Brooklyn Homebrew Tour II: The Aftermath

Photo: Village Voice/Suemedha Sood

I learned a very important lesson on Sunday: You can lead a homebrew tour while mildly (well, mostly) hungover on whiskey and nursing a massive Rico’s Tacos chorizo torta in your belly. The second installment of the homebrew tour was a roaring hoot, despite the fact that, due to a brain fart, I nearly sent half the tour participants onto a different train.

But no matter: Beers were sampled! Homebrewers were met! Camaraderie was forged! The Village Voice (a mortal enemy to my Gut Instinct employer, the New York Press) ended up penning an article about the tour. Thankfully, the writer left out the fact that I was a shambling wreck and instead focused on the fact that I made my sign from cardboard ripped from the garbage. Good times.

I never planned to be a tour guide, but these Brooklyn Homebrew tours are such a blast that I’m going to get them going again in the New Year. If you’re interested, send me an e-mail at josh.bernstein AT gmail.com, and I’ll be sure to put you on my happy list. Look at this satisfied customer!

Sierra Nevada Harvest Wet Hop Ale – Beer of the Week

Oh, that looks like my bedroom curtains. So bright!

Oh, fall, you cool maiden, taking away all the leaves and bringing us blustery winds. I hate you! But I also love you, because you have brought us fresh hop beers, a fleeting fall delicacy that’s heaven for hop heads. This week, I focus on an oldie but a goodie. Sierra Nevada’s Harvest Wet Hop Ale was one of the first fresh-hop brews to hit the market, and it remains one of the finest. Interested. Thirsty? Drink it up here!

Gut Instinct: Down in the Dumps

Ooh, someone’s feeling saucy!

“You can them in your mouth or put them in water, but if anyone vomits,” the cute Chinese event coordinator chirped, pointing to trashcans lined with I HEART NEW YORK bags, “they’re disqualified. Anyone have any questions?” Just one: Why did I enter Chef One’s sixth annual dumpling-eating contest? Answer: A little bit of hubris, a lot of jet lag and, naturally, no common sense.

By now, I’ve chronicled my dumpling adoration to death. Whether it’s crispy, juicy pork-and-chive pot stickers at dumpy Prosperity Dumpling (46 Eldridge St. betw. Canal and Hester Sts., 212-343-0683) or rich, slurp-friendly pork-and-crab soup dumplings at Flushing’s Nan Xiang Xiao Long Bao (38-12 Prince St. at 38th Ave., 718-321-3838; Queens), I’m a bona fide fiend.

Fanaticism, though, does not trump the laws governing my stomach. I can only devour a dozen, maybe 15 dumplings before my belly tosses up a roadblock, issuing incoming pot stickers a stern warning:

“Come closer, and we’ll be forced to puke.”

My corporal defense mechanism keeps me from entering competitive-eating competitions, a “sport” that ranks several rungs beneath curling. There’s nothing exceptional about consuming your weekly caloric allotment in a couple minutes. Do you cheer on tubs of lard scooping up fifths at the Chinese buffet? Obesity doesn’t warrant a round of applause.

Naturally, I fell off my high chair of gluttonous hypocrisy during an October trip to China. I spent ample time in the eastern coastal province of Shandong. In the region, boiled dumplings—pork, minced greens or shrimp—are king. There they lose their appetizer status, served as a main course or a meal’s closing dish, arriving even after dessert.While visiting seaport town Yantai, I consumed dozens of plump beauties, my stomach growing as round and white as dumplings themselves. “You are a very hungry man,” my translator Lynn said as I polished a plate of 30. I’d bested my gag reflex.

How could I test my newfound talent? By entering Chef One’s competition, featuring a glittering $1,000 prize. It certainly pays to pig-out.

My flight home landed 18 hours before the event, leaving me with wickedly disorienting jet lag. “Are you sure you’re up for eating dumplings?” my girlfriend asked. My eyes were donut-glazed, my skin as clammy and damp as rotten fish’s.

“I’m gonna dominate! I’m the dumpling king!” I shouted. “That’s right, you’re the king, hon,” she soothed, folding me into a subway bound for Manhattan. Upon arriving at Sara D. Roosevelt Park’s Dumpling Festival, I checked in and sat in the holding pen. The contestants—40 males, 16 females—were split into two camps: the steely-eyed pros (“My technique is to get on my knees and not swallow,” said one amply bellied dude) and in-over-their heads amateurs.

