Professional Documents
Culture Documents
BY
JOSH MITCHELL
JOSH MITCHELL
WICKID PISSA FILMS
mitchmitchell24@hotmail.com
http://www.wickidpissapublicity.com
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“Give a man a beer, he’ll drink for a day. Teach a man to brew, he’ll be drunk the rest of his life.”
Bronsan “Suds” Belton sits on his front porch and greets the parade of visitors to
his cottage on the beach in Brant Rock. “Welcome kingmakers!” he cackles to a posse of
beer enthusiasts lugging hefty clampdown ceramic top growlers. “I think it was the great
philosopher Humphrey Bogart who once said: ‘The problem with the world is that
everyone is a few drinks behind’”. Inside the cramped living room, an iPod is blaring
Carbon Leaf’s “What About Everything?” and people are dancing. It’s as rowdy as a
house party, and the sun hasn’t even gone down yet. Just another typical summer
afternoon at Suds’s, but it’s a helluva way for a Boston brewmaster to try to rest up
A fratboy in a Ford pickup, looking for Suds’s son, eases through the parked cars
littering the beach. He needs someone to help him lift some kegs tomorrow. Suds tells
Next comes a high school history teacher, a straight-laced dude holding a six-pack
of Mayflower Pale Ale. This is me. My Hawaiian shirt and TJ Maxx clearance-rack
cargo shorts tickles Suds, and he laughs like a man who’s seen it all and done damn near
everything, a sinister laugh that comes from dark places that I never imagined in my
worst nightmares.
“Life is too short to drink cheap beer,” says Suds, flashing his bright-white grin.
“People who like light beer don’t actually like the taste of beer – they just like to piss a
lot.” He ambles through the living room and back through the kitchen to his bedroom,
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where he keeps his own private fridge to guard against prying kin (which includes a
“I only drink this Mexican urine sample in the summer,” he says. “The rum gives
I take a couple slugs of my Happy Corona (good stuff – I never was much of a
rum man) and tell Suds about my approaching wedding. It all started with a bottle of
his wife when he was cocked on Mai Tais. That’s how it is with Suds. Any story you’ve
got, he can top it with something better, funnier, crazier. “I stuck the ring at the bottom
of a Scorpion Bowl and made my lady-to-be slurp the whole thing down like a Slush
Puppie,” he says. “I figured the odds of her saying ‘yes’ would be much better if she was
helplessly obliterated.”
The first thing you need to understand about Suds: Forget everything you think
you know about beer – and the polished turds of Budweiser imitators that use TV to sell
beer. Next to those amateurs, Suds’s beer wisdom is like Homer Simpson compared with
Jessica Simpson. So what is he doing with a new brewery, full of wild ales and farmyard
beers? For Suds, this sort of cross-cultural whiplash is nothing new. It comes as natural
as mixing Coronas and rum. It doesn’t matter what he decides to brew a beer with – the
final product always comes out vintage Belton. “Suds is a raging enigma,” says Bobby
“Baby Suds” Belton, his son and manager of the new brewery. “His whole life revolves
spent the past decade making moonshine in his basement. “The thing about Suds is that
he does not pay attention to public opinion,” says Bobby. “He gave me my first pilsner
when I was three years old and I thank him every day for it.”
Suds spent the large bulk of his existence doing backbreaking labor jobs, such as
roofing, until the past decade, when he hit his stride at an age when most people are
migrating into middle management. His gift is to take the rough knocks he’s had in life
and instill them in unique beverages. Take the case of his black lab, Oreo, featured on
the label of his seasonal Dead Dog Ale. Oreo was gunned down in a drive-by shooting.
“Some drunk dickheads passed by at night and he ran out to the road and started to bark,
and they popped off two shots and killed him.” Oreo was not only a loyal friend but also
a guard dog – protecting Suds’s sacred and stocked beer fridge: “If any of my amigos
touched my good shit he’d get at them,” he says. “One time Baby Suds tried to take a
quick sip of my secret sauce and he bit him in his man business.”
