Family Brews in Fall Rivah

Battleship Brewhouse
101 President Ave.
Fall River, MA




“Blue collar cities = Budweiser crap.”
          -- Cousin757 email to Suit757


You can tell we’re kin, huh?

Yeah, Cousin757 loves double IPAs even more than I do. She probably wouldn’t drink a Sam Adams if it were free.

I guess that’s where the similarities end. I’m pretty sure I’ve never turned down a beer.

Ever. Not even a Bud.

But Cousin757’s warning about the perils of finding a good place to sample local double IPAs near her home in Fall River, Massachusetts was well taken.

This is the town that is famous for two things: the gang rape trial depicted by Jody Foster in “The Accused” and Lizzy Borden -- who axe murdered her parents.

Not exactly Chamber of Commerce marketing material.

Folks in this gritty former textile town are perfectly happy with their bottles of Bud, thank you very much. Hoity toity beer snobs like us can keep their “fancy beer” inside of Route 128.

But Cousin757 mentioned a strip mall brewhouse that serves an unusually nice selection of suds in this blue collar town.

Battleship Brewhouse in Fall River.

Deal. Count me in.

If USAir doesn’t ruin my life, I’ll be there at 7:30pm on Wednesday night!

To add yet another layer of festivity, my sister unexpectedly decided to drive four hours round trip to join us.

The lengths people will go to down a few brews with Suit757!

I was honored.

And thirsty when I pulled into the nearly empty trash-strewn parking lot on the outskirts of downtown Fall River.

Next to a nail salon and a Chinese take-out joint, Battleship Brewhouse’s parking lot view didn’t look too promising.

But the inside was much better, freshly painted with pictures of the namesake USS Massachusetts battleship parked on the Fall River waterfront.

Other than a small scattering of a few lonely beer drinkers, we had the place to ourselves.

I kicked off this 757 family reunion in style -- with a beer flight, of course.

While Fall River doesn’t appear to have climbed aboard the craft beer bandwagon with a local brewery, the beer menu offered some tasty options from other parts of the People’s Republic of Taxachussetts.

I chose an IPA from Ipswich Ale and a porter and IPA from Mayflower Brewing in Plymouth for my maiden flight of three.

I thought Mayflower’s IPA was a little thin, but the porter was toasty, malty and full of flavor.

The Ipswich IPA was definitely a notch above the Mayflower. And isn’t that why we order beer flights -- to compare and contrast -- and declare a winner?

Congratulations Ipswich IPA.

But that was just the warm up for one of the greatest beers to ever grace my liver -- Vermont’s Otter Creek Backseat Berner -- a hoppy IPA masterpiece with aromatic piney hops balanced perfected with a tasty malt backbone.

Four beers into the festivities (don’t worry, three of them were 5oz samplers), it was time to join my cuz on the heavy double IPA side of the beer menu.

I opted to leave New England for Colorado’s Left Hand Brewing. Their Nitro Stout is a Suit757 Hall of Famer, so I was anxious to try the Twin Sisters. She didn’t disappoint. Twin barrels of hoppy deliciousness.

By this point in the evening it was past time to start thinking about actual non-liquid sustenance.

Cousin757 had warned me, “The beer selection is decent but you probably won’t be buying the shirt.”

Well, we’ll see about that.

As they say at the kick off of football season, “That’s why they play the games.”

Like many blue collar sections of America, Fall River has developed its own unpretentious culinary traditions (and language) that you just won’t find on your local two-for-twenty Applebee’s menu.

Chourico (pronounced “shar-eese”), Linguica (pronounced “ling-weese”), Quahogs (pronounced “stuffies”), Clam Chowder (pronounced “chowdah”) and Pork Altejana (pronounced “pork and necks”).

Many of these dishes originated in the islands off of Portugal and were transported here to the southeast coast of New England by Portuguese settlers generations ago.

Cousin757 has exactly zero Portuguese blood. I know -- I’ve researched our family history.

Just don’t tell her.

