Philadelphia, PA

November 2009

Filed by: Lewis Dribblin

Monk’s Cafe was packed.  And I was a little pissed.  More so disappointed.  I had been looking forward to going to Monk’s since it had become a minor legend for its sizeable and thoughtful selection of Belgian beer as well as for its cozy atmosphere.  Earlier that day, I was online examining the menu, and it took me a good half-hour to choose which appetizer and entrée I would have, paired with what beers.  But the place was packed—no place to eat, no place even to stand—and the thick wall of people surrounding the bars (there are two, as far as I could tell) meant that only a contortionist, a very tall contortionist with a long reach, could have gotten to the beer.  I’m just barely tall enough to get on a ride at Disneyland, and I have trouble putting my socks on.

So my friend Stephen and I improvised a Plan B: the Nodding Head Brewery and Restaurant, which sits on Sansom Street somewhere between 10^th and 20^th.  I didn’t mind walking around until we found it because I was wearing comfortable shoes.  But I had been there before, I knew the beer was good, and I knew that it was fairly close to my final destination: Chris’ Jazz Café to see Mike Stern.

The menu at the Nodding Head was extensive but fairly ordinary, unlike the more creative and Euro-tinged menu at Monk’s.  However, everything on the menu at Monk’s seemed to be inspired by recipes devised during the Middle Ages, when folks were less sensitive than we are today to issues such as heart disease and obesity.  Yes, I had been in the mood for an authentic-style Belgian combination of sweet (the beer) and savory (the food), but I figured I could make things work at the Nodding Head.  As it happens, they serve a pretty good French Dip, and since France is close to Belgium, I thought this would be a good substitute for the Belgian steak sandwich I had intended to have at Monk’s.  Yes, I know that the French Dip wasn’t invented in France, but by same token Belgium isn’t a real country.

As for what to do about that Belgian beer I had been looking forward to, it so happened that the Nodding Head was serving up its own take on a Belgian beer, the Egress Quatro. (I’m not sure I’ve spelled this correctly.  “Quatro” may have had two “t’s.”  I’m sure I saw two “t’s” at some point, but by the time I left the bar I was seeing double, which means there were four “s’s” in “egress,” so I’m dividing by two.)  It was advertised as a Belgian beer that was distinctly hoppy in flavor.  A hoppy Belgian beer?  I’m not a beer technician, so I don’t know much about the use of hops in Belgian-beer brewing.  But I do know that Belgian beer tastes sweet to me, and I also know that hops are bitter.  I wondered how this combo would taste, and I wondered briefly whether Egress Quatro could actually be called a Belgian beer—before remembering, again, that Belgium isn’t an actual country.  Still, I didn’t know what to make of the idea of a hoppy Belgian beer.  I acknowledge that I might be revealing an embarrassing lack of beer knowledge, but so be it.  I couldn’t ever remember tasting a Belgian beer that was not predominantly sweet; certainly I had never tasted one that prominently featured the piney bitterness of hops.  But I was in the mood for something Belgian–something other than waffles–so I kept an open mind.

As it turned out, the Egress Quatro was really good.  Really, really good.  The hops took away the sweetness that sometimes overpowers even the best of Belgian beers, and the Belgian-style sweetness moderated the bitterness of the hops.  I don’t want to get carried away here, but I think it was one of the best beers I’ve ever had.  As I drank glass-after-glass, I became lost in a dream world, in a Belgian candy forest populated by pine and citrus trees.  That’s a silly description, I know, but keep in mind that I had been drinking—and the beer’s flavor was really too complex to describe, much like Belgium itself.  And while I may joke around about Belgium, I never joke about beer.  It was excellent, and it really did put me in a dream world.  There was also a gnome in my dream, and he was eating a French dip off of my plate.  The gnome looked a lot like Stephen, now that I think about it.

I eventually arrived at Chris’.  I don’t remember how, but I did.  I remember thinking to myself only two things: “Man, are my shoes comfortable” and “Should I have enjoyed the Egress Quatro as much as I did?”  Yes, it was a delicious concoction, but was it an assault on the integrity of Belgian-style brewing?  The fact that Belgium is not really a country was of little comfort.  I was desperately trying—and failing—to make sense of the meaning of a hoppy Belgian beer.

Mike Stern, as expected, was awesome.  He’s one of greatest guitarists ever.  There’s also a sort of crazy-guru quality about him, and since I was still in a piney-Belgian-candy-forest haze, I somehow came to believe that he could help me make sense of my beer quandary.  So I caught up with him during the set break and explained my issue.  And he said, “Hoppy Belgian beer—why not!”  In five words, Stern had explained to me the meaning of Egress Quatro.  I would rest peacefully that night.

