2008 Marketing Meme Prediction: Craft

I spent an 18-hour journey back from Italy yesterday engrossed in what has so far proven to be one of the best reads of 2007: Garrett Oliver's The Brewmaster's Table: Discovering the Pleasures of Real Beer with Real Food.

Oliver is the brewmaster and founder of Brooklyn Brewery, a brewery that I hold particulary close to my heart, as it's beer was the first craft beer ever to touch my lips: over a summer I spent in NYC during college, the small bodegas near my aunt's apartment always had a steady supply of Brooklyn IPA (they also seemed to not care that I barely looked a day over 20). Later in college, Brooklyn's Pennant Pale Ale became my go-to beer of choice, as the bar I worked at always included it in its selection of 40 taps.

I dare say that moving to California, my biggest regret is the unavailability of Brooklyn Beer (thanks to distribution laws). (My biggest disappointment yesterday came during a layover in JFK when after combing the terminal for a bar serving up Brooklyn, finally finding one with Pennant Pale Ale on tap (whohoo!), then hearing the sickening words from the bartender's lips that they were out of it...as well as out of a solid east-coast-only second choice, Magic Hat #9.)

But back to the book. Within the first 50 pages, Oliver's words resonated with truth. One of my favorite quotes follows below, which Oliver so eloquently presents in the context of a brief history of American beer. Here's a recap:

According to Oliver, pre-prohibition brewing in the United States was a respectable endeavor, starting with homebrewing efforts during the revolutionary war (patriots faced a cut off of British beer supply), which quickly evolved to small brewing operations, which increased after a wave of German immigration in the 1830's to see an explosion of breweries catering to German-style beer. But then came prohibition, and with it's end, a change in the way American's viewed beer. Oliver explains of brewers eager to get back to their craft: "But their world had changed, and they soon found that they had to change with it. It had been thirteen long years, and many people were not feeling terribly picky about the flavor qualities of the beer that was now offered." This, coupled with the backlash of the depression (the need to keep the cost of beer down), the rise of soft drinks, which were actually seen as competition to beer, and laws that required alcohol levels to be below 3.2%, left the brewers with no choice but to make a very different beer than it's pre-prohibition and worldly counterparts. "American beer, now sold by huge advertising campaigns, moved swiftly away from its European roots."

And now for my favorite quote:

"By the end of World War II, the American brewing industry was transformed. It would be an industry of fewer and fewer breweries, which themselves grew to become national behemoths. The product, following the cultural norms of the day, would become innocuous and bland, to the extent that even brewers could barely tell the beers apart. Volume selling, driven by advertising, would take over as the number one goal of American brewers. The modern mass-market American lager beer, a watery, flavorless beverage unrecognizable to any visiting German, emerged into an American culinary landscape paved over by fast food restaurants, processed cheese, and frozen vegetables. After 10,000 years of flavorful brewing around the world,the American brewers had finally reduced the progenitor of human civilization to a pallid ghost in a can."

A pallid ghost in a can. That is what thousands of Americans have been content to drink for over half a century. SAB-Miller, Coors, Anheiser-Busch--all of these behemoths emerged from the post-WWII brewing strategy of quantity over quality and all of these behemouths have continued to serve up this pallid ghost for nearly 60 years. Why? Because they brew to demand, they market for profit, and for 60 years, this pallid ghost is what many Americans have been content to consider "beer." Sure, the mega-brewers have changed their products, and their marketing campaigns over time (certainly their marketing campaigns): American's on a diet? We'll invent light beer. American's want caffeine with their alcohol? Have a caffeinated beer. American's like small-batch, craft brews? Sure, we can do that too.

Record scratch.

Nope. You can't. You can't suddenly become a craftsman.

Throughout the disastrous reign of mega-breweries, American beer has thankfully had an alternative, a group of small brewers that have dedicated themselves to what Oliver refers to throughout his book as "real beer," beer that follows the thousands of years of brewing traditions. The rise of these small breweries, starting in the late 1970's, became what Oliver calls a "new age of American brewing." Not unlike early American brewing efforts, this movement started mostly thorough home brewing efforts, from people like Oliver who were seeking the tastes and pleasures unavailable through the products of large American breweries. Home brewing efforts naturally extended to small brewery operations, and soon America was populated with hundreds of craft brewers, all making beers according to their individual taste preferences.