She sure sounds like she knows what she’s talking about because she married into a native family.

She warned me that Battleship Brewhouse probably isn’t your first, second, third or fourth choice in Fall River (pronounced “Fall Rivah”) for sampling authentic local Portuguese dishes, but I was determined to give it a shot.

After all, I can order another cheesesteak or overcooked burger anywhere.

The clam chowder was creamy and chock full of local clams. Not as thick as I usually prefer, but pretty darn tasty.

The quahog was an oversize clam shell stuffed with diced clam bits and seasoned breading mixed together with spicy seasoning. Instead of a crabcake, think a clamcake -- on the half shell. Probably the highlight of the meal.

As a sausage connoisseur, I just HAD to try some local chourico -- a dense local Portuguese sausage. So I opted for the “Mac & Cheese and Chourico Flatbread”.

I hate to say it but it was a bit of a disappointment.

It was basically a thin pizza with some macaroni piled on top.

Cousin757 asked, “Where’s your ‘chareese’??”

On top of the macaroni was a thin sprinkling of red flakes, kinda like bacon bits. No thick slices of sausage I was hoping for.

Basically the flatbread was just a disappointing mouthful of carbs.

Fortunately, the meal was salvaged by the Pork Altejana, a stew of diced potatoes and pork chunks in a well-seasoned garlicy, peppery broth.

Wow. You could put that sauce on my flip-flops and I’d gladly eat them.

The littleneck clams on the side lended a nice balance to this Portuguese version of surf and turf.

While my sister and I were pretty infatuated with this dish, our cuz was left underwhelmed.

“The clams are supposed to be steamed in the broth,” she griped. “I can make better Altejana than that.”

My sister and I took that as an open invitation.

And that’s one of the great perks of this traveling life.

Flight delays, 3am hotel check-ins and TSA crotch gropings aside, the opportunity to drop in on family and friends scattered across America on a random Wednesday night makes it all worthwhile.

After all, double IPAs go down even better in good company.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Blue Collar Trumps the Blue Bloods in East Boston

Santarpio’s
111 Chelsea St.
East Boston, MA



Santarpio’s is a slice of blue collar Boston at its most sincere.

Gruff no-nonsense waitresses.

Heavily tattooed patrons in wife-beaters.

The grill man barking orders in an unvarnished Boston accent.

And Suit757 in a suit killing time at the bar before my flight out of Logan.

Yeah, I stand out like a guy in a Derek Jeter jersey in the Fenway bleachers.

But that’s okay. I’m used to it.

Besides, I had heard that Santarpio’s served the best pizza in Boston.

I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical. I mean, Italians run this city.

Literally.

Tom Menino has been Mayor of Boston for the past decade.

Some of the greatest Italian restaurants outside of Sicily can be found in Boston’s famed North End.

And the blue blood refined palette of this city of the overly-educated demands all sorts of gourmet cuisine -- pizza being no exception.

So am I really to believe that the best pizza in the entirety of the Boston Metro area is served here?

At this dive bar located in what has devolved into a Third World neighborhood where the language on the street is more likely to be Spanish than either Italian or English?

But once I stepped into the dark interior of Santarpio’s it was like I was transported to another time and place.

The sweet smell of charcoal and grilling meat greeted me like an old friend.

Right next to the front door, an old guy was turning Italian sausages and lamb and steak skewers on a grill over an open flame.

Immediately recognizing me as one of those adventurous out-of-towners looking for Boston’s best pizza, he greeted me and invited me to find a seat at the bar.

“Whacha drinkin?”

The decidedly less friendly -- but efficient -- waitress slid me a Miller High Life while I perused the menu.

There wasn’t much to it.

Barbeque and pizza.

That’s it.

Of course by barbeque, they don’t mean Carolina pulled pork.

Barbeque at Santarpio’s is meat barbequed over that charcoal grill by the front door.

That smelled too delicious to pass up, so I ordered a link of sausage as an appetizer.

