booze

Real-World Questing- “If It’s Silly But It Works, It’s Not Silly.”

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(Full Disclosure: I wrote this post last week, but then… well, last week happened and I was exhausted, and this week is Christmas weekend so my brain is pretty much an electrified potato right now. Thank you for your patience!)

If you follow my Instagram, you’ve noticed I’ve been posting a lot of stories about beer in Portland lately. Not unusual in general maybe (#drinkerwithawritingproblem,) but just especially lately.

I found out casually while getting a post-shift beer at Von Ebert Brewing that they and several of my favorite local breweries decided to do a holiday “ale trail” called “The 12 Days of Gristmas”- “grist” being the term for the milled grain and mash bill used to make beer.

12 breweries.
12 holiday beers.
Get a stamp for each one, turn them in at the end for up to 12 raffle tickets to win swag.

It’s silly. I probably don’t need swag. No one needs beer enough to strategize how to hit as many breweries on the list as possible in one day on foot. I certainly don’t.

I love beer though.
I love supporting my local businesses that make good things.
I love walking around through Portland.
and I didn’t mind questing for something where the only thing at stake is my liver… but that’s what the walking is for.

Whatever breaks the despair and gets you out and moving is worth it.

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Drinker With A Writing Problem

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I’ve been walking a good chunk of the afternoon. I walked down from my home on Mount Tabor a nearly-straight shot on a blessedly warm March afternoon because I was a man on a mission. Only part of it was to get a good walk in on a sunny day and absorb as much vitamin D as possible. Another solid chunk was to go out among the populace on St. Patricks Day and find some friendly souls to get blitzed with.

Truth be told though, I walked over fifty blocks downhill in the sun through suburbs, commercial districts, industrial zones, and homeless camps alike because I wanted to try some friggin whiskey.

I did, it was delicious, and I have some thoughts about alcohol.

A pint of porter on St. Patricks Day at Loyal Legion, Portland OR
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The Best Drinks Ever and When NOT To Have Them

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I thoroughly enjoy alcohol.

I love the patience and craft involved in making what is functionally a poison enjoyable and desirable. I love the various ways it can be consumed, the kaleidoscopic pallet of flavors, colors, and styles that people have discovered over the millennia, and the fact that like any great creation it can be used and abused.

I love the conviviality that can spring up across barstools and beer halls. My wife has told me that I need to be careful where I go to sit down and write because I’m likely as not to lose time just getting into conversations with total stranger.

I’ve written about my favorite “genres” of bars, and mentioned some of my favorites around Portland. I’ve written a bit about how fermentation works, how to brew your own mead, and my favorite cocktails. I’ve even written about my favorite non-alcoholic beverages… but I have yet to write about my favorite drinks.

Not specific beverages or cocktails or places- the confluence of ALL of them with a particular feeling or mood. What times of the day, under what circumstances, do I find myself not saying “Ugh, I could use a drink” but “The right drink would make this perfect.”

Kick off your shoes, fill a glass, and vibe with me for a minute.

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Review #17- My Vice

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Where: 2035 SE Cesar E. Chavez Blvd., Portland Oregon

“Hey, want a seat?”
The door popped open so suddenly I almost gave myself whiplash after studying the menu taped to the inner window. It was a rainy day and I’d been walking nowhere in particular. I told Emily I was “taking a walk-“ which she knows is code for “I’m going out for a walk and also maybe to get beer or snacks, but I don’t want to admit it.” Today, I had my typing machines with me and figured I’d find a quiet outdoor bar to get some work done.

Coming down Cesar Chavez, I saw a new sign seemed to replace “Trinket” overnight next to the Joe Bike Bicycle Shop. A bold chef’s knife design with the simple words “My Vice” was tacked up on the wall of an improvised patio hanging out into the parking lot- now a normal feature of restaurants in the Age of COVID.

The inside of the cafe proper was painted a dark blue and it looked closed against the grey sky, so I leaned in just to read the menu- then Tarl, the bartender and co-owner, got my attention.

“Oh! Uh.. hey, I was just looking at the menu and, um… you know what? Sure.”
”Right on, man- go around the side to the patio and take a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

Mind the chandelier…
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The Silence Between Sips

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Outside on the street, a car alarm is blaring. It’s not exactly a suburban neighborhood, but quiet enough that a random car alarm is more than background noise to a spring night.

I’m in the rocking chair I’ve adopted as mine- having trash-picked, thoroughly sprayed, cleaned, and draped it with an afghan. I’m sipping some rye whiskey while my wife alternates between her keyboard and piano, writing assignments for students. There’s some random “quiet time” music from Spotify playing, but it’s getting a little too happy and janky. I’m trying to write.

I need quiet, but with a little noise mixed in- like even the best whiskey needs a little drop of water to open up everything it has to offer.

Some jellybeans are a good addition too.
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