I left Chris’ and somehow found my way to my hotel room.  And as I drifted off to sleep, I remembered a Belgian joke that a Dutchman had told me a long time ago: Why does a Belgian take a brick and a match to bed with him?  He throws the brick at the light bulb then lights the match to make sure he hit it.

Belgian jokes—why not?

New Orleans, LA

December, 2009

Filed by: Lewis Dribblin

Friday

7:28 a.m.

The airport

I’m at the terminal of my hometown airport waiting to board the plane.  I’m reading a magazine article which explains that schadenfreude is not a German invention.  According to the article, there’s an ancient Arabic term, shamata, that means precisely the same thing: the pleasure that one derives from another’s misfortune.  In fact, I’m sure that schadenfreude is one of the oldest concepts in the history of humankind, and scientists will probably show us one day that the second-ever man to get married inspired this feeling in the first-ever man to get married.  But characterizing schadenfreude as a cruel and selfish feeling misses the point; the truth is, human suffering is most meaningful when it is communal.  Those who experience schadenfreude are able to do so only because they, too, have suffered.  Fundamentally, schadenfreude is about empathy, not spite.  And it is with this (rather humanitarian, I must add) notion that I, a married man, am on my way to New Orleans to attend a friend’s wedding.

Schadenfreude is not all that I anticipate, however.  I’m a jazz fan, so I’m mostly going to New Orleans for the music.  What’s better than listening to jazz in the city that gave us Jelly Roll Morton, Sidney Bechet, and Louis Armstrong?  This was a post-Katrina trip, of course, but I’d read that the French Quarter had recovered nearly completely and that the music scene on Bourbon Street was thriving.

I’m a little disappointed that I can only go for one night; I have to be home tomorrow to babysit while my wife spends the evening with some friends who are visiting from out of town.  With my time limited to one day and one night, I’ll have to work quickly—and I’ve also figured out a way to skip the wedding ceremony so that I can maximize the time I’ll have for what is guaranteed to be an awesome jazz experience.  I’ve arranged to have Phil, an old friend from college who is doing a teaching stint in New Orleans, pick me up at the airport.  His driving is unsteady and extremely slow, so it’s not likely that he’ll get me to the hotel in enough time to meet the limo-bus that’s taking the wedding party to the church in the suburbs for the ceremony.  My plan is to skip the ceremony and meet the wedding party back in French Quarter for the reception— after I explore New Orleans jazz on my own.

The plane is boarding now.  I’ll finish reading about schadenfreude later.

Friday   

10:32 a.m.

The other airport

I arrive at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport.  I think it’s cool that the airport is named after Louis Armstrong.  I’m in the men’s room now and the hand dryer is out of service and there are no towels.  It’s a good thing Satchmo is not around to see this. At least I know that I’m in New Orleans—jazz is playing through the P.A. system as I blot my hands on my pants.

10:33 a.m.

I’m looking at a plaque hanging on the wall that thanks people with names like Kernan “Skip” Hand on behalf of the city of Kenner.  The city of Kenner?  It turns out that the New Orleans airport is not actually in New Orleans, but in Kenner: a city distinguished by the airport and its high percentage of prominent citizens with funny names.

11:08 a.m.

I wait for Phil outside the baggage area, and a chorus of angry horns notifies me that he’s near.

1:31 p.m.

Phil’s car

1½ hours later and we’ve managed to make it to the city, 11 miles from the airport.  My plan is working perfectly, but my nerves are frayed and my underwear is soaked with what I hope is sweat.  I ask Phil to take me to a Chase bank where I can cash a check so that I have money for the weekend.  It’s payday, the bank will be packed, and this will be a brilliant waste of time.  Payday y’all!  Awrite! (New Orleans slang)

2:42 p.m.

Outside the bank

Southern efficiency gets me out of the bank in just over an hour. I feel bad that Phil has had to wait outside for me all this time, but it turns out that he’s still trying to parallel park the car.

3:15 p.m.

Phil’s car

We’re not running late enough, so I ask Phil to take me to see Katrina damage.  It’s devastating, still bad after four years.  Phil tells me that the French Quarter has almost no visible damage.  Phil thinks we’ve seen enough, but I ask him to drive me around for just a few minutes longer…

4:37 p.m.

The French Quarter M———— Hotel

Phil drops me off.  As he pulls away, he swerves to avoid a potted plant and runs over some unattended luggage.

The timing is perfect—the bus taking the wedding guests to the suburbs for the ceremony was scheduled to leave at 4:30—I’ve missed it (too bad!!)—so I’ll have at least a few hours to myself before everyone is back in the Quarter for the reception.

4:38 p.m.