Suds’s wicked sense of humor is part of what makes Crotch Vomit one of the
three months in a rented hunting lodge not far from his house. He used three oak casks
for aging, so that each of their respective native funks would culture the beer. At the end,
Before it was released last year, Crotch Vomit had already become like ultra-
collectible rare-release Air Jordans, with beer geeks fretting over the fact that there were
only eight barrels, and anxiously strategizing about how and where they’d get a bottle.
A reddish hue color with a cloudy texture with a scent reminiscent of fruit nectar
and a Border Collie’s stale breath – it was dry champagne and as mouth-puckeringly sour
as a package of SweeTarts. One beer blogger wrote: “Crotch Vomit smells like the
small crevice behind a homeless guy’s grundle but tastes like magical babies and
Beer purists called Crotch Vomit blasphemy – others hailed it as the greatest
farmhouse ale that had ever graced their lips. “It exemplifies Suds’s real spirit more than
any other beer,” says Bobby. “His brewing is so physical. He’s got brass balls – I
haven’t tasted anything as strong. I was still busted stuff a week later.”
Crotch Vomit is a one-of-a-kind beer packed with as much bitter flavoring and
spices as Flavor Flav and Ginger Spice’s lovechild – and it showcases Suds, the genius
I’m not much of a wine aficionado, but after visiting Europe with my fiancé last
year I had become something of a beer buff. Some say my bushy eyebrows, wire-
rimmed glasses, and diarrhea of the oral cavity make me ideally suited to the parsing of
obscure beverages. A few years earlier, I’d discovered a bar in Boston called Pepe Le
Brew that had several unusual beers on tap. The best, I thought, were from a place called
Barecove Brewery, in southern Massachusetts. The brewery’s motto was “Create like a
God, command like a king, and drink like a Kennedy.” They made everything from
elegant Belgian-style ales to experimental beers brewed with lobster claws and onions
sautéed in butter. I had never seen anything like it – or tasted anything like it for that
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matter. The summer seasonal Burnt Human Hair was as adventurous as its name and its
thin white head bubbled with fruit nectar and nutmeg. I was hooked after one visit.
Every night for the next two weeks I would leave work and mosey up to the bar and
sample a new bold and brave beverage: Boiled Cabbage Ale, Decaying Elephant Corpse,
Bacon Grease Stout – I tried them all. There was something about the place – the décor,
the location, the service, the people – that I thoroughly enjoyed. For some reason, most
likely the high-alcohol content of the beers, I felt invigorated, free – almost audacious.
Before I give off the impression that I am a neurotic couch-surfing worrywart who
calculates the risk of riding Ferris Wheels, let me save you the drama for your baby’s
mama: I am. Put it this way, I had never been out of the country until recently, I wore
three condoms the first time I had sex, and my bachelor party is being hosted by my
mother and we are having a Yankee Swap. My entire life has been one safe move after
the next and lately, for some reason, I have been craving The Safety Dance. Yes, I want
to rock out to the best-selling single from the 1980’s synth pop group Men Without Hats.
And the weirdest part of it all is: I don’t even dance. I don’t know how to. Well, at least
not good. Heck, not even vaguely good. My fiancé says I look like “The Tin Man with
an atomic wedgie.” We’re scheduled to take ballroom lessons next month. That should
So the bottom line is that my wedding is two months away and my inner bowels
are urging me to explore. What I don’t know. I thought I was having a midlife crisis but
I’m only 34. I ruled out the Jack Kerouac open road possibility since I despise jazz,
poetry, and drug experiences. Plus, the idea of having sex with random loose women is
After two weeks of exhaustive soul searching, I abandoned the need to know
exactly what in the wild was calling for me. I just embraced the fact that an expedition
was in order. Luckily, one of my colleagues in the English department is a major literary
and cartoon enthusiast and subscribes to The New Yorker. One day on my lunch break in
the teacher conference room I stumbled upon the May issue. In it was a compelling
profile on Brother Thomas Schmitz, a Trappist monk who lives in a luxurious castle on
the top of Mount Schadelfreude, Germany’s highest mountain. He spends his waking
hours obeying an ancient way of life guided by the principles of simplicity, self-
suffiency, and prayer. Oh, and brewing, what he claims to be, the world’s first holy beer.