The perfectly char-grilled tube of meat came with some sinus clearing hot peppers on the side and a
big hunk of Italian bread.

Dense, peppery and soulful, the kiss from the flame made this one of the best sausages this self-proclaimed sausage connoisseur has ever tasted.

Unfortunately, the pizza only comes in one size -- large. Especially for one suit who just ate a quarter pound of grilled meat.

But there was no way I could come to Santarpio’s without trying the famous pizza.

My garlic, sausage and peppers pizza smelled like heaven.

Chewy in some spots and crispy in others, the crust was charred brown by the oven with bubbly pockets all around its circumference.

The garlic, oregano and green peppers packed a massive flavor wallop. So much so that the sausage seemed to disappear.

Literally.

Buried under the cheese, garlic and peppers, it was hard to tell if the sausage was even there.

Being a meat-in-every-bite kinda guy, I was a little disappointed with the scarcity of sausage.

The other quibble I had with Santarpio’s pizza was the texture.

Limp and messy, this is the kind of pizza you have to eat with a knife and fork -- at least until you get within a few inches of the crispy outer crust.

That’s kind of a bummer.

Somehow pizza just doesn’t taste as good when you can’t lift the whole slice to your face as God intended.

But those are minor complaints. Overall, this is darn good pizza.

Apparently lots of people agree.

Within minutes of bellying up to the near empty bar, Santarpio’s began to fill up shoulder-to-shoulder with regulars sporting thick Boston accents.

George Zimmerman, lottery ticket strategy and the Red Sox (of course) were the primary topics of conversation.

One old guy in a plain white tank-top sat down next to me with his significant other.

Clearly, he was a regular.

Clearly, she was not.

“I’ll take a cranberry vodka” she said.

The waitress shot back in a thick Boston drawl, “We don’t have no cranberry juice. Or any juice, for that mattah.”

“Ok. I’ll take a screwdrivah.”

“Did ya heah me? No juice!”

When the waitress hurried away to take care of more decisive patrons, the wife beater guy scolded her, “I told ya, don’t piss hah off!”

Little miss prissy let out an audible sigh, “Fine. Just give me a watah then.”

The waitress was much friendlier to me.

Glancing at my half eaten pizza, “You wanna box for that, hun?”

“No thank you. Just take it away,” I said after I couldn’t take another bite. “Where I’m going, I can’t take it with me.”

It was a damn shame too.

Next time I’ll bring some help along with me so none of that pizza will go to waste.

So does Santarpio’s really serve the best pizza in Boston?

Not that I’ve tried every pizza in The Hub, but I kind of doubt it.

But Santarpio’s is still worth the stop on the way to Logan for good pizza, the best “barbequed” meat in the city and a true slice of Boston blue collar authenticity you sure won’t find on Beacon Hill.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt

The Publick House Won’t Let You Down

The Publick House
1648 Beacon St.
Brookline, MA




In case you haven’t noticed, as Suit757, I get around. I’ve been to some of the coolest bars and restaurants in all 50 states.

So you’re probably wondering, “Suit757, don’t you ever get a bit jaded about all these exciting places to eat and drink?”

And I have to admit, there is a bit of that “been there, done that, bought the shirt” mentality that can seep into my road weary consciousness. (I have an entire closet full of t-shirts.)

But there are still a few places in America I get excited about.

REAL excited.

I’m talking school-girl-at-a-Justin-Bieber-concert excited.

Deprive-myself-for-24-hours-in-advance, pack-a-supervalue-pack-of-BC-Powders and clear-my-schedule-the-following-morning kind of excited.

The Publick House in Boston gets me THAT KIND of excited.

The dark candle-lit Old World ambiance of this place and world class beer selection make it a premiere destination for serious beer drinkers.

Not “I’ll take something that tastes like Blue Moon” beer drinkers.

I’m talking REAL SERIOUS beer drinkers.

The best beers brewed on Planet Earth. Beers you can’t find anywhere else. Poured into appropriate glassware specifically designed for each beer.

