel into the clogged corridors. Thirty-somethings in sports coats hold iPhones to their ears, commuter backpacks slung over just one shoulder as they strut. They command their route, I thought, as I made my way to 7th Street, with their familiarity and lack of regard. They know exactly what they’re doing.

I ask the paralegal ordering a drink to my left if she’s going to the ceremony tomorrow, and she says no. “I would have, because it’s, like, historical, you know?” she says. “But I heard it’s going to rain. Darn.”

She smiles.

Be Careful What You Say About Soccer After the Sixth Beer

Jan.18.17

Be Careful What You Say About Soccer After the Sixth Beer

by James Connolly

Mahou in Catalonia

It was half-time, and with the game poised at 0-0, beer was beginning to flow more quickly than before. For 45 minutes, Spain’s two best soccer teams had been engaged in a chess-like battle of wits. The atmosphere at my friend Mario’s family home in Reus, an industrial town around 60 miles from Barcelona, had grown tense.

When FC Barcelona play Real Madrid, there is much more on the line than three points. El Clasico, as the match-up has come to be known, represents a historic battle between two cities, two soccer philosophies and, some would argue, two political ideologies.

As the froth settled on yet another freshly poured Mahou, I remarked to my hosts that I had never tried this brand of beer—that I was more familiar with the locally brewed Estrella Damm or Moritz. As with seemingly every aspect of life in Catalonia, even one’s choice of beer can be a profoundly political statement.

The reason that we were drinking Mahou, explained Mario’s father, was that it is the quintessential brew of Madrid. “Everybody in the capital drinks this beer. It’s hard to find anything else down there,” he continued. “The Catalans have their beer and we have ours, but everybody knows which is better.”

By now I had figured out that this family of Madrid fanatics, who originate from Andalusia and today call Catalonia home, were proud Spanish nationalists. In recent years, the Catalan independence movement has gathered pace, with polls indicating widespread support throughout the region. Yet for the likes of this family, who have been in the area for generations yet maintain a strong connection to their roots in the Spanish heartlands, the question of independence is far from straightforward.

Next, it was Mario’s uncle who chipped in with an explanation: “When our parents came to work here in the 50s, Spain was still a very poor country.” He took another gulp of Mahou. “Thousands of people left the countryside and came north to work in industry. Their hard work helped turn Spain into the modern, wealthy nation we have today and without them, Catalonia would be nothing.”

The match resumed for the second half and conversation turned once more to the game. As I reached for yet another bottle of Mahou, Barcelona striker Luis Suarez scored, putting the Catalan side ahead just eight minutes after the restart. I made sure to refill everybody else’s glass before my own, sensing that they needed it more than I did.

As Madrid searched frantically for a retort, I decided to lift the mood with some more light conversation. “So this independence thing, what do you all think about that?” I asked, the sixth glass of Mahou lending an unintended arrogance to my tone.

This time it was Mario’s mother who replied first, a strong-headed woman who still carried a distinctly southern accent whenever she spoke. “It’ll never happen. We need to stick together, just like before, and things will get better.”

The rest of the family nodded in approval and with that, Real defender Sergio Ramos kicked a late equalizer for the team in white. As my hosts celebrated wildly, jumping, hugging, kissing, the cramped living room became drenched in sticky Spanish beer.

Everything Sucks But At Least There’s #SaltBae

Jan.17.17

Everything Sucks But At Least There’s #SaltBae

by Sara Nasser

Burgers in Istanbul

After a bloody start to the New Year and a currency weakening by the day, Istanbullus needed some respite. That respite came in the form of a handsome butcher: Salt Bae.

At first, it didn’t occur to me that Salt Bae was Turkish. But upon closer inspection, I found he was none other than Nusret Gökçe, who runs a wildly successful chain of steakhouses called Nusr-et. A man with the word for beef in his name (et in Turkish), Nusret Gökçe is a butcher from Erzurum, in Turkey’s east, with a flair for the dramatic. His Instagram videos of massaging, cutting, shaping, rubbing, and sprinkling salt on meat have gone viral. But it was the salt shower seen around the world—over five million views on Instagram so far—that put him on the map and got him Bruno Mars’s attention.

But what about the meat? I wondered. Could it match the hype of a meme?

As you walk into Nusr-et, mood music and mood lighting set the tone for you walk to a wooden table. The all-male waiters sport thick mustaches, some of them groomed and curled at the tips. Our waiter mentioned that it was a requirement: “No mustache, no meat is the saying here.” We asked him if there had been an uptick in customers since Salt Bae caught on, and he nodded yes, of course. Right behind us, a table full of tourists had just been seated.

I like beef, and meat in general, but I could never put away a whole steak. So we opted for the smaller, cheaper burger option. We ordered the nusret burger and the lokum burger (lokum is the Turkish word for Turkish delight). When the burgers came out, our waiter cut them in two over a wooden board, precisely, plopping each type of burger on our plates. The lokum burger was soft, with thin cuts of beef dissolving in our mouths. The nusret burger, outfitted with caramelized onions, a strip of pastirma, melted cheddar, and a toasted bun, was by far the best burger I’ve had for the quality of the meat itself. Unlike most American burgers, it was simple.

Around me, I saw a woman in a niqab, a South Asian family, and another family speaking loud Persian. A waiter with an especially curly and thick mustache was doing the Salt Bae sprinkle over a plate of meat for the tourists next to us. They clapped, wowing, as the salt danced down his arm, down the tip of his elbow. It’s a comforting thought in these times: the story of how a Turkish butcher with a bit of creativity brought such disparate people together in one place for a meal.

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