By Timothy Long “If you’re lucky enough to be Irish, you’re lucky enough!” – Irish Proverb Are you Irish? If you answered no, you’re wrong. Fine, you’re not wrong. But there is a fact you need to face. You’re going to be Irish. A day is coming, a grand day. A day that will cause you to be Irish, whether you like it or not. Because on that day, everyone is Irish! It’s the most magical day of the year. On March 17th you’ll rise from bed and you’ll be Irish! Well, at least for one day anyway. It’s a beautiful thing. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself craving Irish beer and whiskey. It’s been known to happen. You may even eat potatoes, or corned beef and cabbage. This miracle of a day needs to be celebrated properly. First, you’ll need to pick a good Irish pub. There are plenty of them. Almost every town has one. The shamrock is everyone’s friend. Next, you’ll need to decide which Irish beer and Irish whiskey you’ll be drinking. Guinness is always a good start. I usually start with it. Then follow it with Smithwick’s. In the Irish language, Irish whiskey is referred to as uisce beatha, which means the “water of life.” I guarantee you just pronounced it wrong. Everyone does, even most of the Irish. Here is the phonetic spelling: ish-ca baa-ha. Many of you probably mispronounced Smithwick’s as well. And Irish whiskey is always spelled with an “e”. This was done to differentiate their whiskey from the Scots who spell it whisky. The Canadians and Japanese drop the “e” as well. Here in the states, we spell it whiskey, like the Irish do. The roots of Irish whiskey are quite fascinating. Irish whiskey was one of the earliest distilled…
By Timothy Long When you think of the Super Bowl, you naturally think of beer. Beer and Super Bowl go together like chips and dip, hotdogs and mustard, or wings and buffalo sauce. But why not bourbon? Why isn’t bourbon an integral part of this great American tradition? Bourbon is a national treasure. Yes, so is beer. But beer comes from the old country. Bourbon is part of our national heritage. It’s part of who we are. Bourbon is the only American spirit regulated by the U.S. government. According to The Federal Standards of Identity for Distilled Spirits, bourbon made for U.S. consumption must be: Produced in the U.S. and its Territories (Puerto Rico), as well as the District of Columbia. Made from a grain mixture that is at least 51% corn. Aged in new, charred oak containers. Distilled to no more than 160 (U.S.) proof. Entered into the container for aging at no more than 125-proof; and Bottled (like other whiskeys) at 80 proof or more. No other U.S. made spirit is so thoroughly regulated. Congress made bourbon purely American. So, why shouldn’t it be part of our Super Bowl tradition? It should be! It’s time to add a festive activity to the traditional Super Bowl Party. And don’t just put out a couple of bottles of bourbon. Make it fun! Many people have never tasted bourbon, or any whiskey for that matter. So, have a Super Bowl bourbon tasting. I can read your mind right now; people are going to get sloshed. No, not if you do it correctly. Tasting is not the same as drinking. You use small pours and take your time. This will help to reduce the chances of someone getting snockered. It’s not about doing shots. Below is a five-step whiskey tasting guide from worldwhiskeyday.com….
By Timothy Long Approaching any situation with an open mind is tantamount to success in life. Life will often remind you of this fact. I was reminded of it recently, during a trip to Mexico. We were vacationing in Cabo at the beginning of December. A fun family vacation, one of the many that my wife’s brother sets up. I love the place. It’s beautiful. The only drawback to the trip is that the flight is over five hours long. There was a time that you would be served a meal on such a flight, but not anymore. The cart came around only once. We got a drink and cookie, lucky us. Makes paying that extra $50 for the checked bag totally worth it. So, by the time we land in Cabo, wait for our luggage, wait for our rental car, and then drive to the resort, we are starved. Our villa isn’t ready yet, so we stow our luggage and head to one of the resorts restaurants for lunch. I decide to have a beer with lunch. I know, big shock. They have the usual suspects listed: Corona, Tecate, Dos Equis, Modelo, etc. When given this list, I usually go with Dos Equis, the Modelo Negro, or the Modelo Especial. All three are good beers. I then spot a beer on the list that I do not recognize. It’s called Cabotella. And it’s brewed by Baja Brewing Company in Cabo San Lucas, which is right down the road from us. I knew that there was a brewery in Cabo, but my hopes were not high. It’s a craft brewery in Mexico. How good could it be? The Cabotella is a blonde ale. A blonde ale in the land of light lagers. I’m highly skeptical. My wife then points it…