Beers like Houblon Chouffe, Piraat and Gulden Draak, my three favorite beers from Belgium – a proud specialty here at The Publick House.

Belgian beer tastes different from beer brewed anywhere else in the world.

Usually well balanced between hops and malt, Belgians typically let the alcohol and yeast shine through with a sweet fruity taste.

The Publick House is so famous for its wide selection of draft Belgian beer, that it really is obligatory to begin with one.

My Houblon Chouffe looked beautiful sparkling in its specially designed glassware in the fading twilight. Crisp and refreshing, but with a powerful 9% alcohol punch, it slid right down.

Despite the “Dobbelen IPA” label on the Houblon Chouffe glass, this Belgian is smoother and less hoppy than its more aggressive American Double IPA brethren. It may claim the IPA label, but Houblon Chouffe is still a Belgian at heart.

As if to test my theory, I moved on to the American microbrew portion of The Publick House beer menu next and ordered a double IPA called “Mongo” brewed by up-and-coming San Diego brewery, Port Brewing.

Now that’s a hoppy kick in the pants!

The Publick House is known for its fresh Belgian beer on draft, but sometimes a bottle-conditioned Belgian can be ever better.

So I opted for a Belgian classic, St. Bernardus Abt 12, a dark but fruity 10.5% alcohol package of liquid heaven.

After three high potency beers, I desperately needed something to line my empty stomach.

While I’m sure the rest of the food on The Publick House’s menu is delicious, I’ll never know. That’s because I always get the famous gourmet mac and cheese made with five types of Belgian cheeses melted into a crock full of orrechetti pasta.

I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat dreaming of this dish.

Best of all, you can add meat, seafood or vegetables to your mac and cheese for a truly over-the-top dish of comfort food.

Most folks pick one add-on.

But not Suit757.

Maybe it was the three near double-digit alcohol beers on an empty stomach, but I just couldn’t decide.

Top notch bacon? Andouille sausage? Caramelized onion?

“What the hell. Give me all three!”

My waitress looked a bit stunned as she scribbled my order and tallied all my extra add-ons.

I have to admit, her reaction gave me a bit of buyer’s remorse.

Would it be too much meat? Too greasy? Too over-the-top?

Would it be worth nearly twenty bucks for a modest-sized crock of college student fare?

When she slid my steaming mound of gooey cheese, meat and pasta under my nose, all those apprehensions disappeared into the night.

Worth. Every. Penny.

Holy St. Bernardus!

This was one of the most fantastic dishes that has ever graced my taste buds.

The melty cheese and noodles were luxurious. The bacon added a smoky essence to every bite while the andouille sausage contributed a zesty kick of spice.

Best of all, the caramelized onions balanced everything with a sweetness that elevated this dish to the Comfort Food Hall of Fame.

I knew I needed a special brew to accompany my self-created masterpiece.

Something smoky and sweet and savory, just like my gourmet mac and cheese.

I found my answer deep in the bowels of The Publick House six page beer menu.

Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier Urboch.

Translation: Kick-ass German smoked beer!

Yes. The beer is smoked.

Well, the malt in the beer is smoked, more specifically.

If you are a beer connoisseur looking to try something different, you have to try a good German rauchbier like Schlenkerla Urboch.

Like smoked country sausage in bottle, rauchbiers are almost exclusive to the German town of Bamberg – and The Publick House, luckily for me.

My first whiff as I poured this dark beer into my glass instantly brought me back to some long ago Boy Scout camp fire.

Unlike some American smoked beers I’ve experimented with in the past, this real deal German smoked beer doesn’t skimp on the smoke.

It’s like drinking a pack of Marlboros. But in a good way.

And the perfect compliment to my bacon and sausage studded mac and cheese.

At this point in the evening, it was WAY past the point of time to retire to my hotel room.

Then I remembered that I was taking public transportation this evening.

Transporting my drunk ass back to my hotel room is one of the few good uses I can imagine for massive taxpayer subsidized enterprises like Boston’s venerable “T”.