A beverage that not only tastes like God’s saliva but intoxicates you with “a divine and
indestructible feeling that makes you believe you could bend lightning bolts and use them
as toothpicks.” He has spent the last five years in seclusion working to perfect all the
essential ingredients of his “celestial golden nectar”. Next month he is opening the gates
of the castle and inviting the public, well, those brave and capable enough to scale the
dangerous summit, to join him in sampling the world’s first “God-breathed brew.”
It was obvious. I had found my almighty excursion. The big question mark was:
who in the hell was I going to get to join me on this fantastic journey?
After much careful and thoughtful debate – there was only one obvious choice:
I found Bronsan’s email address on the contact section of the Barecove Brewing
website and, on a whim, I sent him a long and detailed message outlining my plight, the
specifics of the trip, and the allure of the “unprecedented Godly beer”.
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mornings, his brewery’s answering machine was always full of rambling meditations
from fans, in the throes of booze-fueled mysticism at their local watering hole. But my
winded message was different. Much different. I had a proposition for him. The
ultimate random and, almost stalker-like, proposition: would he climb Germany’s largest
mountain with a perfect stranger to locate a monk brewmaster who claims to have created
growlers and transport the “golden nectar” back to the states to serve to our guests at the
wedding. This would be the ultimate bachelor party (Sorry mom) and adventure for a
guy who pretty much has shunned adventure his entire life. I shiver at Six Flag roller
coasters and I’ve never been to a strip club – nor do I have any friends who would go to
ambitions for himself and Barecove Brewery: to make beers so revolutionary and
dynamic that they couldn’t be judged by ordinary standards, and to live a life less
ordinary and extraordinary – always challenging the norms of the clockwork universe.
And so, a week later, Suds gave me a call: “Come down to my beach cottage on Brant
Rock this Saturday,” he said. “We’ll talk shop and drink like The Prohibition might
make a comeback.”
Shouldn’t I be home with my wife-to-be updating our Knot page and editing our seating
plan? A twelve-hour bus ride across Munich followed by a half day’s mountain
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expedition into the wilderness is crazy for anyone – especially a high school teacher who
TiVos Jeopardy every night so he can carefully grade his students’ papers.
The day I met Suds at his brewery he was wearing flip-flops, warm-up pants, and
a Larry Bird throwback jersey, and looked about as concerned with refreshing himself as
the customers bellied up at the bar, drinking free samples. When tour groups visit
Barecove Brewing, they’re greeted by a quote on the back wall from Benjamin Franklin:
“Beer is proof that Gods loves us and wants us to be happy.” From what I know of Suds
so far, this playful creed could be etched on his tombstone. His eccentricity is of an
agreeable sort: brewing beer, shunning corporate drudgery, living on the beach. For a
while after college, he did some acting, and he still looks as if he belonged in, well, a
Kevin Costner movie. He has a swimmer’s lean, long-muscled frame and a perpetual tan.
His chiseled features are set in a blockish head and topped by a messy, spiked dirty blond
quaff. When he talks, his lips twist slightly to the side and his voice comes out gruff, like
Barecove’s reputation has been built on extreme ales like its Manmeat I.P.A., one
of the strongest beers of its kind in the world. This was the first beer I sampled from
them and its power instantly hit me like a torrential downpour. I was buzzed after one
pint. It has more hops than LeBron James and it’s stronger than him too. “A typical
I.P.A. has six percent alcohol and a busload of bittering,” said Suds. “My version has
eighteen percent alcohol and it’s brewed for two hours, with continuous infusions of
Although I appreciate its ingenuity and brilliant alchemy, I don’t care for it. To
me it tastes like dead worms after an acid rainstorm – but I would never admit that to
Suds. Plus, it’s a bestseller so maybe my palette is just not mature or refined enough yet.
“When you’re trying to create new brewing techniques and beer styles, you have
to challenge the norms,” explained Suds. “I admit, I’m an intrepid iconoclast, but I have
a stellar palate. Those who don’t agree with that are probably just sober.”
