I was once at a friend’s party, commiserating (over what was probably one too many shots of good tequila) about how pitifully mundane most music on popular radio is. A woman sat up altogether waaaaaay too proudly and said, “I do like Nickelback, though. They rock.” Before my slightly pickled brain had a chance to slow my mouth down, I blasted back, “Nickelback SUCKS! Ugh, I can’t stand those assholes.” Now that I come to think about it, I haven’t been invited back since then.

But apparently I’m not alone in my deeply seeded hatred of that band. Apparently, there are still people with respectable standards for what is and isn’t good rock music. And although this is old news, apparently Nickelback was served a big steaming plate of crow by one of its naysayers. All, thank Dio, is well again in the musical universe.

“We’d like to have your delivery truck pull up to this frat party and wheel up a bunch of Dark Horse, then we’ll get some crowd shots of the kids holding your cans,” was how the conversation started out two years ago. Dark Horse Brewing’s head brewer, Aaron Morse (who makes a great, unfiltered Crooked Tree IPA), wasn’t so eager to bite. “We don’t do cans we have bottles.” The Michigan-based brewery’s blog went on to detail its desire to pass on the opportunity to have one of its brews featured in a Nickelback video, and it wanted to know what its readers/customers thought.

“It’s obvious that this would be a great opportunity for us and maybe get some mainstream youth into craft beer rather than the swill. However, none of us at the brewery really care for the band (or frat parties) so our knee jerk reaction is “no thanks”. Morse griped, “Why can’t it be some cool band like Slayer? The guy that called said the lead singer is familiar with our brand. What does that mean? Does the lead singer of Nickelback drink craft beer?” My personal guess is that he prefers a good Sutter Home white zin, but who knows.

Dark Horse unsurprisingly declined the offer, despite the dangling carrot that would most likely have meant a great deal of exposure. When the story started getting attention two years later, Michigan Live asked Morse for his current thoughts on the decision. “I absolutely hate that band. It’s shit rock and roll that doesn’t deserve to be on the radio.” And while there really seems to be no better way to sum up a post than with that quote, a Huffington Post reader went on to comment, “Coulda been worse. It could have been Creed.”

BrewDog Gets Bitten By Rabid Alpha Male
Nobody ever claimed that taking a slice of the market away from the top dogs in the beer business was going to be easy. But in what can only be described as a “holy shit did I just say that out loud?” moment, British beverage giant Diageo decided to screw BrewDog out of a BII award for Bar Operator of the Year by threatening to pull all future sponsorship of BII events if the award went to BrewDog. BII, in typical puppy fashion, hid its tail between its legs at the threat of blackmail and obliged. The new “winner” of course refused the award (because it had BrewDog’s name engraved on it already), which in turn raised a few eyebrows. Diageo has since apologized for its hasty attempt to fix the awards, describing it as an “error of judgement”. BrewDog is now retaliating with a special ale that will commemorate this epic oops, and are looking for name suggestions. Gonzo’s would be: Hair of the Dog That Bit You Ale.

What You See is Not What You Get
Consumers everywhere are freaking out after learning that Kashi has been playing them. Known as one of the nation’s leading “natural” cereal brands, Kashi (owned by Kellogg) was recently mentioned in a Cornucopia Institute study that detailed its use of GMO grains and the presence of pesticide residues found on conventional grains that were then packaged as their “natural” cereals. For a while, Kashi’s consumer call-in line went dead, offering only a recorded message saying that they were “temporarily not accepting calls.” While many are viewing this as a wake-up call as to just how underhanded and deceitful multinationals can be with what they are putting in your cereal bowl, others are thrilled to have the opportunity to tell their wives, “See, it’s not better for me” and grabbing the Frosted Flakes.