“Hey, this is MY piece of the bailout,” I rationalized to myself as I perused the menu for one good night cap.

Sensing a rapidly approaching law of diminishing returns, I knew I should tone down the exotic flavor and high alcohol for something my altered palate could still appreciate.

So I opted for a classic German pilsner, Kulmbacher Edelherb Premium Pils, served on draft in a traditional glass German stein.

American mass-produced watered down light beers like Miller Lite claim the “pilsner” label, but that’s like referring to SPAM as an ethnic delicacy.

Kulmbacher is what a pilsner REALLY tastes like.

Crisp and dry, with a nice hop kick, it was a perfect ending to one of the greatest beer drinking experiences of my life.

As I stumbled through the Brookline darkness to the Green Line station a block or two away, I had a big sudsy smile on my face.

Despite all the build up, excitement and anticipation, my evening at the world famous Publick House lived up to my heightened expectations.

Exceeded them, in fact.

That’s what makes The Publick House a true “bucket list” destination for serious beer drinkers the world over.

So I’m telling you. If you love beer like I do, get here now. Plan your vacation around it.

Even the most jaded among us won’t be let down.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Beat Down in Boston

Parish Café
361 Boylston St.
Boston, MA





Wow. That sandwich kicked my butt.

That doesn’t happen very often to Suit757.

Sandwich 1. Suit757 0.

Like a proud eating Marine, I never leave food behind. But I’m convinced there is no human alive who could finish this lunch.

“The dbar” was at least a full pound of breaded, fried veal cutlet topped with bacon, drippy, melted gruyere cheese, tomatoes, capers and smothered in a mustardy remoulade sauce on a crunchy baguette.

It was unbelievably good.

Just lifting the gooey mess off my plate and opening my jaws wide enough to take a bite was challenge enough.

The crunchy deep fried baby cow was tender and delicious – especially covered in melty cheese and enough condiments to demand a stack of extra napkins.

My “dbar” sandwich was named after a bar in Dorchester, whose chef, Chris Coombs, invented this decadent monstrosity.

That’s the shtick here at Parish Café.

The menu lists a dozen or so sandwiches created by gourmet chefs from all over Boston.

Eating lunch at Parish is like attending an all-star game for sandwiches.

You can get a gourmet BLT. An over-the-top steak and cheese. Even a $35 bacon lobster roll.

It’s like show-and-tell for kitchen show offs. Boston’s best chefs try to top each other in culinary creativity.

If your sandwich for the gods still isn’t enough for you, Parish also offers a nice selection of appetizers and local microbrews.

I opted for a Trinity IPA brewed down I-95 in Providence, Rhode Island. With a nice hoppy kick, it complimented the kaleidoscope of flavors in my lunch perfectly.

As if all that wasn’t enough, my sandwich came with cole slaw AND homemade potato salad.

For some unknown reason, I decided what I really needed was an order of onion rings too.

Thank goodness I got the “half” order.

Thick and crunchy in a scratch-made beer batter, these were top notch onion rings, especially dipped in the accompanying homemade chipotle aioli.

I made it about three quarters of the way through my sandwich before the piles of meat, cheese, bread and gourmet condiments finally took their toll.

Sweating under the noonday summer sunshine on Parish’s sidewalk patio, I really WANTED to finish every last bite.

But I couldn’t.

I have to admit, I felt like a failure.

Suit757 doesn’t fail at lunch very often. In fact, it’s one of the things I’m pretty good at (along with beer drinking and avoiding airport naked scanners).

Looking around the patio at all the other suits enjoying their gourmet lunch, I couldn’t help but feel a bit envious.

Can you imagine having a lunch place this good within walking distance of your office?

Of course if I ate here every day for lunch I’d need gastric bypass surgery.

Definitely an “I deserve this today” special occasion lunch spot.

You know, to celebrate a big account, a major victory, Barney Frank’s retirement from Congress.

