Beer Friday

Had you used the term "Black Friday" back in 1869, you would have been referring to the day that the conspiracy to corner the gold market by financiers Jay Gould and Jim Fisk collapsed, sending the stock market into a free fall. Had you been reading the journal "Factory Management and Maintenance" in 1951, that same term would have referred to workers calling in sick on the day after Thanksgiving to create a four-day holiday for themselves. Had you been a cop in Philadelphia in that same decade, the term would have been a reference to the the gridlock that resulted from all the sports fans flooding into town for the annual Army-Navy football game. In fact, it wasn't until the mid-eighties that some revisionist historian thought up the idea that the day after turkey day marked the start of retail's most profitable season, the time when cash ledgers turned from red to black. And now you can't utter the phrase without thinking not of a stock market collapse, vacation days or football, but rather of a flat screen TV for $99. 

These days Black Friday as an orgy of shopping has become so inculcated into the national psyche that it has taken on all the trappings of a semi-official holiday. People gather with family and friends to line up at Walmart and Best Buy. They post pictures of themselves and their loot on Facebook and Instagram as if it were their kids' second grade art project. And they recall past shopping expeditions as nostalgically as they do their honeymoon: "Remember that time we got a Suzy Slurpup Doll for $19.95 from Target? Those were the days!" 

But in some corners of the country the term has morphed yet again. In those locales it doesn't involve lining up at a big box store or the local mall. Rather, for a small but devoted subset of shoppers in cities including Chicago, Milwaukee and Seattle, Black Friday now means Beer Friday. 

It all began back in 2010. Windy City craft brewer Goose Island had been offering up its bourbon barrel-aged imperial stout for nearly two decades. They pioneered this variant, where first-use bourbon barrels are used to make suds, with each barrel used just once. The result is a stout infused with the flavors of the whiskey that was in there first. As each new batch was ready, they released it in waves in different regions. 

Then 8 years ago, as a way to call attention to their Rare Bourbon County Brand Stout, which was aged for two years in 23-year old Pappy Van Winkle barrels, they timed the release to the day after Thanksgiving. (For those not in the know, Pappy is widely regarded as one of the finest and hardest to get bourbons in the world.) Word got out and people lined up. And the beer world has never been the same since. 

Goose Island has continued the tradition, releasing that years' special variations on Black Friday. This year will see eight different stouts, including Proprietor's Bourbon County Brand Stout, made with dark chocolate; Bourbon County Brand Vanilla Stout, made with Madagascar vanilla beans; Bourbon County Brand Bramble Rye Stout, aged in rye whiskey barrels with raspberry and blackberry juice and puree added; and Bourbon County Brand Coffee Barleywine, made with Guatemalan coffee beans. There are also two newcomers: Bourbon County Brand Midnight Orange Stout, with tastes of orange peel and chocolate, and Bourbon County Brand Wheatwine, both aged in aged four-plus-year-old Heaven Hill Bourbon barrels. 

Last year about 1300 people lined up at Binney's Beverage Depot in Chicago's Lincoln Park to be the first to get some of the latest models. And the idea has spread. In Milwaukee, an estimated 1600 people lined up in 2017 to grab some of Lakefront Brewery's barrel-aged Imperial Stout Black Friday beer. This year, 11 brewers and brew pubs in that city are getting in on the act, announcing special blends like Urban Harvest Brewing's Imperial Chocolate Whiskey Stout, and Broken Bat Brewing's While We Wait Spiced Winter Ale. 

True, these purchases might not have the staying power of an Xbox game for $47.00. But for some, if it's a choice between Black Ops 4 featuring machine guns and machetes, or Black Friday Vintage Reserve with hints of vanilla and toasted almonds, they know which line to stand in to get the bigger kick.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford prefers wine to beer. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Small Plate Special

It's both a blessing and curse being on the road for work. You get to meet new people and see new places, but you also spend a lot of time away from family and friends, sleeping in strange beds and walking down endless corridors dragging a suitcase. Everyone has their own routines that make it less stressful, be it working out or eating the same breakfast every day. For me, I like to go sit at a bar. 

Not to drink, mind you (though that's OK too), but to be alone and watch the people. Often the folks I'm working will invite me to dinner, and that's all very nice. But especially after a busy day, sometimes it's nice to be anonymous and alone. I find a place that's a bit aways from the hotel and serves dinner at the rail. I take a book and settle in to have a bite and decompress. And usually the longest conversation I have involves asking the bartender their favorite dish. 