Like most successful craft brewers, Suds came to beer from something else. He
grew up in Cohasset, the middle child of a real estate lawyer and the heir to a long line of
pastry chefs. His mother and grandmother have won numerous national awards for their
elegant and awe-inspiring wedding cakes. He never graduated from high school, though
Rhode Island. In 1992, he moved to Manhattan, to take film classes at NYU and work
toward a Master of Fine Arts. It was there, while waiting tables at Cuchi Cuchi Brew in
Gramercy, that he had his first taste of craft beer. Before long, he was brewing beer in
his cramped studio – his first was a pumpkin spice ale – and spending his afternoons at
Barecove Brewings and Burgers, the first pub that Suds opened in 1993, sits on
the main drag of Nantasket Beach, on Massachusetts’s southern shore. The pub’s name
“Barecove” comes from what European settlers first called the town of Hingham – its
location was inspired by his father, Bruce, who grew up in Hull’s Gut. He’s now co-
owner of the brewery and does all the event planning and catering. The property is a
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stone’s throw from the ocean and the tavern has been a smashing success from the day it
opened. The beer took a little longer. Suds had brewed fewer than ten batches before he
decided to hang the OPEN sign, and he rarely used the same recipe twice. “I’d just grab
whatever was in the cabinet and throw it in,” he says. “I made a canned tuna and Ramen
Noodle golden ale that gave me and a handful of customers the backdoor trots for three
days!” The pub’s brewing equipment consisted of two eight-gallon kegs on propane
burners, and a rack of modified kegs for fermenting the beer. To keep up with demand,
Suds had to brew two or three times a day, every day – between shifts he slept on an air
mattress in the cellar. When the beer was ready, him and his father would don hockey
masks and snowsuits and bottle the beer by hand, with a siphon and mechanical capper.
brewing. He made a medieval gruit with Twizzlers and wasabi. He made a summer
seasonal with baked beans and clam chowder from Legal Seafood. He made a stout with
bothers me. Her name is Maureen and she is an accounting manager for a big health
insurance firm in Boston. She is neat and efficient in her every little thing, from her
On a muggy Wednesday night, we dangled our feet over the edge of the Charles
River, watching the listless rowers and sailboats reflect off the Big Dipper.
I had already mentally checked out for my sashay, but there was still a kind of
magic in having my arm around the delicate shoulders of a girl by moonlight, hidden
from the hustle of the homeless by the Esplanade, breathing the warm, moist air.
Maureen plumped her head against my chest and gave me a butterfly kiss under my jaw.
“It lingered there and touched your hair and walked with me,” I sang.
I’d been startled to know that she knew Frank Sinatra. He’d been old news even
when I was a teenager. But her parents had given her a thorough – yet eclectic – musical
education.
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I am going to miss you,” she said. “You better
“I’m going to come back to you with Reece’s Pieces and a few growlers full of
She reached up and gently tweaked my nipple, and I gave a satisfying little jump.
I felt her smile against my shirt. She loved being engaged – loved hip wedding
venues like The Artist For Humanity Center – loved to try to convince me to agree to
spend more money on printing out fancy colored menus and place cards.
I loved it all too, but I really loved just sitting there with her, watching the water
and the ducks. As much as I was in my glory, I was also fired up for an adventure.
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overwhelming anxiety that stemmed from already missing Maureen. But I overcame the
awful feeling in an instant. A sexy and stylish forty-year-old Cougar seated across the
aisle told Suds that from certain angles I look just like Ryan Seacrest. Or maybe it's John
Cusack. It's somebody kind of famous, and by the time I finish feeling good about this, it
doesn't matter. The two pints of Arrogant Bastard we had on the way in start warming
my bowels, and anyhow you should see my new hiking boots. Timberlands, baby. I
bought them yesterday at Marshall’s for forty bucks and had them polished twice in the
“In Germany, I'm going to wake up with the rooster,” Suds tells me.
“In Germany, I'm going to buy a David Hassellhoff CD and sing all his songs as
“In Germany, I’m going to dress like a gay Hitler and sing David Hassellhoff," I
say.