Because the Mind is a Terrible Thing…To Waste
If there’s one thing everyone can agree on, it’s that not everyone can always agree. Take, for instance, the recent study that has found that men who drink two pints of beer before tackling brain teasers perform better than those who attempt the riddles sober. Putting aside the fact that we are after all talking about men, researchers did indeed find that drinkers got more test questions right and were quicker in delivering the right answers. The current theory is that alcohol hinders analytical thinking and allows “creative” thoughts (i.e. shaving a buddy’s ass, tattooing their faces, cursing out a police officer) that might otherwise by stifled to take root. But there are a host of California winemakers who are insisting that if alcohol isn’t enough to slow the mind then, by golly, pot will! Enter, stage left, the white-collared stepchild of pot brownies…pot wine. Increasingly lax marijuana laws in California are serving as an incentive for more and more winemakers to drop a pound of weed into each fermenting cask of wine. Besides creating the potential for a marketing craze, it yields just enough mary jane per bottle to help you screw up brain teasers and make you crave White Castles.

I Love the Smell of Court Rooms in the Morning
Francis Ford Coppola loves eating “a tavola” style. Truth be told, the famous filmmaker looks like he just loves eating, but a recent lawsuit against a local restaurant named Tavola Italian Kitchen may soon have him eating crow. The litigious Coppola, who has already successfully sued a Spanish winery for a label that he claimed too-closely resembled his Sofia label, is now suing the small Tavola restaurant for trademark infringement…apparently he trademarked the phrase “a tavola” (to the table) in ’08 and uses it to describe the dining style in his eateries. Tavola, a 70-seat restaurant in a strip mall, could harldy be confused with the opulence of the Coppola Estate, but when you’ve got enough money to trademark a centuries-old Italian expression it doesn’t really matter. Rumor has it that Coppola will soon be trademarking “mangia,” “cin cin,” and “va fangul” putting nearly every Italian-American in danger of his long-reaching, greedy hand, so watch what you say lest you find yourself sleeping with the fishes.

The celebration of a mother is a curious thing. As the story goes, the history of every American holiday with good intent winds up in the garbage bins of commercialization and bastardization. Anna Jarvis, the “founder” of Mother’s Day kicked off the tradition by holding a memorial for her hard-working mother…two years after she had passed away. Thus I guess that, all things considered, I’m glad my 14-year old is willing to celebrate me now and not two years after I’ve returned to dust. Jarvis eventually died in poverty, railing against what her brainchild had become, embittered that lazy American children hardly did more than buy a greeting card for their mom. Luckily, I can’t complain. I’m actually holding out for a freestyle rap from my kid this year that will most likely end up being a cross pollination of Eminem and Bob Dylan.

But rather than wait for Sunday, I sing a Song of Myself all weekend long, relishing in the pleasure that bubbles always bring to my life. No still wine. No beer. No spirits. The entire weekend is dedicated to bubbles, wherever they may call home. Easily the most intriguing bottle I had was a 2010 Causse Marines Preambulles from, of all places, Gaillac. Made with 100% Mauzac grapes, it was described by Jon Rimmerman (of Garagiste) as being “not for those seeking classic Champagne—this is for those that seek the outer reaches of our effervescent world.” Sold! The wine was lightly sparkling despite the fact that, upon opening it the wine geysered out the top. And I, in my infinite wisdom and wolf-like instincts decided to put my mouth over the top of the bottle and capture was was frothing out. Grabbing the wine glass that sat next to it to simply pour out the wine seemed to have gone right over my head for the first few seconds. Hence, about one glassful was lost. After tasting this eccentric petillant-naturel I sobbed a little silently at the loss of that one glassful. Petillant-naturel is sparkling wine made entirely with indigenous yeast (much like a lambic) and with only one fermentation instead of the two that give Champagne its bubbles. This is done by cooling down the wine in tank before the wine is completely dry, and then allowing it to complete fermentation in the bottle. Attempting to describe the Preambulles is akin to trying to nail Jell-o to a tree. It was cider, chalk, honeycomb and ginger all slathered on just-baked bread. It was beguiling. It was out there. Then it was gone.