By Timothy Long It was 1995, a few days before Christmas. I was arriving at Pittsburgh International Airport, visiting my family for Christmas. As usual, my father was there to pick me up. Mom was home making Christmas cookies. A yearly job that none of us would ever dream of interrupting. In my unbiased opinion as her son, the woman truly made the best Christmas cookies in the world. When Dad picked me up, he always liked to stop for a drink on our way home. It had become a tradition. A little father and son time before arriving home and being swarmed by the family. I, of course, was always game. On this occasion, I did ask that, before we stopped for our yearly Christmas drink, we visit a local wine and beer store that was nearby. Dad replied that he and my brother had already picked up beer and wine for Christmas. The thought of this nestled into my gut like a lump of coal. My father did not drink beer, so he was no connoisseur. And I know what beer my brother would have purchased, Budweiser, the King of Beers. This had to be handled gently. I needed to dethrone the King of Beers with tact and poise. “Dad, I want to buy good beer.” OK, not very tactful. “What’s wrong with the beer we bought?” A typical Irish American steelworker father response. “Nothing. I just thought adding something different might be nice.” There’s the tact. “Son, I’m not sure we need any fancy beers.” The problem with the conversation so far, we had not even discussed the wine yet. I could picture a bottle of Riunite Lambrusco sitting on the downstairs bar. “Dad, it’ll just take a minute to stop.” After a while, he agreed. I…
By Timothy Long I’m not a good golfer. I can say that because I’m an honest person. Anyone who tells you that they’re a good golfer is probably not an honest person. Eighty percent of golfers never get a score below one hundred. Saying that you’re a good golfer is the same as saying that you’re a good Catholic. I was raised Catholic. There’s no such thing as a good Catholic. In fact, just saying that you are a good Catholic makes you a bad Catholic. By stating it, you have committed the sin of pride, which makes you self-righteous and a bad Catholic. Golf is similar, although not as intense. No one will tell you that you’re going to Hell for being a bad golfer. Although, a bad game of golf can feel like you’re in Hell. A few of years ago, I was on a golf weekend for a friend’s bachelor party. I took the sport up later in life so, I had not been golfing for very long at that point. If I had taken up playing golf back when I took up drinking beer, I’d probably be a great golfer by now. But alas, I didn’t. Anyway, I was getting ready to tee off on a one-hundred-and-fifty-yard par three hole. The shot would be over water. Most players I know would hit a 5 or 6 iron on that shot. But, being fairly new, I chose to pull out a higher club, a 4 hybrid. One of my friends began to heckle and roast me for it. You know, guy stuff. Actually, in this case, fraternity brother stuff. After a few quick words in retort, I addressed the ball and hit my tee shot. The ball sailed perfectly straight and over the water, a rarity for…
By Timothy Long “When a brewer says, ‘This has more hops in it than anything you’ve had in your life—are you man enough to drink it?’ It’s sort of like a chef saying, ‘This stew has more salt in it than anything you’ve ever had—are you man enough to eat it?’” – Master Brewer of Brooklyn Brewery in 2008 My friends joke about how easy it is to find me in a bar. All you need to do is listen. It’s true, that’s why it’s funny. My mom always told me that my voice carries, which is a nice way of saying that I’m loud. In elementary school, I was the kid who got in trouble whenever the teacher left the room. I would be admonished when they returned. “Timmy Long, I could hear you all the way down the hall!” I wanted to be quiet. I just didn’t have the ability. My wife often leans over to me and says, “Honey, inside voice.’ If you ever do find me in a bar, again, which is not hard to do, you may catch me staring at the beers taps. I am often in awe of beer taps. Those taps reflect the choices of the bar manager who set them up. My awe is not always a good sign. Sometimes it’s like looking at a car wreck. It can be a real “What were you thinking?” moment. They think that they have a variety of beers on tap, but what they have is a variety of IPAs. Ah yes, the IPA, the Indian Pale Ale. The over-hopped little darling of the American craft beer industry. It’s been the favorite of American brewers, and bar managers, from the beginning of the craft beer trend. This coveted style of beer has gone through…
By Timothy Long Remember those terrible assignments in school? I hated them. Mainly because the subject was always dictated to you. It was things like country, family, friends, school, or worse, the church. One such assignment stands out to me from elementary school. The name of our school was Broadview Elementary. It was right down the road from the Broadview Inn, a local pub. The joke was that the school was named after the pub, which is hilarious when you are seven years old. The assignment was called “What Broadview Means to Me.” The students got to vote on the best essay, which was to then be submitted to a state contest. The title of my essay was “What Broadview Means to Me, A Penitentiary.” I likened the school to a prison. I described it as a place void of freedom. A building where the expression of ideas was restricted, and democracy was dead. We were to read our essays to the class. My classmates roared with laughter and cheered at the end of my dissertation. If they could have, they would have hoisted me on their shoulders and carried me through the halls of the school. I was a hero. No, I was a god! I was Zeus, using my pen to hurl my lightning bolts and smite my enemies. Well, at least I thought I was. Even though I won, the school never submitted my essay. The teacher just rolled her eyes and said, “Very nice, Timmy.” The kid who was awarded the win wrote about how nice the teachers were and about how much she loved spelling, math, and Pizza Wednesday. Really? No one loved math! They were looking for conformity, not creativity. I’ve come to terms with it now. Well, at least after I wrote that…