“My only goal is to not vomit,” confided a contestant wearing sunglasses. Behind me, a student wearing a Karate Kid headband popped pills that recalled caterpillar cocoons. “Want a fat blocker?” he asked.

“I would rather not have undigested fat leak from my derriere,” I said, aghast.

“I have a high cholesterol,” he explained sheepishly. Then perhaps you shouldn’t be in a competitive-eating competition, I thought, as I climbed the stage. I was in the first batch of 10 male contestants, ranging from a short Mexican man to a bro with his hat spun backward. We lined up before bowls of 20 whole-wheat chicken dumplings—thick as a thumb, long as a middle finger—and planned our methods of attack.

The competitor to my right baptized his dumplings with water. The competitor to my left mumbled a prayer. I surveyed the deep, empty bin by my feet and, at the horn, inserted a lukewarm dumpling into my mouth. I chewed twice and swallowed hard. It went down like medicine. I paused and watched another contestant shove fistfuls of waterlogged dumplings into his hunger hole, smearing his face like a toddler, snorting like a bull. Half a bowl vanished in one messy bite, alongside a sizable chunk of his self-respect. Despite my China training, I knew I wasn’t in it to win it; I was in it to have lunch.

I leisurely popped dumplings into my mouth, one by one, masticating the doughy meat to delicious, digestible goo. In two minutes I devoured 13 dumplings. Winner “Gentleman” Joe Menchetti inhaled 53. His victory may have been sweet, but defeat tasted excellent too.

Beer of the Week: Taiwan Beer!

Does it make you…thirsty?

When I wandered through China last month, I drank a sea of watery lager beer. It was like I was in college once again. Then I met Taiwan Beer, a blandly named yet full-flavored beauty. Yeah, it’s mass-produced by the Chinese government, but it’s still swell as all get-out. Don’t believe me? Drink it up!

Gut Instinct: Bottoms Up

Thirst be gone!

My greatest asset is my gullet. Despite my horse-jockey height, my gullet is long and elastic, permitting me to swallow ponds and streams in one breathless gulp. It’s like discovering a Wizard of Oz munchkin is hung like Dirk Diggler.

I unlocked my throat’s secrets during college, when my roommate Geoff devised a drinking contest based upon a baseball videogame’s homerun-derby feature. If you smacked two consecutive long balls, your competitor drank for two seconds. Three dingers equaled three seconds of consumption, and so on. But if a round-tripper landed in a predetermined locale—say, the bullpen— your competitor finished his 40-ouncer.

“One Phat Boy, going down!” my roommate Geoff would scream, pointing at my malt liquor that incorporated ginseng—zero health benefits, 100 percent hangover. I’d disappear the swill then grab the controller, smacking homeruns as drunkenly as Babe Ruth once did.

My gullet once again proved its handiness during last week’s voyage across China. See, the People’s Republic plays the world’s most dangerous drinking game: “gan bei,” roughly translated to “bottoms up.” At bureaucratic and businessmen banquets, glasses are filled with beer, wine or bai jiu—a raw, vicious grain liquor that makes moonshine taste like sweet tea.“Gan bei!” the meal’s host will call, meaning everyone must empty their vessels and display them for inspection. Refusing to drink is disrespectful; drinking as much as a frat pledge is applauded. China is a country where an alcoholic could feel right at home.

I knew of the dangers before I boarded my Air China flight to Beijing, embarking on an 11-day, government-sponsored trip across China—seriously. But I sidestepped disaster as I bounced from frenetic Shanghai to seafaring Yantai to bike-friendly Hangzhou. My lucky-liver streak ended in Qingdao, a mountainous Yellow Sea city better known as Tsingtao, the birthplace of America’s favorite beer to accompany General Tso’s chicken. You won’t find such gloppy abominations in this beachy town: Culinary Qingdao traffics in fried, braised, seafood-focused cuisine that’s by turns salty and savory, with an emphasis on soy sauce, peanuts and peppers.