But when I awoke this morning, eager to enjoy the stillness of a still-sleeping household, I didn’t reach for the bubbles. I reached for grape juice. Verjus. Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes). And it’s why I sit here typing at 7:20 in the morning rather than sitting on my deck, keeping the happiness tucked in my back pocket. I had recently received 3 samples from Bonny Doon and one of them was a verjus (“green juice”) of their grenache grapes. I went to sleep last night a bit miffed because I had forgotten to put the bottle of verjus in the fridge, and by the time I realized it I was tucked just a little too deeply into my warm bed to have any inspiration left in me to go back downstairs. I slept doonly, quietly hoping the juice’s natural acidity wouldn’t bite my face off in the morning…Stretch’d and still lies the midnight.

When fine wines are made, it is standard practice to prune the grapes while they are green, thinning what is left on the vine so that the focus of the vine’s work is one on quality, not quantity. But it seems an affront to the grapes (and to my palate) to leave those trimmed grapes on the ground to become food for the worms. I like worms. But not that much. However if you wait just a bit longer, until the grapes have just turned color but are still busting with acidity, you can actually harvest what you prune and make juice. I have always hated commercial grape juice for it’s lack of grapey-ness. It is generally a clusterfuck of pasteurized concentrate, acids (malic and ascorbic) and “natural flavors”. It’s thick, cloying and ummm….purple. All things that grape juice should not be. Doon’s Verjus de Cigare is lovely—a word I don’t think I’ve ever used on this blog, so take note. It walks the fine line between acidity and sweetness, and it walks it quite elegantly, not like a drunken buffoon at a DUI test. My ties and ballasts leave me…I am afoot with my vision. Randall mentions that it’s a brilliant culinary tool for the chef’s toolbox, but I would add to that the mixologist’s toolbox as well. I can easily see myself scooping up what few bottles of this are left (439 cases produced) and hoarding them selfishly to make cocktails with all summer.

So this morning I raise a glass of lovely verjus and toast both the mothers that read this blog and the motherfuckers. You know who you are. Love your moms before they’re gone, and do not love them more after they’ve gone…love them similarly. Because our hearts should not be gilded by memories, but by the present. As for me, I’ve told my son to prune me while I’m young and still have just the right balance of sweetness and bite. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless.

I was sitting in the quiet of a few stolen moments before party guests arrived, contemplating this piece, when I received an email from a blogger friend telling me that a fellow soulmate of sorts had suddenly passed away. Those of you that have read this blog for more than a couple of years know that I’ve raved before about Oxford Falls and their amazing bloody mary mixes. Behind that name was a man who, beyond being a mad talent in his R&D kitchen, was a kind, beautiful soul who made a shitload of friends on Twitter that now mourn his passing. None of us ever got the chance to meet him, but his snarky, off-center comments kinda walked hand in hand with a warm sincerity that you knew was genuine and unflinching. I gave pause and thought, damn, I should really just dedicate an entire post to him, but he no doubt would have kicked my ass for putting aside what I had intended to write in the first place. Jim Mosier is too soon gone, but from where he sits now (with a cold, spicy bloody mary in his hand) he wants you to know that you are being had…

I can no longer count—nor to do I care to honestly, at this point—how many menus I’ve perused in New York City that offer a dish made with Kobe Beef. I’d liken that offering to the guy outside just a block down, selling Louis Vuitton purses for 15 bucks, but that would be an insult to the street vendor because at least he isn’t fucking you silly while he’s bending you over…after all, you know that purse isn’t really a Louis Vuitton, and you don’t much care because you’re only paying a fraction of what the real ones cost. But those $40 Kobe burgers at the Scam the Schmuck Bistro? They’re not real, either. Chances are, unless you’ve been to Japan you have not had Kobe beef.