I enter the hotel lobby and find the entire wedding party is there.  They had gathered at 4:30 to wait for the bus, which leaves at 4:45.  I fumble with some excuses about how my flight was delayed and Phil’s driving was terrible, etc., but they insist that they’ll hold the bus for me until I can change and get back downstairs.  I make up the embarrassing excuse that I need to take Immodium so that I can be okay to make it to the reception.  Now mine will be the butt of jokes all night.

5:02 p.m.

The French Quarter

I freshen up as quickly as possible, and now I’m out in the city.  Which way to Bourbon Street!

5:03 p.m.

The streets are deserted and the clubs aren’t open yet.  Just waiting for some tumbleweed to blow past.

7:15 p.m.

After spending two hours in the art galleries that pack the French Quarter—which were pretty good, actually—I head over to the E——— Restaurant for the wedding reception.  I’m early.  I see that the there’s going to be a dixieland band playing at the wedding.  I heave a sigh of relief.  This will be the first jazz music I’ve heard since the men’s room in Kenner.

9:20 p.m.

Banquet Room The E——— Restaurant

The jokes about my stomach condition are bad, but the food’s good and the band is good.  And customarily lively.  They’re doing the New Orleans version of a conga line.  As they pass me, the leader/trumpet player points to me and shouts out “Barry Manilow!  Barry Manilow!”  To be clear, I’m not Barry Manilow.  Nor do I care to believe that I look like him.  The closest I come is looking like what Barbra Streisand would look like if she were a man.  But whose business is that?  Why is he singling me out for an insult?  What the f—?

11:07 p.m.

Everyone’s getting ready to leave now.  It turns out that—customarily—the band is going to parade the wedding party down the street to the M———— Hotel.  We’ve got a few minutes, though, so I talk to the trumpet player in order to show that there are no hard feelings.  I don’t even mention the Manilow incident.  I really just want to talk to him because he’s a local.  I want to know what’s going on with music in the city.  Did a lot of musicians leave after Katrina?  Is there still a lively jazz scene here?

11:09 p.m.

The trumpet player is now insisting that I tip the band.  I ask him if the band got paid for playing tonight (yes) and tell him that tips are optional and that I didn’t see anyone tipping the band.  I ask him why he’s only asking me for a tip, not anyone else.

11:11 p.m.

He’s very persistent, and I’m forced to give him $5.  I got mugged by the band leader at my friend’s wedding.

11:23 p.m.

The street

The band is leading the procession down the street to the hotel.  Shouting loud enough so that the whole band can hear, I tell them that I gave the trumpet player $25 and to make sure that he gives each of them their $5 share.  The trumpet player is in the middle of a solo, but it’s clear from his extraordinarily puffed-out cheeks that he’s furious at me.

11:30 p.m.

Well, the party’s officially over, but many of the wedding guests are planning to go out in the city.  I’m going to go with them, I think.  And now I notice that we’ll be merging with a great rush of people who don’t appear to have  jazz, or anything else, on their minds.  The French Quarter looks like the day after Thanksgiving at Walmart.  There’s a lot of people, a lot of shouting, a lot of noise, a lot lights, and a lot of energy.  New Orleans is a lively, late, and loud town.  A rock and roll town, it seems.  If you want to hear jazz, you may need to spend some time in the airport men’s room.  In Kenner.

Saturday   

8:53 a.m.

The hotel lobby

Phil was supposed to pick me up 53 minutes ago to take me to the airport.  My wife is going to be pissed.  I pull out my magazine and continue reading about schadenfreude.  Someone, somewhere is feeling it right about now.

Washington, D.C. 

January, 2011

Filed by: Lewis Dribblin

 The “D.C.” in “Washington D.C.” can stand for any number of things: “Decadent Capital,” “Debt Crisis,” “Doesn’t Care.”  For me it’s, “Drink Crap” and “Damned Cretins.”

My plan was fairly simple: an afternoon pub crawl with some affable cretins beginning near my hotel in the city’s Dupont Circle neighborhood and winding up in Georgetown, where we would see Tuck & Patti’s late set at Blues Alley.  (“A nip and a Tuck & Patti” was my companions’ running joke, as they strolled cluelessly through the streets of Washington in worn-out Reeboks and K-Mart clearance-rack windbreakers.  Damned cretins.)

The afternoon began fortuitously, for just around the corner from my hotel I stumbled upon an unknown gem which seemed to signify that Washington was a beer town: an enormous stone mansion with a plaque identifying the place as “The Brewmaster’s Castle.”  The mansion was built in 1892-1894 by a German immigrant named Christian Heurich, who was one of Washington’s wealthiest citizens and who also happened to be known as the world’s oldest brewer—he was still brewing when he died in 1945, aged 102.  Yes, I know that beer dates back to biblical times and that people back then could live to be 900 or 1000 years old, but it’s fair to say that Heurich was pretty old, at least  by modern standards.