By Timothy Long It gets hot in the DC area in August, real hot. It can be unbearable. This is the time of year that reminds us that large parts of our area are reclaimed swamp. If the humidity doesn’t remind you of it, the mosquitos certainly will. For many, it is a time for cooler, lighter drinks. The stouts and ales become less popular. And the Shandy takes center stage. That’s right, the Shandy. Or its German cousin, the Radler. No matter which of the names you choose, it’s a beer with either fruit soda or fruit juice in it. As my readers know, I am not usually a fan of any kind of flavored beer. My sister once tried to hand me a Bud Light Lime when I asked her if she had any beer. My first impulse was to disown her. I didn’t. But when we are together, I now tell people that she is a distant cousin from a foreign land called Cleveland. Yes, I am a purist when it comes to beer. And now I’m recommending a beer with fruit juice in it. Yes, I am once again being a hypocrite. But summers are hot, and adjustments can be made. These traditional summer delights are refreshing and quite enjoyable. The trick is to make them correctly. More to come on that point. People argue over beer all the time. Fisticuffs have ensued over which beers are the greatest. Belgian and German beers are often at the center of these arguments. The answer is, of course, German. The German purity laws, the Reinheitsgebot, are second to none. The German’s approach to beer is as pure as a bee’s approach to honey. And both the bee and the German bring us perfection. Do not take me wrong,…
By Timothy Long “The world was my oyster, but I used the wrong fork.” – Oscar Wilde Oysters and beer, one of the greatest culinary delights known to man. A delicacy of indulgence beyond any other. The two go together like eggs and bacon. Back in the 90s, my buddy Devo and I walked into a bar that we knew had great oysters. We wanted to watch the WVU/Syracuse football game. The bar was running a Saturday afternoon special, 25 cent oysters. Good luck finding that price now. We sat at the bar, got a pitcher of beer, and ordered 5 dozen oysters. The bartender gave us a derisive look and informed us that she was not shucking 5 dozen oysters. Fair enough. I then asked for a dozen and that we would order more as needed. We ate 6 dozen while watching WVU lose to Syracuse. The oysters saved what would have been a disastrous afternoon. Oysters are wonderful, but don’t eat one in a month without an “r” in it. That’s the rule! Don’t do it! You’ll be sick for days and vomiting so hard that you’ll see your shoes drop into the water! I have questioned this ‘R” rule from the first time I heard it. Really? What the hell does the spelling of a month’s name have to do with getting a bad oyster? The answer is almost nothing. Although, there was a time when this rule did have merit. According to the New York Times article, Oysters, Despite What You’ve Heard, Are Always in Season, this rule dates to an English cookbook from the 1500’s. “The adage of eating oysters only in “r” months goes back (at least) to 1599, when it appeared in an English cookbook, Dyets Dry Dinner, What it really means is: Say no…
By Timothy Long The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page. – St. Augustine I feel like I’m in France. That’s the best way to describe St. Barthelemy, or as it is referred, St. Barths. The island is part of the French West Indies and is located near St. Martin. Our villa sits on the side of a mountain. Almost every villa here sits on the side of a mountain. The view is stunning. Island mountains rising out of the perfect blue Caribbean Sea. The local language is French as many of the islanders are from France. Most of them speak some English as well. But alas, my Kitchen Spanish was of no help to me here. And I used all my French on our first day: bonjour, merci, and toilet. I’m not sure that toilet even counts. Oh, and buku. I learned that one from Vietnam movies. I grew up outside of Pittsburgh and I’ve hiked the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. I’m used to winding mountainous roads but I’ve never experienced mountain roads like these. The road leading up to our villa can be best described as a spiral staircase that turns in several different directions. It’s that tight, that steep, and that winding. And to make things even more exciting, it’s a two-way street which is barely wide enough for one car. The cars here are mostly small, which is helpful. I asked our driver what happens if a car is coming the other way. He said that they figure it out. Unlike in the States, everyone here drives very cautiously and courteously. The terrain demands it. I find the roads a bit unnerving and my New Orleans-raised wife finds them terrifying. As our ferry arrives in the town of Gustavia,…
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