"Craft Brewing" is the term that has arisen to describe these breweries, and it is particularly appropriate. Craft is a term that dates back thousands of years, to apply to the products made by hand or man-operated machinery before the industrial revolution and assembly line. Those who produce crafts earn the title of artisan or craftsman, often only after a rigorous apprentiship ensuring that they learned all aspects of the trade. The key idea behind craftsmanship was this training--you learned your craft through another craftsman and were taught not only the steps in producing the product but the pride in quality, in standing behind what you produced, and in support of fellow craftsman. As I said, you can't become a craftsman overnight.

According to the Brewer's Association, Craft Beer is defined as the product of a brewing operation that is small, independent, and traditional. Unfortunately, "craft" seems to be the buzz word usurped by many a mega-brewery. Sure you can take your industrial assembly line and use it to produce craft-like products, but this doesn't make you a craftsman. And it doesn't make what you produce craft.

Realizing that Americans want craft--that we want to relish flavor and quality, want to experience the particular nuances of a finely hopped beer, want to sample seasonal offerings and annual brews, and most importantly want to know who is making their beer and how--does not mean you are qualified to become a craftsman. And it certainly does not mean that you can claim the beer you are producing is a craft beer.

I know that some people have reviewed certain mass-produced specialty beers positively, citing taste alone as the deciding factor. If a mega-brewery can produce a tasteworthy small-batch brew, who cares about anything else? they claim. I disagree wholeheartedly. It's not just about taste. It's about integrity. It's about knowing that the person who is brewing the beer you are drinking cares passionately about the final product, and that they are doing it for a love of the craft, not just for the profits.

I am afraid, however, that 2008 is going to see a lot of these so-called craft imitators. And I urge you against buying into the marketing hype. If a beer has to advertise that it is "artfully crafted," it's going to make me doubt that it actually was. Advertisements like this make me cringe:



Hand-crafted products have a quality that is self-evident. An attention to detail, a slight imperfection here or there. And above all, a truthfulness about them that can only come from making a product that you are proud of. My resolution this year is to dedicate myself to true craftsmanship, to steer clear of the pallid imitators, and to realize the difference between the two. I hope you will join me.

more me!

In an of-course-i-have-time-for-this moment, I volunteered to be a guinea pig for a new accidental hedonist project--the "food diaries."

I'm not exactly sure what my "food diary" will shape up to be, but you can now find (and rss) more of my food-related musings at accidentalhedonist.com/duffystar.

this song is for you my brother

Sometimes the news doesn't really hit home until someone smacks ...you in the face ... with it.

The Liars Club in Mission Beach is hova. I've known this for weeks, sadly craning my neck as I ride by, only to see dark windows and barstools stacked upon tables. But until I received the bargoer email a week or so back, I still had a glimmer of hope.

Now hope is gone. This hits home, hard, because I happen to live a mile away from 3844 Mission, and also happen to have a good percentage of disdain for everything else that I live within a mile of. Without this neighborhood oasis, I no longer think there is a single place in my neighborhood I now care to patronize after 8 pm.

If I was as talented as the Jim Carrol band, I'd hum a catchy little tune for my long lost neighborhood bar. Since I can't carry a tune worth a damn, I'm posting a yet-unpublished and now-never-to-be review of the place I did back in August. When I'm feeling nostalgic in the future, I'll have something to look back on.

Thanks for all the beers and the BLTA's Louis. Maybe one day I'll see you in Alpine.

* * *

The Liars' Club holds a special place in my heart. It’s not because of its history—although Tom Waits did used to work the door at 3844 Mission Blvd. It’s not because of its jukebox, although the punk-inspired selection is beyond credible. It’s not even because of its menu, whose irresistible sandwiches, burgers, munchies, and salads I am seriously addicted to. It is because of its taps, its chalkboard menu of rotating craft and Belgian beers, its weekly Friday-evening cask, and its disdain for anything remotely affiliated with Bud, Miller, or Coors. The Liars' Club holds a special place in my heart because it introduced me to beer. Good beer. San Diego beer.