You can’t buy Japanese Kobe beef in the US. No store, no restaurant, no “gourmet importer” in this country carries it. It’s doesn’t matter how much of your paycheck you’ve blown, or what rock star chef you trusted with the beef on your plate, if you ordered Kobe beef in the US you were unequivocally fucked. There is absolutely no way you have tasted the master of meats called Kobe. Why? Because since 2010 it has been illegal to import any Japanese beef. And before 2010 you could only import boneless fresh Japanese beef, none of which was real Kobe. In fact, the only place Kobe beef is exported to is Macao. Ever been there? Can you even find it on a map?! China.

Restaurant critics may rave about it, your favorite food rag may dedicate an entire issue to it, online vendors may gladly ship it to you, but “it” simply isn’t Kobe. And answering how they could possibly get away with it is sadly easy. It’s unregulated. Why? Because we Americans have a flare for thievery. In the same way that a New Jersey winery can call their sparkling wine “Champagne” if they feel like it, “Kobe Meat” may be a patented term in Japan, but it’s not recognized or protected by US law. Here, Kobe means nothing. Actually, wait, no, that’s not quite accurate. Here, Kobe means high profits because it means nothing.

The con the US food industry is selling you is that the paycheck-worthy steak on your plate is somehow linked to a heritage of excellence and culinary superiority. It ain’t. And if you are somehow able to put that aside and think that at the very least…if nothing else…you are getting the domestic equivalent of that Kobe cattle, you ain’t. In Japan, to be Kobe requires a pure lineage of Tajima-gyu breed cattle. The animal must also have been born in Hyogo prefecture and thus raised on the local grasses and water and terroir its entire life. It takes much longer to raise for consumption, must be processed in a Hyogo slaughterhouse—none of which export to the US—and then pass a strict government grading exam. There are only 3000 head of certified Kobe Beef cattle in the world, and none are outside Japan. The process is so strict that when the beef is sold, either in stores or restaurants, it must carry the 10-digit identification number so customers know what particular Tajima-gyu cow it came from.

Here, our government lets the cattle, retail and restaurant industries call nearly anything Kobe beef. You may be buying it because of its reputation, but what you are getting is a trampled version of it. Trampled literally under foot. It’s not Kobe—hell, it’s not even Japanese—it’s just a cow. And if they try to put on an air of transparency and sell you “Domestic Kobe” or Wagyu, know that they are still screwing with your head. That has little to no meaning here, either. US ranchers have crossbred cattle, both Eastern and Western, until they’ve become kissin’ cousins, to produce a bloodline that usually only has a hint of Japanese heredity…yet they still call that resulting breed Wagyu. So the burger may be juicy, it may be really damned tasty, and it will no doubt be costly, but it definitely isn’t Kobe. The only true Kobe you can pay to experience in America graces a basketball court, not a dinner plate.

DAY 1 – HAPPY HUMP DAY

Bob the Coworker: …you mean to tell me you’ve roasted a pig before?

Me: Yeah, dude, I’m Cuban. I’ve been roasting pigs since I hit the double digits. Why, you doing one?

Bob: My buddy is turning 40. We’re doing one for his birthday. How do you do it?

Me: Well, did you get a box or a rotisserie?

Bob: What the hell is a box?

Me: Caja China. They’re actually pretty inexpensive if you plan on doing more pigs, but you can rent them, too. Or rent the rotisserie.

Bob: What about procedure and recipes?

Me: Sure. I’ll write it all down for you but it’ll be Cuban style.

Bob: No brines?

Me: (hand on hip, impatient look) No, Cubans don’t brine. And for the love of all that’s holy please don’t think you’re gonna do this “polynesian style” with some sticky sweet baste because you WILL burn the pig with that kind of sugar. If you care about crackling, it’s just a good dose of salt on the skin, OK?

Bob: No, no, nothing like that. Though we might do some barbecue sauce at the end.

Me: (walking away) I did not just hear that. You’ll have a recipe and procedures tomorrow.

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DAY 2 – THREATENING THURSDAY

Me: Bob I just emailed you everything…step-by-step procedures on making sure the pig is clean and ready, how to prep it and marinate it, how to keep it cold, and how to cook it.