And on and on like this we go for the entire flight – the back and forth and fast-
forward drivel that beats saying nothing, if only by a fraction. Just enough chitchat to
make us ignore the cheesy Jennifer Aniston romantic comedy playing and, for me, just
enough alcohol to ensure that I'm a hundred percent pain free by the time the
stewardesses have their little hush-hush up near the cockpit and decide I've drunk all the
complimentary Stella I'm going to drink. And my attitude is like, fine, so be it – look at
We land in Germany without incident. On our way off the plane, the woman who
thinks I look like Dave Matthews reminds us to watch out for “the radical jihadists on the
mountain” and that this is Munich after all, and who can know what she means by this,
though I wouldn't be surprised if she can tell just from looking at me how long it's been
We take a shuttle to our digs, making the kind of talk you make upon first arriving
someplace – the weather, the architecture, what we're going to eat. It's our first night in
Germany, and so we'll hit all the tourist spots, acclimate ourselves to the Germanness of
it all, and, most likely, buy some steins and fill them with the good local shit.
At check-in, Suds does all the talking. In German. I can't stand it. I'll admit as
well to being a little disappointed by the girl they got working the desk. I'd expected
maybe something more glamorous, something a little more Marlene Dietrich? Claudia
Schiffer – she is not. But me, I'm pretty much shut out of things as Suds rolls a spit-
fueled rant and the girl takes his credit card without so much as a smile. I'm left standing
there with a tightened sphincter and a runny nose while Suds and the German girl laugh
about something related to my hair. She hands him two keys and Suds points to our bags
“I told her you were a famous gay hair stylist,” he says, laughing.
Our room looks like any other Holiday Inn room you've ever seen, only
Germaner. Suds heads for the shower. I turn on the TV and quickly learn that some
American shows do not translate well into German culture. A good example is The
Office. Instead of just dubbing the original British or Steve Carell version, the German
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version is a remake called Stromberg that uses German actors and incorporates German
business practices and culture. Not funny, or maybe it is, I don’t know, I can’t relate or
comprehend any dialogue – same with The Simpsons which they call Die Simpsons here
Suds rushes out of the shower and quickly gets dressed. He grabs a growler from
A cluster of quality German beer gardens await us and we toast to the health of all
air travelers as we leave for the swank European nightlife, which seems to me now, with
its chic fashion and its whoosh of constant cigarette smoke, both exciting and dreadful.
for its natural vistas of steep and narrow paths, its precipitous crags, and its dangerous
hiking trail to the summit. It is home to several influential German castles and
Known as the “Number One Vast and Vertical Peak under Heaven”, Mount
Schadenfreude proudly lives up to its reputation through its perilous “der Schwanz”, a
twelve feet long, one foot wide plank path situated along a jagged cliff, where just one
Extreme weather conditions don’t make the traverse any easier either as fog and
vapors rise up from the heavily vegetated valley below, resulting in constant haze and
Those are the potentially deadly obstacles you need to keep in mind if you plan to
tackle this beast: Schadenfreude Trail is not about mountain-climbing but hiking. As
such, you don’t get to use high-tech equipment that could save your life – it’s just you,
nature and, if you think ahead, a few custom-made growlers full of potent farmyard beer.
The morning we began our travels the mountain was in its finest colors. Summer
had brought to it a splendid robe, gorgeous and glowing, its green adorned with wild
flowers, and the bloom of bush and tree like a gigantic stretch of tapestry. The vast
alpine meadows and rocky deserts sprawled out in endless rows and overhead the foliage
I drank in the glory, eye and ear, but never failed to watch the underbrush, and to
listen for hostile sounds. I knew full well that my life rested upon my vigilance and, as
often as I had watched Rambo, I valued too much these precious days to risk my sudden
When the shadows from the waving shrubbery fell upon its feathers it shined a bright
purple, but when the sunlight poured through, it glowed a glossy blue. I did not know its
name, but it was a cool bird, a happy bird. Now and then it ceased its hopping back and
forth, raised its head and sent forth a deep, sweet, thrilling note, amazing in volume to
come from such a small body. Had it dared to sing a full song I would have crooned a
bar or two of Sinatra in reply. The bird was a friend to one alone and in need, and its
dauntless melody made my own heart beat faster. If a creature so tiny and fragile was not
A peculiar sound erupted out of the rickety unknown. It was so slight that it was
hard to differentiate it from the whisper of the wind. It was barely audible but when I
listened again and with all my powers I was sure that it was a new and foreign noise.