Like its owner, the castle itself was built to last.  Its website, brewmasterscastle.com, explains that the Heurich House was built, unusually for the time, with poured concrete and reinforced steel and was the first fireproof home in Washington.  The website also curiously points out that this claim was never tested because, for safety reasons, none of the mansion’s fifteen fireplaces were ever used.  Heurich also built the nation’s first fireproof brewery, constructed of poured concrete and reinforced steel.  Heurich seems to have made everything from poured concrete and reinforced steel, which may explain why no one drinks Heurich’s Lager anymore—although you could, because none of it has ever been destroyed by fire.

As it happens, just down the street from The Brewmaster’s Castle was a bar called The Fireplace—so called because, like The Brewmaster’s Castle, there was a fireplace inside.  But unlike at The Brewmaster’s Castle, the fireplace there was lit—and so was everyone at the bar.  Incidentally, this turned out to be a gay bar.  I mention this only because I was surprised that I didn’t see any conservative members of Congress there.  Of more immediate concern was the beer selection—more specifically, the lack of it: Bud, Bud Light, Heineken, etc.  No draft beers.  And, apparently, no bottle opener.  To remove the cap from my bottle of mass-market swill, the bartender seemed to have used either his car keys or a Bic lighter.  Then, when I asked for a glass, I was given something that looked like a sippy cup without the lid.  This experience took some of the shine off the pub crawl’s fortuitous start, but I managed to convince myself that this was an aberration.  It should be easy to find good beer in the nation’s capital…

Yes—it should be easy to find good beer in the nation’s capital.  I guess I should have told someone in Washington about this prior to my arrival.  Just about all beer menus were pitifully similar:  Bud, Bud Light, Heineken.  Asked about their microbrew selection, some bartenders would stare blankly.  Others would offer up Heineken. I was beginning to see why so many politicians in Washington are hollering about socialism.

Walking along M Street in Georgetown, I was tempted to step into the Ukrainian Embassy to see if they could hook me up with whatever they were drinking, but then I remembered that I could get the same stuff from the automotive supply shelf at 7-11, and at 7-11 I would not have to pay the attendant a bribe.

My last hope for a quality beer seemed to be the exclusive 1789 Restaurant, but my companions’ apparel doomed our chances of being allowed in.  Damned cretins.  Honestly, I wasn’t really disappointed by this because I had come to expect little of even the ritziest bars in town.  And I was vindicated a little later when a phone call to 1789 Restaurant inquiring about their draft beer selection confirmed my suspicions.  I can’t remember the choices exactly, but they sounded very much like Bud, Bud Light, and Heineken.

When I got to Blues Alley, I looked at the beer menu, and what did I see?  Bud, Bud Light, and Heineken Dark.  Dark indeed.  At that point I was hoping for something that tasted at least as good as a Heurich’s Lager.  At least I was expecting the music to be good.  And, for the first time that day, I was not disappointed.

If you don’t know who Tuck and Patti are (and many people don’t, unfortunately), they’re a husband a wife duo who have been married and performing together for something like thirty years—Tuck on guitar and Patti on vocals.  But they’re not your average guitar/vocal duo, the kind of people you see on open mic night croaking out off-key Beatles tunes with their eyes squeezed shut, the kind of people who insist that musicians who have had lessons can’t play with soul.

Tuck and Patti are master technicians but also very soulful.  Maybe even too soulful, or at least too spiritual.  Throughout the performance, the lady sitting in front of me was standing, bowing, swaying, and swinging her arms, like someone trying to dislodge a wedgie at a tent revival.  But this was only a minor distraction, because Tuck and Patti were too good not to pay attention to.  Among other things, it was amazing how technically precise they were and also how full a sound the two of them produced with just a microphone and a guitar. I think the only electronic effects were a little bit of compression on the guitar and vocals and maybe a volume pedal for the guitar—I don’t even think Tuck played through an amp, just through the PA.  They’re so good at what they do that even those who don’t like their music would at least be able to respect their musicianship.  In fact, during the show I was thinking to myself, “You’d have to be a cretin not to find something to like about Tuck and Patti.”

So it should have come as no surprise that my companions didn’t share my enthusiasm for the performance.  One of them mentioned that the sound was too compressed, complaining that someone should have taken away Tuck and Patti’s “toys.”  This struck me as odd, because not only did Tuck not play through an amp, he didn’t even use a pick.  And then someone suggested that we go out for another beer.  There was nothing left to do at that point except head for the automotive supply shelf at 7-11.  Damned cretins.