The night in New Orleans started like that. If there was any stress, it was trying to decide what to have. The menu at Cochon is designed around local Cajun and Southern flavors, using locally sourced pork, seafood and produce. Usually I glance at a menu and find one or two things that interest me. Cochon's menu is a home run: there are more things that attract my attention than courses I can possibly order.

Luckily they had small plates as well as big. So maybe the wood-fired oysters with chili garlic butter? Or the dirty rice meat pie? And not to gloss over the fresh cucumber and herb salad in vinegar. I asked the barkeep what he thought, and he validated all. He suggested starting with the cukes, and away we went. 

As I sipped my wine, the gentlemen next to me looking at his menu shook his head knowingly: "Yeah, had all of those last time." We commiserated (if that's the right word) over the injustice of only being able to eat so much in one sitting. "This time I'm starting with the fried livers with pepper jelly and toast."  He placed his order and we chatted a bit, the usual "just the facts ma'aam" small talk about home towns, travel schedule and the weather. We were strangers, until the food came out. 

His came first. I tried minding my own business, but his livers looked great, and I don't even like liver. I remarked on it, and before I knew it a portion was on my bread plate. I tried it; it was delicious. So naturally, when he remarked on my dirty rice pie, I reciprocated and shared some with him. We both retreated to our drinks, then he turned away to chat with the gentlemen next to him. A few moments later my new pal put a small plate in front of me, courtesy of his new food buddy on the other side: wood roasted Brussels sprouts with crispy onion topping. I thanked them both, and dug in. Not really a sprout fan, but these were great. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of me, a seat opened and a new fellow inquired if it was available. I told him it was his, and he too started to look at the menu. And like the rest of us, he joined the brotherhood by remarking on the difficulty of selecting a dish. I agreed, and he placed his orders. He glanced at my dirty rice pie and remarked how good it looked. So I gifted him a bite as well. 

Back at the ranch, my liver friend got his next plate, pork cheeks on hominy grit cake. And again, he pushed some my way. I barely finished savoring that before the latecomer on my other side offered me some of his first round, smoked lima beans. I eagerly had a bite of that as my next plate came, a boucherie assortment with pate, mortadella and other goodies. I offered it up and down the bar, but by then all were pretty well stuffed. Except for me, of course. I plowed on and enjoyed it all. Final tally? An impromptu dinner party with 8 courses sampled. An evening low in stress, high in cholesterol, and off the charts in satisfaction.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford loves to eat local. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Skycouch Surfing

In an ad for long defunct Southern Airlines, passengers boarding a plane walked into what looked to be a party. Champagne was flowing freely as stewardesses in mini togas frolicked with the passengers, and waiters rolled around plates of lobster tails and shrimp. A plainly delighted gentleman flashed his boarding pass, causing the flight attendant's smile to quickly change to a frown as she pronounced his sentence: "Second cabin, please." She led him a few steps to a curtain which she pulled aside as she pushed him through. He spun around to see a vista that looked like a scene from the Irish potato famine. People in rags wandered aimlessly, a man sat in a corner using a single finger to turn a record on a turntable, and a guy in fingerless gloves dolled out tin cups of mush.

While the real divide might not be that stark, the difference from the front of the plane to the back is growing. Consider the ultra luxury end of the long-haul air market. In First Class of Emirate or Etihad Airlines, you can score your own private suite along with pajamas, luxury toiletries and 32" flat screens. You can even book time in their special shower stalls, allowing you to wash off all that grime that one churns up from the hard, dusty work of flying at 32,000 feet. All it takes is about $15,000 one way.

Meanwhile at the back end they have crammed in as many people as they can. They've narrowed the seats themselves, striped away any excess cushioning and reduced the space between rows so that your knees bear more risk from flying than from being an NFL running back. On all but the longest flights meals are for purchase only. Pillows? Blankets? You'd have a better chance finding a bipartisan bill in Congress.

Seeking to cater to those who wanted something a little better, the airlines created something called Plus or Extra or More Betterer, offering a little more room and a better brand of pretzels. For medium duration lights of 2 to 5 hours, it's not a bad way spend the $35 to $85 or so it costs, especially if it's late or early and you need to catch a little sleep to be able to function once you hit the ground. However having an eyeshade provided free of charge doesn't really help if you're up there for a while. You might be able to grab a nap sitting up straight, but it will usually just file the edges off of your fatigue, and not really give you the rest you need to operate heavy machinery once you land.