Then I separated it from the breeze among the leaves, and it seemed to me to contain a
quality like that of the human voice. If so, it might be hostile, because my partner-in-
crime, Suds, was among the missing. We lost each other halfway up the mountain.
The muffled shriek, scarcely more than a variation of the wind, registered again
though lightly, and now I knew that it came from the lungs of man, man the pursuer, man
the slayer, and maybe, in this case, man the brewmaster, perhaps Suds, the fierce
beverage inventor. Doubtless it was a signal, one beer devotee calling to another, and I
listened anxiously for the reply, but I did not hear it, the point from which it was sent
being too remote, and I settled back into my bed of hedges and grass, resolved to keep as
I was keenly apprehensive. The signals indicated that the pursuing force had
spread out, and I was worried that they might enclose me in a fatal circle. My eager
temperament, always sensitive to impressions, was kindled into fire, and my imagination
painted the whole chase scene in the most vibrant of colors. A mere thought at first, it
now became a conviction: terrorists are combing the mountain looking for me. They had
stumbled upon my trail by chance, and, venomous about Americans, would follow me for
hours in an effort to kill me. I closed my eyes and pictured them with all the intensity of
reality, their malignant faces, dirty turbans, powerful guns and explosives.
But my imagination which was so vital a part of me did not paint evil and danger
alone – I also envisioned myself refreshed, stronger of body and keener of mind, escaping
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every trap and trick laid for my ruin. I saw myself making a victorious flight through the
cliffs, my arrival at the castle, my reunion with Suds, my handshake with the master
monk, and my lips gracing a frosty mug full of the golden nectar.
Before I could bask in the daydream, the bird sang again, pouring forth a brilliant
tune, and I ducked down in a hidden position. It had a fine spirit, an optimistic spirit like
my own and I knew it would warn me if danger crept too close. While the thought was
fresh in my mind the third signal came, and now it was so clear and distinct that it
indicated a rapid approach. But I was still unable to choose the right direction to flee and
I looked for a sign from the bird. I figured that if the terrorists were charging at us it
would fly directly away from them. At least I hoped so, and optimism had so much
power over me, especially in such a situation where belief becomes assurance.
The bird stopped singing suddenly, but kept his perch on the waving branch. I
swear that it looked straight at me before it uttered two or three sharp notes, and then,
rising in the air, hovered for a few minutes above the limb. It was obvious that my call
had come. For a breathless instant or two I forgot about the dangerous Islamists and
watched the bird, a flash of blue flame against the green veil of the forest. It uttered three
or four tweets, not short or sharp now, but soft, long and beckoning, dying away in the
come, and I was not in the least surprised, when the blue flame like the pillow of a cloud
We crossed a deep valley and began the ascent of another high hill, rough with
rocky outcrops and a heavy growth of briars and vines. I slowed my pace and once or
twice I thought I had lost my soaring tour guide, but it always reappeared, and, for the
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first time since its initial flight, it sang a boisterous ballad, a clear melodious treble,
I felt like I was in a Disney film and I believed that the song was meant for me.
Clearly it called out for me to follow, and, with equal clarity, it told me that safety lay
only in the path I now traveled. I believed, with all the ardor of my soul, and there was
no fatigue in my body as I scaled the pebbly gorge. I was between the horns of a
I felt little weariness as I climbed the rugged ridge. My breath was easy and
regular and my steps were long and swift. My chivalrous chaperone was flying slowly in
front of me. Whatever my pace, whether fast or slow, the distance between us never
seemed to change. The bird would dart aside, perhaps to catch an insect, but it always
I reached the crest of the summit, and saw the epic castle in the distance, fold on
fold, lying before me. My coveted haven was not so far away, and the great pulses in my
temples throbbed. I would reach the top, and I would find refuge in a cold beer.
The forest remained dense, a sea of vegetation with bushes and clinging thorns in
which an ignorant or incautious hiker would have tripped and fallen, but I was neither,
and I did not forget, as I fled, to notice where my feet fell. My skill and presence of mind
kept me from stumbling or from making any racket that would draw the attention of
possible extremists who might creep up on me and cut my head off for Allah.