In Flushing, Qingdao eats are available at bright, friendly M&T (44-09 Kissena Blvd., betw. Cherry & Elder Aves., Queens, 718-539- 3398). Customers share $10 pitchers of beer alongside crispy ribs coated in shrimp paste and golden-fried fish strewn with peanuts and addictively crunchy hot peppers.

It was a good primer for dinner in our secluded dining room—a circular table filled with my six traveling companions, a local guide and three bureaucrats of varying importance, including the host, the local head of tourism. A lazy Susan was loaded with plates of tangy and flaky white fish, cartilage-crunchy sea cucumbers swimming in a minced-swine sauce and heaps of crunchy pork nibs awash in a red capsaicin ocean. I was a chili head in heaven. Hell was around the corner.

“Josh,” my translator began, motioning to the host, “he has heard you write about beer and alcohol. He would like you to drink bai jiu.”

“Can we stick to beer?” I gulped my golden Tsingtao.

“The bai jiu, it is for special occasions,” she said.

“How strong is it?” “Seventy-two degrees.” “Which is… ” “About… 145 proof.”

“Line them up,” I said, eager to make America proud. Fleet-footed waiters filled our glasses as quickly as I typed this sentence. A toast was said, the gist of which was,“We are glad to have you visit our town and vomit in our bathrooms.” Then the host hoisted his glass—sloshing white liquid smelling of unleaded gasoline—and said the words that consign so many businessmen to cirrhosis: “Gan bei!” His shot vanished like a mirage. I brought the glass to my lips and, relaxing my most reliable body part, dumped bai jiu down the hatch. It was like turning a hairdryer on my intestines. I displayed my upside-down glass, a sole drop falling onto the tablecloth like a tear. The Chinese contingent golf-clapped, as if I’d just sunk a particularly difficult putt.The waiters filled our glasses again. “Gan bei!” the host toasted. Our shots visited our respective bellies.We switched to beer, then to wine, then back to bai jiu—who knew being a Chinese bureaucrat was so fun?

Though my gullet was indomitable, my bladder was not. I excused myself to the bathroom, nearly turning my red shoes yellow and wet. Back at the table, more bai jiu awaited. I grabbed a glass.The host guffawed.

“He says you can drink well,” my translator explained. “But you should never be the first person to go to the bathroom.”

Images From China: Please Forgive

Snapped in the Beijing, in front of a Pizza Hut not selling any pizza. Lots more where these came from, lovelies. Please forgive!

Gut Instinct: Market Report

Get drunk, Josh. Get drunk! Pound it!

Let me be blunt: I loathe interviewing celebrities as much as I detest raw tomatoes, a vegetable barely fit for chucking at American Idol afterthoughts.

My hatred traces to Hugh Hefner.As a cub journalist in 2002, I took every bottom-barrel assignment. I penned trivia about Mr. T and wrote round-ups about flaming drinks and my demeaning medical experiments, subjects that endeared me to an editor at a trendy NYC mag. She hired me to ink articles on characters like Mary Carey, the porn star turned California gubernatorial candidate, who ended our interview by grabbing my berries and twig.

One afternoon, said editor called urgently.

“Can you come to California tomorrow and interview Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion?” Did water roll off a duck’s neck? I departed for JFK, armed with my tape recorder and overheated silicone-enhanced fantasies. Twelve hours later, a battalion of lingerie-clad starlets ushered me into the mansion. “Welcome,” one artificially enhanced specimen purred, her skin the color of boat shoes and red lips like inflatable arm buoys.The bionic women deposited me in Hef’s regal inner sanctum. Sweat blasted from my pores like a busted fire hydrant.

I needn’t have worried. No matter what I asked (“What’s Playboy’s role in the 21st century?”), I received boilerplate answers (“Playboy is an icon.”) and anecdotes as stale as week-old bread. The experience was not unlike interviewing a parakeet with a limited verbal repertoire. From that day forward, I swore off celebrity interviews. I succeeded. Until last week’s phone call.

“Josh, can you cover some events for the New York City Wine & Food Festival?” asked a non-Press editor.

Sure thing. Since launching last year, the Food Network shindig has grown into one of America’s preeminent culinary festivals, thanks to popular programming like the juicy Burger Bash and the sugarrushed Sweet. In lieu of those lip-smacking events, I was tabbed to cover Chelsea Market After Dark: the opening-night kickoff party featuring star chefs Guy Fieri and Sandra Lee.