Bob: Awesome, you rock. Thank you soooooo much….(hours pass by)

Bob: (approaches my desk looking really pissed off) We have a problem. The dude whose house we’re having the roast at is complaining that it’s like an hour and a half drive to go get to the rental place so he’s refusing to go. He’s claiming that we should do it old-school anyway, without the help of a rotisserie or box.

Me: Oh, so he’s gonna build a huge fire pit in his back yard then and just string the pig up? I’m pretty sure there are fire ordinances against that, dude.

Bob: No shit, Sherlock. This guy is driving me fucking crazy. (throws his hands up and walks away…another hour goes by)

Bob: (at my desk again) OK, so exactly how long do you think a pig this size will be? 4 feet maybe?

Me: Uh, I dunno maybe this long (I motion with my hands). I think I have a photo of me with one if you wanna see.

Bob: Ok, I think that’ll fit. The asshole now claims we can do it in his grill which is pretty big. We’ll just have the head cut off and do that in the smoker. (starts to walk away)

Me: Don’t forget you’ll still have to account for the legs Bob!

Bob: mouths the word “fuck” in the middle of the office

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DAY 3 – FREAKY FRIDAY

Text arrives from Bob with a telling prep photo.

Me: LMAO. U belong in a horror flick…Bride of Piggy   U decide on how U R prepping? Brine?

Bob: No brine. Straight up salt and pepper, with mesquite chips.

Me: Excellent choice, bro! Save me a chunk for my bday!

Bob: You’d be so pissed at me right now. Drinking effin’ Coors Light.

Me: Ewwwww! I am drinking Dogfish Head Chateau Jiahu.

Bob: Friggin beer snob….it’s a great quality to have.

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DAY 5 – SOAKED SATURDAY

Text arrives from Bob with a second concerning photo.

Bob: Revolutionary methods.

Me: That in the grill? LOL. So much for “whole hog”

Bob: So, ummm, it snowed pretty good here. He panicked. We cut it up a bit more and put it in the oven. We have industrial, restaurant-grade equipment.

Me: So no wood chips either, then?

Bob: Mesquite. In the oven. We aren’t smoked out because of the industrial hood above.

Me: I am sure U R drinking so if it does get smokey, just remember: stop, drop and roll…the keg out the door.

Bob: Oh the drinking started at like 10:30.

Me: No more Coors Light, I hope?!

Bob sends third disconcerting photo.

Me: Bleck! There aughta be a law!

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DAY 6 – BLACK SUNDAY

Me: (texting) Wellllll??????

Bob: So much pig. So comatose right now.

Me: Excellent. Tell me tomorrow.

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DAY 7 – BLUE MONDAY

Bob: (sitting in the conference room, waiting for our marketing meeting to start) FYI, I’m going vegetarian from now until my trip to New Orleans in May.

Me: Because of the pig?

Bob: Dude, you had to see it. By the time we pulled it out, it kinda just shredded all apart on the counter and like 30 ravenous, drunk guys just attacked it.

Me: Did you get a nice crackling?

Bob: (silent look of death)

Me: Oh man, you should have called. That’s the best part. I’ve done oven pigs a bunch of times. I could’ve told you how to do the skin! I’m your piggy 9-1-1!

Bob: Anyway, so I was pretty comatose yesterday after eating all that pig. I think I need to cleanse my system before I go to New Orleans. No meat ’til then.

Me: (laughing so hard I nearly shake the glass walls of the conference room) Amateur.

When you start a discussion about the evolution (or perhaps revolution) of craft beer in this country—and the resulting cresting tsunami of microbreweries—that conversation must include Dogfish Head. Regardless of how much you like or dislike its beers, denying its roll in America’s return to craft brewing (and in rescuing it from an ocean of blandness) is foolish. Sam Calagione is equal parts beer geek, brewing historian, maverick and businessman, and those just starting to get a foothold in the market know they are indebted to him for the path he’s carved. But at the end of the day, no matter how noble the intentions, some concepts are bound to fall short of their aim. Not quite jumping the shark, I guess, but at the very least caught in a leather jacket, shorts and water skis.