I sprinted up the last hilly knoll and before me spread the imposing castle in its
deep moat setting, a glittering spectacle that I never failed to admire, and that I admired
even now, when my life was in peril, and seconds were precious.
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The bird perched suddenly on a protruding stick, uttered a few thrilling chirps,
and was gone, a last blue flash into the dense sin-concealing chaos. I did not see it again,
and I did not expect to. Its work was done. Strong in the faith of the wilderness, I
believed and always believed that my furry friend would lead me to safe grounds.
I crouched a few moments on a ledge and just stared at the majesty of the castle.
Suds was nowhere to be seen. I found a quiet section of refuge, grown thickly with ivory,
and I followed it at least a football field long, until the gargoyles towered above me, dark
and intimidating, and the castle came up against me like a wall. I could go no farther. I
undergrowth, and I stayed still. It appeared to be the cry of a wild boar, calling to its
mate, but my attention was attracted by an odd inflection in it, a strain that seemed
familiar. I listened with the utmost attention, and when it came a second time, I was so
sure that it was Suds that my heart almost bungee-jumped out of my chest.
It was naive of me to think that he would arrive in full daylight, exposed to every
hostile eye. It was his natural course to approach in the dark and send an incognito signal
that only I would know. I imitated the call, a soft, low note, but one that traveled far, and
soon the answer came. No more was needed. The circle was complete. Suds was hiding
somewhere close and I knew that he was lingering by the overskirts of the castle, waiting.
I took a long breath of intense relief and delight. One less cautious would have
immediately repeated the call, but I knew that Suds had found me and I did not want to
run the risk of tipping off the terrorists where we were. Meanwhile, I listened attentively
for any quiet sign, but many long minutes passed before I heard a faint whistle. I never
21
doubted for an instant that it was my devoted drinking buddy and again my heart felt that
triumphant feeling. Surely no man had ever had a more loyal or braver comrade! If I had
vicious enemies I also had a faithful and, most likely inebriated, friend who more than
offset them.
I saw a shadow, a deeper dark in the darkness, and I whimpered the low bellow of
the wild boar. In an instant came the answer, and then the shadow, turning, glided toward
me. I leaned out from the tree to the last inch, and called in a penetrating whisper:
In the dusk his iconic figure loomed up, more than ever a tower of strength, and
his slender but muscular form seemed to be made of gleaming bronze. Had I needed any
infusion of courage and determination his appearance alone would have gave it to me.
“I made a beeline down an open path and when I turned around you were
nowhere to be found. So I drank the rest of the growler and passed out on a huge stump
chemical bombs. I have not seen them, but I know from the venom and persistence of the
pursuit that they were after me. I eluded them by coming down the cliff and hiding
“I’m here now, brotha,” said Suds. “There’s nothing to fear but beer itself, baby!”
22
He spoke in his usual Boston bravado and in a light playful tone, but I knew the
depth of his feelings. The friendship of the brewmaster and the high school teacher was
held by hooks of steel like that of Matt Damon and Ben Affleck.
“I heard your hearty wild boar call,” said Suds. “It wasn’t very loud, but never
“It is merely the custom of my people, forced upon us by need, and I but follow.”
“It doesn’t alter my astonishment, kingmaker. You, my friend, are the ultimate
We awkwardly hugged and headed toward the entrance of the monk’s castle.
The doorbell sounded with a loud chime. Brother Goric, head of the brewery,
answered, dressed in the Cistercian habit of white robe with a black, hooded outer robe,
gray socks and leather sandals. His dark hair was cropped short. He wore a plain digital
The interior of the monastery was circled by sandstone walls like a medieval
fortress (it was founded in the twelfth century and rebuilt in the nineteen-twenties), but its
brewery was as high-tech as they come. From the grain bins to the onion-domed copper
kettles to the fermentation tanks, the operation was largely gravity-driven and even a
It was the biggest brewing day of the year, but the abbey was still quiet and
peaceful. Brother Goric led the way past the aluminum tanks and the bottling room,
where the infamous Brother Thomas was addressing a handful of hardcore travelers.