“To be perfectly honest, this is not my strong suit,” I told my editor, begging off to wash my hair. “I don’t even own a TV.”

“You’ll do great,” the editor said, pumping me up like I was an insecure lover. “Besides, we’ve already put in your press pass.”

Checkmate. I grabbed my digital recorder and hit Chelsea Market, the Oreo’s birthplace. That night, the former Nabisco factory’s fancy-food marketplace became a pleasure dome for middle-aged couples with hairsprayed coiffures and the power to purchase the tasting event’s $95 tickets. It was a very specific, entitled form of hell.

“I need a stiff drink,” I told my curlyhaired photographer, reaching for a cherryequipped Manhattan.

My 40-watt mood brightened to 75. I was ready to tackle my first mission: Sandra Lee. In my mind’s eye, Lee was a large, loquacious Southerner who specialized in culinary atrocities like burgers served between glazed donuts. “Isn’t that her?” my photographer asked, pointing at a threadthin lady with long hair the color of California sand. Oh, shit. My mistake: I thought I was interviewing Paula Deen, not Lee, who specializes in style and “semi-homemade” food. Hence, ditch the question about deep-fried butter. Instead, we discussed pretty fall leaves.

“Well, that went well,” the photographer said.

“You can’t classify a train wreck as ‘going well,’” I replied, descending into the crowd. I fought through the wine-lubricated throngs, pausing to marvel at Jacques Torres: “Come inside! We will roll you in chocolate! We will cover you in chocolate!” he called to passersby. I bit the bait. “Even me?” “Only the ladies,” he replied, instead offering me a chocolate-chip cookie. It was a chunky, chewy consolation prize.

But my main target was Fieri. I entered his red-neon lair, greeted by nubile gals distributing Jägermeister swag. I scanned the room, my ears deafened by a white dude crooning Michael Jackson covers, when I spotted the supernova of attention: Fieri, his gelled hair like a blond porcupine, was ringed by fawning fans. I fought to the front and asked Fieri a couple questions about the festival’s success, softball questions with softball answers. I was going through the motions.Then journalistic inspiration struck:“I need a drink.What should I get?” Fieri passed me a plastic cup. I sipped the black liquid: Jäger, cold as an Alaskan Christmas.

“Come on, you have to pound it,” Fieri said, as if I were a failed frat boy.

I followed orders. Fieri grinned. “Now that’s not so bad, is it?” Fieri asked.

“Not so bad at all,” I replied, reaching for another icy, anesthetizing glass of what I called journalism.

Beer of the Week: Corne de Brume

Slowly, slowly do I catch up with all the posts that the Chinese government forbade me from posting. Anyway, this week (or was that last week?) I penned tale of Corne de Brume, a Canadian beer made on a salt-licked body of land. This Scottish ale is totally tasty cakes. I lurve it. Curious? Drink it up!

Gut Instinct: For Shame

When I was young, with a liver that performed like a Lamborghini and employment as the world’s surliest receptionist, I adored open bars. I’d spend workdays alternating between misdirecting phone calls and scouring Craigslist for freebie offerings—say, unlimited Bud at Lit Lounge or vodka tonics at Blue Owl, a Wednesday standby that endures today.

Free-drink deals felt like alcoholic welfare. I could continue my collegiate revelry without emptying my bank account like swimming pools come September. Night in, night out, I’d shoehorn into bars, waving my wrinkled dollar bills like flags to attract the overworked bartender’s eyes.

“Four drinks,” I’d say, batting my hazel eyes like a weathered starlet pretending to be an innocent teen.

“All for you?” the bartender would reply.

“For my….friends,” I’d say, motioning to the massed inebriants, as decorous as soccer hooligans.

When I had my fill, which is to say when the drinks ceased to be free, I’d lurch away on legs as steady as a newborn calves’. My brain would be as blank as a reformatted hard drive, driven by a simple, fallible operating system: Go home. Eat cheap food. Since I largely roamed the East Village, my feed station was Bagel Café/Ray’s Pizza (2 St. Marks Pl. at Third Ave., 212-533-6656), where I’d opt for the Sicilian slice. It was as fluffy as a pillow and as big as Tyra Banks’ forehead.Whether it was a placebo, like Prozac, or an actual cure-all, I believed the dough bomb sobered me up for the train home.The slice, I imagined, prevented me from conking out and awaking in the underground hinterlands, my pockets cut and my Velcro wallet as missing as a milk-carton kid.