Or just another stop on my Suit757 itinerary.

But there would be no victory for Suit757 today.

Like a pair of inept Chinese badminton players, I felt a profound sense of shame.

I let my country down.

But unlike those badminton players, I will live to fight another day.

I’ve just got to regroup. Refocus. Prepare for the next meal.

Sounds good.

Hmmm. So where are we going for lunch tomorrow?

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

British Beer Company Will Get Your Irish Up

British Beer Company
120 Worcester Rd.
Framingham, MA




History question for you.

Which imperial power of the last half of the millennium is most notorious for state sponsored property theft, ethnic cleansing, genocide and the torture and execution of political prisoners?

Which liberty-robbing empire outlawed the free expression of religion, fined citizens for refusal to attend state-sanctioned church services and hunted down and murdered recalcitrant clergy?

Which blood thirsty dictatorship subjected innocent civilians to systemic gang rapes, land confiscation and one of humanity’s most infamous mass starvations?

Castro’s Cuba? Stalin’s Soviet Empire? Hitler’s Third Reich?

George W. Bush?

No. No. No. And no.

I mean, those would be good guesses. But not who I’m thinking of.

Correct answer: the English.

No wonder “Bravehart” is my favorite movie.

Just knowing the minefield of British tyranny my Irish ancestors navigated so I can sit here today and drink beer gets my Irish up every time I lay my eyes on the Union Jack.

So what the hell am I doing at a place called the British Beer Company?

Convenience. It’s that simple.

By the time I checked into my room at the Best Western in this suburban wasteland west of Boston, it was 9:30 on a Tuesday night.

The fact that a crowded bar attached to my hotel had “beer” in its title -- and was still serving food -- was reason enough for me to attempt to overlook ten centuries of British atrocities against my ancestors’ homeland.

And it came well recommended by a good friend. A good friend who just named his sons Henry and Oliver, after Henry VIII and Oliver Cromwell.

I should have known better.

Turns out, I should have just ordered Dominos.

Unfortunately for me, Tuesday night is Karaoke night at BBC.

Packed with nose-pierced, over-Americanized twenty-somethings of various ethnicities all belting out completely butchered versions of pop songs that aren’t very good to begin with, the evening was not getting off to a good start.

The fact that I couldn’t get any of the three clueless bartenders to take my order didn’t help either.

No beer. No food. And lots of drunken screeching.

That’s a recipe for a headache.

The British-themed menu didn’t help ease my pain.

First of all, who builds a chain of restaurants around an ethnicity that is better known for inventing novel forms of torture than good food?

Fish and chips? Sheppard’s Pie?

Yuck. I’d rather be tarred and feathered.

I chose to stick to this side of the pond.

The highlight of my meal was a seven dollar crock of clam chowder. A generous supply of clams made up for the blandness of this thick creamy chowder.

My meatloaf sandwich was a novel idea. Topped with melted cheese, bacon and barbeque sauce, it was like a well seasoned, squishy bacon cheeseburger. Can’t get more American than that.

I made the mistake of choosing to upgrade my side to “panko crusted green beans” for an additional two bucks. The menu proclaimed that this was “a BBC original”.

That’s funny. I’ve never stepped foot in this place before but I’ve somehow managed to enjoy fried green beans many times before.

Typical Brits. Taking credit for the good ideas of others.

Most fried green beans are accompanied by a remoulade or ranch style dipping sauce. (Hey, breaded, fried and dipped is just about the only way you can get Suit757 to voluntarily order veggies).

But not at BBC. No sauce. And not any where near a big enough portion to justify the upcharge.

The beer selection wasn’t quite as good as I’d expect from a place with “Beer Company” in its title either.

Of course, I’m always on the look out for new and interesting brews I’ve never tried before. Unfortunately, my bar tender – when I could manage to get his attention, that is – told me they were “out” of my first couple choices.

Of course.

So being a good sport, I decided against my better judgment to go with a British beer.