23
He was a wizardly figure with a long white beard and large glasses that seem to
draw his eyes together at the inner corners. He had a quiet but penetrating voice, a sharp
"As monks, the rule is pray and work. These are the two pillars of a Trappist
life," Brother Thomas explained. "If all we did was pray we would lose our mind. There
has to be a break between work and monastic life. So we find our balance in brewing.”
Brother Thomas, 45, retreated to the castle eight years ago. Before that, he was a
captain in the Belgian police force. "We are separated from the world, but we encounter
the world in ourselves," he said. "You do not become a saint simply by entering a
monastery. Like anything of value, you have to earn it and it takes time.”
The historical King Jehu was an idolater ruler in what is now central Israel. When
he was buried, around 700 B.C., his tomb was filled with more than a hundred and fifty
drinking vessels – parting toasts to the dead king. By the time he was excavated, in 1948,
the liquid inside them had evaporated. But Brother Thomas, more than fifty years later,
was able to analyze some residue from a wooden ladle and identify its chemical content.
By matching the compounds to those found in the foods and spices of ancient Jerusalem,
Thomas gradually pieced together the liquid’s main ingredients: laurel leaf, fennel,
barley, autumn crocus, and a chunky substance that was probably matzo ball soup.
“A top-notch beer may be judged with only one sip but it’s better to be thoroughly
sure,” Thomas said, as he poured us a stein full of his famous Do You Feel Lucky Monk
Ale. We sat at a spacious oak table in his office in the brewery, surrounded by daunting
liquid chromatograph. Here and there, pottery sculptures, arrowheads, and other artifacts
were wrapped in plastic or aluminum foil and stuffed in file drawers or cardboard cases.
“Let us drink to the replenishment of our strength,” he said, raising his beefy glass of
grappa to the sky. “And to you, trusted high school teacher: May you and your bride-to-
Thomas had recently published his findings on King Jehu and was preparing to
make a modern-day replica of the beverage when The New Yorker called.
Jehu Juice, as it was later called, has a brilliant rose-gold color – every batch
contains about a bathtub full of wild rosemary – and a thick, honeyed, spicy flavor: a
cross between beer, milk, and Jolt. It is the world’s most unorthodox drink. “To have a
sip is to taste heaven,” Brother Thomas said. “I’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom.”
He filled our growlers up to the brim and we talked about the cosmic carpet of the
future unrolling before us, of the certainty that we would encounter alien intelligences
some day, of the unimaginable frontiers open to each of us. He told us that a passion for
politics was a strong indicator that one’s personal reservoir of introspection and creativity
He believed that Obama recaptured the true essence of socialism: in the old days,
if you were broke but respected, you wouldn’t starve. On the other side of the coin, if
you were rich and hated, no sum could buy you security and peace. By measuring the
thing that money really represented – your personal capital with your spouse, friends and
And then he lead us down a subtle, carefully baited trail that led to my admission
that while, yes, we might someday encounter alien species with wild and fabulous
lifestyles, that right now, there was a slightly depressing homogeneity to the world.
manner. The charm of new acquaintances and improvised amusements served to make
the time pass agreeably. We enjoyed the pleasant sensation of being separated from the
world, living, as it were, upon a royal castle, and consequently obliged to be sociable
random dudes who, two weeks ago, did not even know each other, and who were, for
several days, condemned to lead a life of extreme intimacy, jointly defying the anger of
the weather, the terrible onslaught of terrorists, the anxiety of approaching nuptials, and
the agonizing monotony of the terrain. Such a life becomes a sort of strange existence,
with its hiccups and its grandeurs, its serendipity and its diversity – and that is why,
perhaps, we embark upon escapism voyages with mingled feelings of pleasure and fear.
But, during our descent down the mountain, a new sensation had been added to
the life of the transatlantic traveler. A little floating island of adventure was now attached
to the world from which it was once quite free. A bond united us, even in the very heart
During the final day of our hegira, we felt that we were being followed, escorted,
preceded even, by that distant voice, which, from time to time, whispered to one of us a
THE END