Devouring the “head slice,” as Ray’s Sicilian came to be known, was a formative New York experience. Sure, it was bland and dry, the cheese like spackle, but it was our $2 tradition. Mention it to Aaron, Andrew, Steve or any character inhabiting my ecosystem, and they’ll grin broadly.Then they’ll groan and shake their heads: the regretful remembrance of consuming shame food. Shame food is as multifaceted as

Magic the Gathering dice. It could mean ravaging a 99-cent bag of bodega-bought sour-cream-and-onion Utz potato chips. Or ditching your locavore leanings for a Big Mac, chased by Middle Eastern street meat painted with yellow-tinged “white sauce.” Buying shame food is naughty and regrettable, a tequila-fueled dalliance with an ex.

You should know better, but some urges are just too strong to resist. Like open bars.

Welcome to two weeks ago. I swung by rustic rathskeller, Jimmy’s No. 43 (43 E. 7th St. betw. First & Second Aves., 212-982- 3006), to scope out a weekly event featuring sustainable, locally harvested oysters, such as Long Island Peconic Pearls and Connecticut Mystics. Fancy, yes, but I possessed a press pass. (I occasionally don pants and imitate a journalist.) But upon arriving at the antler-decorated tavern, every bivalve had been shucked and slurped. Instead I took a liquid repast in the form of Green Flash’s bitter IPA and Climax’s smooth, bright Hoffman Helles.

By 10 p.m., I was buzzard prey. I lurched to the subway, dumbly bypassing Ray’s and taking the train to Brooklyn’s

Franklin Avenue.When the witching hour draws close, my Crown Heights neighborhood is a dead zone of deliciousness.

There’s bulletproof-glass Chinese food and bulletproof-glass fried chicken. I opted for the latter at McKing’s (790 Franklin Ave., Brooklyn, No phone).

Its specialty is shame food, especially popcorn chicken served with matchstick fries.The combo costs $4.99.When alcohol has weakened me like Kryptonite, I lack the willpower to fight off the fowl lure. “I wan’ tha’ one,” I told the bored counterman. I pointed at the lurid picture of popcorn chicken.The golden orbs were round as vending machine bouncy balls.

What chicken parts create such circular flesh, I wondered, as my factory-farmed chicken and fries gurgled and crackled in the deep fryer. Ding, the timer binged— dinner served in a paper box. Outside, I crammed dubious meat between my molars. It was chewy as gum, tasting of old grease and tomorrow’s remorse.When I reached my house four blocks later, the box was crumbs and Rorschach oil blots. I clodded upstairs and embraced my girlfriend. She kissed me hello, once again thankful I hadn’t fallen into a ditch.

“Why does your breath smell like grease?” she asked, recoiling from my slick kisser.

“Sumpin’ I ate,” I muttered, stifling both my burp and the truth.

Back From Behind the Great Firewall

I think this will be my new slogan.

Sorry for the radio silence, y’all, but I was just in China for the last 12 days. And China, being a lovable Communist nation, dutifully blocks its citizens from the evils of YouTube, Twitter and Word Press. Hello, denial of service! But I am back, stinking of dumplings and Tsingtao. I will resume my irregularly scheduled hilarity shortly.

Gut Instinct: Greene With Envy

She encouraged me to drink so much. So much. So much whisky.

After countless forays to strip clubs, strip-club steakhouses and biker clubs, my girlfriend finally voiced an objection to my adventures in New York’s inebriated underbelly.

“You’re not going out with Glenfiddich’s female whisky ambassador,” she commanded. I swear steam issued from her ears, like a real-life cartoon. “I don’t want you hanging out with women wearing bikinis, dumping whisky down your throat.”

Though that mental image pleased me, I tossed water on that wet dream.This whisky emissary, Heather Greene, would wear pants. She held a respectable, enviable position: traveling the East Coast, guiding Glenfiddich tastings and proselytizing about the woodsy spirit. Plus, she’s an accomplished musician, with international tours under her belt.