Sam, being the self-proclaimed music fan that he is, has developed three brews as tributes to milestone albums and seminal songs: Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, Robert Johnson’s Hellhound on My Trail, and Pearl Jam’s Ten. As a self-proclaimed music fan myself, I of course ran breathlessly to liquor stores each time one of these was released, in hopes of nabbing a bottle before they all disappeared from the shelf. Bitches Brew was the first one I opened, and I was fortunate enough to be able to savor the beer while listening to the album it payed homage to…on vinyl. I then proceeded to rave about the music, the beer and their alchemy here. By all accounts, it was a kick-ass tribute to the music—it actually became a tactile interpretation of the sound, all at once fat, intricate, innovative, soulful and cerebral. Miles, I think, would’ve been both proud and flattered, especially given that the album didn’t originally meet a very warm reception in the world of jazz and jazz lovers. But this is pretty much where Sam and I kinda parted paths. The other two brews simply don’t draw the same parallels…don’t harmonize…don’t bear any fucking resemblance to each other whatsoever. Regardless of how nice a beer may be, if you’re going to make it a tribute to something, for christ’s sake, make evident the roots that gave birth to your tribute.

Hellhound on My Ale was brewed as a nod to what would have been Robert Johnson’s 100th birthday. For those that live in a bubble pathetic enough to never have heard Robert Johnson’s mastery of the blues, I pity you. Stop whatever Billy Joel song you’re listening to for the thousandth time and go buy King of the Delta Blues Singers or at the very least “borrow” a few MP3s from a more schooled friend. And no, having heard Clapton’s version of the song “Crossroads” is emphatically not enough. Johnson’s guitar playing was so complex that Keith Richards thought there were 2 men playing when he first heard his music. His vocal inflection was so nuanced that its honesty could be heard in a space beyond words. And his style went way beyond the niche known as Delta Blues…Robert Johnson was the blues. So you hear me yammering on about this bluesman and you figure, whoa, that’s gotta be some seriously soulful beer, right? But it isn’t. It’s a hoppy IPA with some citrus notes in honor of his mentor, Blind Lemon Jefferson, and I’m not sure why. Johnson doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would have thrown back a bottle or two of this while laying down a track. A brew aged in whiskey barrels maybe…something smokey, something with teeth. Hellhound on My Ale has no teeth—dentures, maybe, but definitely no teeth. It’s well made (though not as hoppy as Sam touts), but “well made” isn’t good enough for a musical tribute. The brew is not reminiscent of the blues.

Faithfull Ale is Dogfish’s latest Music Series effort, meant to commemorate Pearl Jam’s 20th anniversary as a band, and more importantly their game-changing debut album, Ten. But again, the brewery fell short of making a beer that could be sipped alongside the album and make that experience greater than the sum of its parts. Was it good? Kinda. Was it grunge? Not on its best day. Described as a Belgian-style golden ale brewed with black currants, Faithfull is light and fruity. When, in the name of all things rock, has Pearl Jam ever been described as light and fruity? Seriously? This brew was fit for The Castrati’s Greatest Hits, not Ten. And that classic Belgian funk that would have at least given the beer more of a rocker’s backbone was scarcely notable. I think Pearl Jam and I think visceral. I think raw. I think flannel shirts, unwashed jeans and big-ass, balls-to-the-wall angst. I do not, at any point in the daydream, think “fruity”. Eddie Vedder’s ukelele album was grittier than this beer, and hilariously enough, I am in no way dissing the album. I spent a lot of time on the phone hunting down this bottle, batting my eyelashes and securing what was probably the last of its kind to be found anywhere in the Tri-State area, but it wasn’t worth the effort (or the price tag) and it certainly didn’t live up to the wonderful noise that filled my head when I put the headphones on and heard the opening notes of “Once”.