British Beer Company has at least half a dozen varieties of Fuller’s on draft, one of Britain’s more famous breweries.

At the risk of causing my Suit757 ancestors to roll over in their graves, I rationalized my choice by ordering Fuller’s India Pale Ale, one of my favorite beer styles.

The British invented IPAs, after all. Or so I told myself.

Of course inventing a beer and perfecting it are two totally different things.

The India Pale Ale was invented as a direct result of the British Empire’s unquenchable thirst for world domination.

The poor saps sent to India to prop up that corner of Britain’s empire faced a serious problem. They soon discovered that by the time their shipments of beer from the homeland reached them after the long journey around the African Cape of Good Hope, their suds had spoiled.

Fortunately, the hops in beer, which gives beer its flavor, also serve as a preservative.

More hops means beer stays fresh longer. Thus, the extra hoppy India Pale Ale was born.

The problem is Fuller’s IPA just isn’t that hoppy. I doubt this flavorless beer could make it across the English Channel, let alone the Horn of Africa.

Like every other variety of Fuller’s I’ve ever tried, this IPA is as bland as English mashed potatoes.

Leave it to the Americans to perfect a good idea. (If we can’t invent it outright.)

It was American brewers who took the British IPA to another level.

Sure enough, my second choice, a local beer called Mayflower IPA, brewed near Plymouth Rock, where the pilgrims landed in America after fleeing British tyranny, packed a much stronger wallop of hoppy flavor.

So in a way, maybe we should thank the tyrants across the pond.

Whether it was the pilgrims, the Irish or countless others escaping the murderous clutches of the British Empire, the brutality of British rule led to the rise of a new nation, America, which figured out a better way to do things.

A better way of government. A better way of protecting liberty. And a better way to brew beer.

I’ll drink to that.

Rating: Wouldn’t Wear Shirt if They Paid Me.

Lights Out and Bottoms Up in Bean Town

American Craft

1700 Beacon St.

Brookline, MA

As much as it pains me to admit it, Yankees do a get a few things right.

Like beer.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love my wild-boar-killing, tobacco-spitting, fellow NASCAR-watching redneck friends dearly, but sometimes I just get tired of drinking massive quantities of watered down Coors Light.



That can be a problem when you live in the South – the last corner of America to embrace good beer.



Of course, that’s one of the advantages of being Suit757.



When I get tired of the ubiquitous selection of Bud Light, Coors Light, Miller Lite and Yuengling, it’s only a matter of time before I’ll be jetting off to some region of America where – by default – they have a more adventurous taste in cold suds.



Like Massachusetts.

Okay. You’re right. The Peoples’ Republic isn’t in America.



But there is one reason to break out your passport, Boston-English translation booklet and get your vaccinations updated.


Really good beer.



Specifically, the world-famous Publick House in Brookline, just a few “T” stops down the Green Line from Fenway Park.



Baseball fans have Cooperstown. Terrorists have Mecca. Constitution-shredding leftists have the Lincoln Memorial.

But beer drinkers have the Publick House.



I have one of those big coffee table books in the Suit757 compound titled “Beers of the World”. The Publick House gets a mention.



Like I said. World. Famous.



So imagine the soul-crushing disappoint when I discovered that a localized “brown out” knocked out the Publick House kitchen. No hot food. No gourmet lobster mac and cheese.



Bummer.



Maybe Barney Frank, who lives nearby, was too preoccupied to pay the electric bill. Or he was testing out his “Cap and Tax” scheme he loves so much.



The good news is the beer was still cold.



As you have probably figured out by now, the Publick House is not just another one of the “tap houses” that pop up in the light-in-the-loafers sections of self-styled sophisticated metro areas where beer snobs can grab a couple flavors of local microbrews.



No. The Publick House offers a selection of the VERY BEST beers the world has to offer.



You know that mouth-watering book on my coffee table? You can get those world class, double digit alcohol, grow-hair-on-your-chest beers right here.

Most of them come from Belgium. The country that is to beer drinkers what Greece is to lazy, rioting, living-on-the-dole, bailout-begging slackers.