The setting is basement-meets-roadhouse, a sparsely decorated space with a hint of a hardcore vibe. The staff is tattooed and casual, often blending in with the patrons themselves. The floors are dark, the ceiling painted black. The booths and mismatched bar stools are upholstered in cracking vinyl and the table tops covered with forest-green Formica. Whitewashed brick walls are sparsely adorned with typical bar kitsch—a dartboard, framed prints, brewery paraphernalia. Mounted televisions hang just beneath the ceiling, unobtrusive enough to be ignored, but large enough to show any necessary sports games. The setting is little more than functional, and that is all it needs to be—the important thing here is not the scene but the senses, particularly those of taste and hearing.

Let’s talk music. The jukebox is award-winning, if not legendary. It’s populated with solid albums and compilations that cover just about every type of drinking occasion the bar could witness. The collection of punk, rock, and blues includes songs to appease every type of drinker: the angry (the Ramones, Sex Pistols), the celebratory (the Replacements), the down and out (Nick Cave, Tom Waits), the esoteric (Thelonious Monk), the restless (the Clash), the exulted (New York Dolls), the theatrical (Gogol Bordello), the unabashedly reminiscent (David Bowie, Blondie). There are albums for early afternoon (Rolling Stones), late night (James Brown), and happy hour (Lady Dottie and the Diamonds). There’s a soundtrack for the drinking binge (the Pogues, local band the Scotch Greens), the hangover (Jesus and Mary Chain), even the wake (Jim Carroll Band).

Before you feed your two dollars into the jukebox though, you’d better have a beer in your hand. Go ahead, saunter up to the chalkboard hanging above the kitchen—what’s on tap is on the left; what’s in bottles is on the right. As for the taps, you’ll find the list divided into two categories: local and everything else (with local more often than not being the larger list). If you’re overwhelmed—or if it’s Friday (local beer night)—you needn’t look beyond the locals: Stone, Green Flash, and Alpine are almost always represented; Ballast Point, AleSmith, Coronado Brewing Company, and Port Brewing usually make an appearance. Of course, venturing into non-local territory is never bad—Russian River, Avery, North Coast, and Bear Republic are solid northerly neighbors. As with all reputable San Diego beer bars, the hops are well-represented—a solid selection of IPAs and double IPAs are always on tap, and Pliny the Elder and Pure Hoppiness—two gold standards—are near-regulars. Belgian and Belgian-style beers are embraced too, especially through the bottled beer selection. And, for the timid, a solid selection of pale ales, American-style whites, and occasionally a lager or a cider can be found. If you see something unfamiliar or if you’re looking for a particular style, just ask—the staff is more than willing to chat about the beer.

With your thirst quenched, your ears happy, and hopefully a seat underneath you, the menu calls. The kitchen is adept at both meals and munchies, with a menu so solid that I'd back nearly anything on it. The portions are generous and the flavors are feisty—if you like spicy food you’re in good hands. A little insider advice? Order your sandwiches on jalapeño cheese bread and your fries Cajuned. Try the sweet potato fries, and for the sheer ridiculousness of it, the hand-cut fries smothered with bacon. The BLTA is classic, the seared ahi sandwich phenomenal, and the roast beef dip and cholula ranch burger both more than solid. If you’re feeling daring, order the popular (but painfully hot) fuego melt, whose Serrano and jalapeño-inspired heat advertises itself with the phrase "feel the burn twice." If you’re weary of heartburn, the salads are surprisingly good, any burger can be Boca-fied, and the kitchen can always hold the chipotle aioli. Whatever you do, if you’re there on a weekend before 3 p.m., do not pass up a bloody Mary—garnished with two bacon-wrapped shrimp, these ladies are the best in town.

If you're asking yourself "what's not to like?" the answer is, occasionally, the crowds—the Liars' Club's popularity doesn't mesh well with its size. The small venue—it holds just nine tables inside, five on the outdoor deck, and about ten seats at the bar—fills quickly, and once it’s filled, you can forget about it emptying. Friday nights are the most crowded, although they are also the most attractive: “Local Beer Night" means $3 local pints and a weekly cask that's tapped at 5:00 p.m., sharp. It's one of the best deals in town, and depending on the cask, it can be well worth fighting the crowds for. Tuesday nights are a close second, with $3 “you-call-it’s” that not only attract the beer lovers but anyone in town looking for a cheap drink.