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” my girlfriend said, reluctantly acquiescing to my plan: date night with a woman I wasn’t dating.

“Ready for some WHISKY?” Heather texts.

“Sweet heavens, I hope so,” I reply, arranging to meet at Tribeca’s temple of dark spirits, the Brandy Library.The Library is all leather and wood, liquor bottles glowing like amber jewels. Since the fairer sex is in short supply, I instantly ID one thirty-something Heather. She’s wearing a leather jacket and long tresses, and a warm, lip-glossed smile from which issues a good-natured ribbing. “You must be the writer,” she says, examining my gray grandpa cardigan.

“Indeed,” I reply, brandishing a pen and grabbing a bar stool. Heather orders dual drams of Glenfiddich 18.

“This is a clean, beautiful single-malt Scotch,” Heather rhapsodizes, swirling the snifter.We toast and sip the whisky, by turns rich and mellow, oaky and a smidgen sweet—a smooth lubricant for a conversation about her unlikely career. Back when the millennium was brand-new, Heather bartended at bygone music venue Tonic. Watching eclectic acts inspired her to pen tunes.The songs became her 2006 debut, the country-flavored Five Dollar Dress. Reviews were righteous. “I was written up in New York and Rolling Stone, and I performed on the BBC. Everything seemed poised for success,” Heather says.

After her European tour ended, Heather returned to town and rocked a Joe’s Pub gig. Then she went to an ATM to withdraw cab fare. Her bank account was bled out. “I’d been around the world, but I didn’t have money to get home. At that moment I had to redefine my idea of success,” she explains. “I was heartbroken by the music industry.”

The cure for heartbreak, as it has been for centuries, was found inside a liquor bottle. Heather moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, and began working at the venerable Scotch Malt Whisky Society. “I think they were excited to have a Manhattan bartender,” Heather says, laughing. At the Society, Heather discovered her knack for identifying scents. She took a test. “My percentile for nosing was crazy—like the 90th percentile,” she says. While Heather honed her whisky expertise, she began penning her follow-up, Sweet Otherwise, a delightful blend of pop and country, electronica and folk. Meanwhile, her whisky nose attracted the eye of Glenfiddich’s parent firm, William Grant & Sons.The company asked her to become its ambassador.

“Whisky was a hobby that got out of control and became my job,” Heather explains. And though there are far worse jobs, the spirits world is taxing on both mind and liver. “Last week was six days of whisky— morning, noon and night,” Heather says. She balances booze with band practice and musical side projects, like her electronica offshoot, Argon 40, featuring Powerman 5000 guitarist Adam Williams (and a killer “Free Fallin’” cover). “When the weekend comes, all I want to do is order in Chinese food.” But tonight’s Thursday, and there’s more drinking to be done.

We cab it to Flatiron Lounge, where seats are as rare as they are on rush-hour trains. “Forget this. Let’s go to Mansfield Hotel,” she says, as a taxi takes us to the Midtown inn’s M Bar (12 W. 44th St., betw. 5th & 6th Aves., 212-277-8888). It’s a cozy looker, styled with a domed skylight, mahogany bookshelves and jazz musicians.We circle the horseshoe bar. Heather orders polenta fries and whisky sours. My face wrinkles like a dirty dress shirt.

“Too sweet?” she asks. I nod. “Two Glenfiddich 12s on ice,” she orders. I assumed ice was a heresy, like ketchup on a kosher hot dog. “Not true. Ice condenses the flavor,” Heather explains. “It’s like a simple cocktail.”

We toast again, to this week’s release of Sweet Otherwise. Cool whisky warms our insides and creates a conversational intimacy. I tell Heather my girlfriend thought she’d be wearing a bikini. She laughs.

“I could still make that happen,” she kids, giving me every reason to end this story right now.

Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier Urbock – Beer of the Week

Now you’re playing with fire!

Who likes their beers smoky? This camper does! For my latest beer of the week, I pen tale of Germany’s Schlenkerla, a brewery that roasts all its malts over beechwood, imparting deep, smoky flavors—like bacon, baby, by the glass. Thirsty? Drink it up!