My first pour was Houblon Chouffe Dobbelen, a more crisp, hoppy, refreshing version of the typical potent high alcohol Belgian beers.



As you might guess by now, the Publick House takes beer drinking seriously. They even pour your chosen Belgian beer in a glass specifically made by and imported from the brewery you select designed specifically for the beer it contains.



I think that’s pretty cool.



Normally, the only disadvantage of ordering fresh-from-the-brewery draft beer is that you don’t get to peel the label off and stare at the cool artwork that accompanies bottled beer.



Here you get the best of both worlds. I get fresh 10% alcohol beer on draft and I can check out the cool elf dude on the specially-made glass.



The fact that I’m getting excited about staring at a cartoon elf drawing might be a sign that the 10% is getting to me. Oh, boy. This is only my first one.



I’ll blame it on my empty stomach.



Clearly, I can’t stay here long. I’m going to need to line my stomach with something other than liquid barley.



But I can’t leave this world famous bar without trying at least one other brew. One I’ve never had before. One they will never serve at the Hammerhead redneck beach bar two blocks from my home.



I chose the Fore Smoked Stout, not from Belgium, but “imported” from the Dark Horse Brewery in Michigan.



As I’ve written here before, smoked porters are a unique and surprisingly diverse niche for beer connoisseurs like me. The malted barley is smoked. Kind of like what a Guinness would taste like in a really smoky Irish pub – before Ireland banned smoking in pubs, that is.



This Michigan version was tasty, but not that smoky at all.

By this point, I really, really needed some non-liquid sustenance.



Fortunately, the folks at the Publick House recently opened up a sister restaurant one block away called American Craft. Their power was on, the kitchen was open and the place was packed. On a Monday night.



As I understand it, American Craft originally was going to serve Southern style barbeque with a beer selection tilting more toward American “craft brews” rather than beer imported from the Old World. Hence the name.



But Barney and his homo neighbors apparently complained about the smoke.



Yeah. Damn Yankees.



My advice to barbeque craving Bostonians? You’re just going to have to travel to America if that’s what you want.

So I ordered the next best thing. The prime rib sandwich.



Meanwhile, I perused the chalk board of obscure microbrews like a deprived Yankee at a wet T-shirt contest on a Florida spring break.



Mmmm. So much good stuff. So little time.



My first choice was from the most experimental brewery in America – Delaware’s Dogfish Head. Them boys down in Dewey Beach will brew anything. And it usually turns out great!

My Dogfish Head Burton Baton was an imperial IPA with double digit alcohol content and a strong, delicious taste. Four star!



That beer is the personification of why places like the Publick House and American Craft are so much fun.



There just aren’t many places on the planet with such a wide selection of obscure high quality beers. I’m talking beers that have never before graced Suit757’s liver.



Beers like Sixpoint Oyster Stout, brewed in Brooklyn with real oysters!

Extra thick, with a briny texture, this stout had a nice hearty flavor.

“Give me oysters and beer for dinner every day of the year, and I’ll feel fine. I’ll feel fine” – Jimmy Buffett.



Somehow, I doubt this is what Jimmy had in mind. But you know what? I’d bet he’d love it! I know I did.

Especially accompanying my prime rib sandwich and fries.



The beef was braised and shredded, smothered in melted cheese. The fries were top notch, hand cut spuds that served well to soak up all that four star alcohol I’d enjoyed all night.



Not to go all lefty on you, but this was one night I was happy to have the availability of public transportation. Although, I have to say, after standing in the midnight darkness for 20 minutes waiting for one of those century old Green Line trolleys, the “T’ does stretch the definition of “transportation” a bit.



Public transportation. Electricity rationing. Congressmen who run homosexual prostitution rings out of their congressional offices.



And really good beer.



It’s like I always say when I have a good time in a foreign country, “Nice place to visit…



…but I wouldn’t want to live there.”



Rating: Bought the Shirt!