Unless you are flying Air New Zealand. They have recently upgraded the design and installed fleet wide their Skycouch seat. Basically they've lengthened the footrest of an economy seat and changed the hinge so that it can be swung up flat against the row in front. Now, for most adults, unless your legs end at the knee, that's not going to do you much good. But with Skycouch you can buy the 2 or 3 seats next to you at a reduced price, enabling you to create a, well couch in the sky. 

If you're a traveling alone, buying the two next to you gives sort of a den sized divan to curl up on. If you have 2 kids in those seats, at no extra cost you can convert them to a small bed perfect for them. And if you're a couple, the promotional materials actually show a pair spooning at 35,000 feet, something business or first class cabin customers can't even do. No word on the number of times stewardesses have seen this arrangement and need to avert their eyes.

The cost is about $500 per unoccupied seat in the set. That means a three-seat set for a single traveler will add about $1000 to the base price, bringing the total to around $2500. That compares to about $5000 for a business class seat with a six foot lie flat narrow single. True, in Business Class you do get better food and bigger screens. But were I making the trip, I might book the couch either way. I have problems sleeping on planes, prefer sleeping on my side, and have lots of experience falling asleep on couches at home.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is spending too much time on planes. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Adiós, Paul

There's an old parable about a man caught in a flood in his house. As the water rises, someone comes by with truck. "No," he says, "God will save me." Soon a boat comes by, then a helicopter to get him to safety. He resists them both, shouting "God will save me." Alas, the water finally sweeps him to his death. In the afterlife, he encounters God and asks him why. "I believed in you, and yet you didn't save me." God shakes his head: "I sent you a truck, a boat and a helicopter. What more did you need as proof of my existence?"

I'm not a religious person and am highly unqualified to weigh in on matters involving theology. But for me at least, if there is one piece of evidence that proves that there is a higher being, it is Paul Alcorn.

Paul is the minister of the local Presbyterian church, and is retiring after nearly three decades of leading his congregation. I am not a member of that body; indeed I am not even of that faith. And so I will leave it to others to detail all that he did for that extended family. Likewise, there are others who can better catalog the many other examples of his compassion and outreach, like the trips he made to Central America and elsewhere, bringing a thousand adults and kids there to help rebuild houses, the Midnight Runs to offer food and comfort to the homeless, the Emergency Shelter Partnership he helped start, the scholarship money he helped raise, a list that goes on and on and is almost too long to enumerate, but which we most definitely should.

No, I knew him because we have kids the same age, and so interacted as fellow parents. Back then Paul and I weren't that friendly, merely people living in the same small town. We crossed paths on and off, but once our kids got older, had no more than a nodding acquaintance. Then a few years ago, running into him at an event, we reconnected. But we did it as adults, and so the basis of our new renewed friendship was different. And I got to know him not as a religious leader, a former School Board member, a community advocate – all of which he was – but as a friend and person.

It's rare you get to experience someone who has so pure a heart, has no ulterior motive, no ax to grind, a person who has no agenda other than to make the world a better place. He's smart and empathetic and open, all things you want anyone to be, and he is that way without any pretense. I know that all of that is part of his "job" but rarely is there so close a match between what a person truly is and the occupation they choose, or perhaps in this case, one that chose him. 

Several years ago Paul started a group called Pub Theology that meets once a month in a bar to talk about faith. Over time we have had many a thoughtful conversation with an animated group about matters big and small. We all say our piece, but we invariably turn to Paul. There is silence for a bit, as he is lost in thought. He then quietly raises points that that help illuminate rather than color. In those discussions we never solve the problems of the world, but we do feel that maybe we connected some threads, and the person who helped us weave it together was Paul.

At a retirement reception for Paul and his wife Shodie, person after person came up and extolled his virtues, and rightfully so. Paul then spoke, and talked about how much he had gotten back from the community, how much he would miss the town and the church, and how he hoped we all would all continue the good work of which he had been privileged to be a part. As he closed, he rejected "Goodbye" as too finite. Rather, he said he preferred "Adiós." While it is indeed Spanish for the same, its derivation is "May You Be Commended to God," making it both a salutation and a blessing. I might suggest one more for him: Godspeed. For if ever there was a person who deserves that sendoff it's him. As for us, may we all of be fortunate enough to know a Paul in our own lifetime.

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Marc Wollin lives in Bedford, NY. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.