But let’s face it—crowds are hardly a reason to stay away from one of the top five on-tap beer selections in San Diego. After all, it’s well worth waiting your turn for a pint of cask-conditioned Ballast Point Sculpin IPA or Alesmith Summer YuleSmith. But if can’t fit through the door on a Friday evening, don’t’ give up on the Liar’s Club. Other nights of the week are much calmer, and still easily affordable—Monday's Steak and Ale promotions means a $10 steak dinner, and any weekday means happy hour from 4-7. Even on a Saturday night, beers are only $3.25 to $5.50.

Some would argue the beer alone is worth the trip to the Liar’s Club, and I’d have to agree. But while beer may attract the first-timers, it’s much more than beer that keeps the regulars happy. Once you’re settled into a booth in the heart of the bar, with the Replacements blaring, a fresh pint of West Coast IPA set before you, and a mouth full of the unbeatable combination of bacon and jalepeño cheese bread, you’ll understand.

Local, East Coast Style

The very first time I waxed poetic about eating locally, I got a response along the lines of: "You're so lucky you can do that. You live in California." It was the middle of winter, and I'm sure the person who said that pictured idyllic gardens and 70-degree days.

I had to admit Southern California offered some damn good produce, but luck? Was that really the deciding factor?

That was over a year ago, and I admit I didn't have an answer. That was before I participated in One Local Summer and kept watch over east coast participation; and before I read about Joel Salatin and his amazing Virginia farm in the Omnivore's Dilemma.

A year later, armed with a bit more knowledge and a lot more determination, I finally had the opportunity to prove that luck had nothing to do with local. My extended East Coast Thanksgiving trip last week culminated in a meal so delicious, so hearty, and so entirely local it made me the envious one.

The meal started two days before Thanksgiving, when I flew into JFK with three priorities: seeing a good friend, seeing a good band, and hitting up the Union Square Greenmarket. (I would soon be heading to New Jersey for Thanksgiving and had promised to make the vegetable dishes). Two reusable bags full of butternut squash, brussels sprouts, heirloom carrots, garlic, herbs, and onions later, I stumbled on the biggest discovery of my year: locally grown and milled grains. OMG, FLOUR!, I exclaimed as I rushed toward the stall, leaving a somewhat bewildered friend to hurry along behind me. Yes, I got that excited about flour. And polenta. Both were produced by Wild Hive Farm in Clinton Corners, NY. "Small batch milling from our micro mill," the packages explained. I was ecstatic--this was the first time I had come across local grains, and they were grains milled just nine miles from where they were grown! Eating on the east coast was starting to look good.

With a bag of polenta and a bag of organic stone ground hard red spring wheat (recommended for baking bread) stashed in my suitcase, I came to Virginia three days later, not done with my local explorations. (Meanwhile, on Thanksgiving, the local brussels sprouts, squash, and carrots were the talk of the table).

Sunday morning, I dragged a second friend to a second market: the Fresh Farm Market at Dupont Circle in Washington, DC. Let me just say, east coast local naysayers, that the produce offerings looked straight out of San Diego--including fresh tomatoes, greens, and herbs. These made possible by many growers who turned to greenhouses when the summer reached its end. I was tempted by every stall, but the biggest surprise of the market (for a San Diego locavore, at least) was the meat: lamb, whole chickens, fresh Chesapeake crab. I was in carnivore heaven. And then I spied the pastured pork.

Pastured meat is the term used for meat that has been raised by traditional, non-industrial methods, an unfortunate rarity in our modern food system. Pastured animals are allowed to roam free on open land, are fed a grass-based diet, and are raised without hormones, antibiotics, or feed additives. The best explanation I've found for the differences in industrial and pastured meat is Jay Porter's at the Linkery; another excellent explanation of the benefits of pastured meat can be found at Sustainable Table. Anyone looking for local pastured meat, as well as eggs and dairy, should check out the Eat Wild website.

The pastured meat I found was from David Ober and Sheila Goodman at Cedarbrook Farm in West Virginia. Their offerings at the Dupont Market made me wish I was staying in Virginia for longer--many of the cuts available were roasts that allowed for upwards of 16 hours slow cooking time. Just imagining the taste of a 24-hour spice-rubbed shoulder roast made my mouth water. (David had recipes available at his booth, which didn't help curb my salivation). Alas, as I had a mere 24 hours left in my trip, I settled for bone-in loin slices and seasoned sausage. I was not disappointed.

I came home to my parent's house with an arsenal of local goods: pastured pork chops and sausage; apples and pears from Quaker Valley Orchards in Biglerville, PA; German butterball potatoes, onions, leeks, and spinach. My only regret was not having enough cash on me to bring home one of the amazing array of goat cheeses that I sampled. Oh, and also forgetting to return to the crab cake booth and bring home fresh Chesapeake crab cakes (sorry Mom!). Spreading my array on the counter, I added the leftover garlic, shallots, rosemary, and sage from the Union Square Greenmarket, and cracked open the bag of polenta. I had a plan, and dinner would be ready in 2 hours.

Polenta, Pear, and Sausage Stuffing (inspiration/adapted from here and here )

For Polenta
1 cup cornmeal
4 cups water
salt, to taste
1 Tbsp. butter
1 tsp. sage
1 tsp. parsley

For Stuffing
1 pound sausage
2 Tbsp. butter
1/2 sweet onion, diced
1 leek, white part only, sliced thin
2 bosc pears, peeled, cored, and diced into 1/2 inch pieces
2 tbsp fresh sage, dieced fine
3/4 cup white wine

Make polenta (I rely on the America's Test Kitchen technique) by bringing water and salt to boil, slowly whisking in polenta, turning heat down to low and cooking for 30 minutes, stirring frequently to ensure polenta does not burn.
remove from heat and stir in 1 Tbsp. butter, 1 tsp. sage, 1 tsp. rosemary, plus salt and pepper to taste.
spread in 9x13 dish and chill in fridge for at least 15 minutes, until cool.

While polenta is cooling, brown sausage over medium heat. remove and set aside
in same pot, drain sausage grease. add 1 tbsp. butter, saute onions and leeks until translucent, about 10 minutes
add garlic, saute 30 seconds until fragrant
add pears and sage. saute 5 minutes
add white wine and bring to boil. turn heat to medium-low and cook until liquid is reduced to almost gone
add sausage back to skillet and stir to combine.

remove skillet from heat and set aside

turn polenta out onto cutting board.
divide into thirds, mash one third with a fork and stir into sausage mixture
slice remaining 2/3 into 1/2 inch squares. toss with 1 tbsp. melted butter
broil squares for 3-5 minutes, until slightly firm.

mix polenta squares with sausage mixture and bake in 9x13 casserole for 20 minutes, covered. remove foil, cook for 10 more minutes, uncovered.

Skillet Pork Chops
I turn to the masters for my meat recipes: America's Test Kitchen. Unfortunately, their recipes are closely guarded by a subscription-based website (including the recipe I used for Skillet-Barbequed Pork Chops. Fortunately (ahem), lots of other sites seem to defy their copyrights, and post their reliable recipes. Here's a recap of the Skillet-Barbequed Pork Chop recipe I followed for the pork, although I omitted the sauce and just used the brine and the rub--the flavor of the pastured pork was so amazing that it required no sauce.

Smashed Potatoes
An old standby from my One Local Summer meals--recipe here.

Sauteed Spinach with Caramelized Onions
1/2 onion, sliced
1 tsp plus 1 tbsp oil
2 garlic cloves
1/2 pound spinach
arugula for plating (optional)


In small saucepan, heat 1 tsp. oil over medium heat. Add onions and cook 5 minutes stirring occasionally. Cover, reduce heat to low, and cook, 30-45 minutes, until onions are wilted and brown,and slightly sweet.

5 minutes before serving, heat remaining Tbsp. of oil over medium heat. Add garlic and sautee for 30 seconds. Add spinach and cook for 3 minutes, until all spinach is wilted. Add salt and pepper to taste.

To serve, plate spinach atop bed of arugula, and top with caramelized onions.



Note: I desperately want to post photos of this meal, but my computer seems to not be recognizing my camera's memory card right now...photos hopefully to follow!