Go (Mid)West, Young Man (Part I)

Circa 2011
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In 2011, one of my oldest friends got married in Gary, South Dakota and asked me to be his best man.  While SD wouldn’t have been my first choice for a destination wedding, it was a chance to road trip somewhere new with my wife, with whom I hadn’t been west of Ohio at that point.  Two of our best friends went along for the ride (this handsome, bearded gentleman who’s made several appearances thus far on TAC, and his lovely wife Emmy) and much food, beer and shenanigans ensued.

Ever driven through the Midwest?  If you’re a corn enthusiast, this is the road trip for you.  It’s practically all you see through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois until you reach the more urban areas.  I’ve been pondering a tattoo to commemorate this trip for years now, and the consensus hasn’t wavered that it’s going to have to be an ear of corn.

Day One

We piled into my Oldsmobile and headed west on I-80.  We’d have all preferred a more scenic back road journey but we were on a bit of a timetable – I was the best man after all, and my speech was going to blow everyone away so I couldn’t afford to be late.  We were on the road about six hours, attempting to sustain ourselves with Emmy’s homemade muffins and Combos until we became desperate for food and beer.  The Maumee Bay Brew Pub, despite its location in the cesspool of Toledo, has very favorable reviews and looked like a worthwhile stop.

The brewpub is located in the Oliver House collective, in what looks like a former industrial complex.  It’s a nice building, though a little confusing when you’re trying to find the brew pub – the Oliver also houses Rockwell’s (a more upscale restaurant), Petit Fours Patisserie (ritzy-looking pastry shop) and South Wing Art Gallery.  We had to follow the beer signs down into the lower tier entrance to find the Toledo Brewing Hall of Fame Museum entrance which leads to the brewpub.

Who says brewpubs aren’t educational?  Buckeye Brewery dates back to the mid-1800s and was quite successful before Prohibition fucked everything up for them.  The Oliver House has a pretty impressive collection of memorabilia including signs, glasses, bottle cappers, old labels, promotional posters and more in handmade display cases lining the stairs up to the brewpub.  It’s always a nice touch when the beer vats and brewing equipment are in view from the bar and dining area, and you can see the place in action.

We all enjoyed our food.  I don’t remember who had what but there was a mess of items on the table which we all shared, including a chipotle burger, a wood-fired margherita pizza, a nice sized bowl of spinach artichoke dip, a perch sandwich, a few cups of chili and a ton of fries.  Our waiter was quirky but very attentive, referring to all of us as “dude” and was very interested in chatting about our trip.  He’s young and hadn’t yet been out of Toledo, poor guy.

They had maybe five or six brews on tap, all their own including their resurrected version of Buckeye Beer.  It’s cool that they’re keeping an area tradition alive but that doesn’t make it a great beer.  Similar to PBR, which I’m not above drinking by any means, but it is what it is – crisp and cold, and will quench your thirst on a hot day but that’s about it.  The rest of the beers were quite good; we particularly enjoyed the overly grapefruity Glass City Pale Ale and the Amarillo Brillo Double IPA.  The Dry Irish Stout was great but not very dry; it tasted more like a milk stout.  Normally I’d blame it on the food or other beers throwing off my taste buds but sweet and dry are two very different things, so I’m wondering if it wasn’t just mislabeled.

Maumee Bay is a gem in a town that time hasn’t been kind to.  The Oliver House as a whole looks like someone invested a lot of time and money into giving it an overhaul; much like so many once great cities in the US, the rest of the town needs the same treatment.  If you were just passing through you’d never guess this was here, which is too bad.  Maumee Bay is definitely worth a stop.

Semi-interesting fun fact: driving through Indiana we started seeing a ridiculous number of RVs, for sale or rent every few miles.  It became a topic of much discussion:  why does everyone here seemingly own an RV?  Do they have state-wide RV decorating and/or racing competitions?  Is one’s masculinity or social status determined by the size, weight, wheel circumference or capacity of their RV?  We hypothesized until we came upon Elkhart, IN and discovered the RV Hall of Fame and Museum.  I wish we’d had time to stop because I really need to see what’s in a museum devoted exclusively to RVs and motorhomes.  According to their website they also have a library and conference center.

Six more hours and we’d had our fill of looking at corn and RVs for the day, so we were damn near ecstatic to reach Rockford, IL, where we crashed for the evening.  Rockford (or Raaack-ferd if you’re a local; welcome to the Midwest) is an interesting sprawl of restaurants, bars and little strip malls along State St which spans the length of the city.  There didn’t look to be any central downtown area, just sprawl.  Seems like an odd layout for one of Illinois’ bigger cities but it’s home to Cheap Trick’s Rick Nielsen, so they have that going for them.

We hadn’t eaten anything but roadside snacks since Toledo so the evening’s salvation rested on the shoulders of the Carlyle Brewing Company.  We tried it despite the fact that it wasn’t in our hotel room’s city guide, “written by Cheap Trick’s Rick Nielsen” (I’m sure he penned it himself, just like he “personally assisted in designing the menu” in the restaurant he owns).  Carlyle advertised food until 10:00pm – we got there at around 9:45.  It took a waitress almost 10 minutes to come over despite the place being dead, then she told us the kitchen was closed.  We asked for something simple like fries, or anything small they could throw in a microwave, she said that wasn’t possible.  I’m not normally an advocate for going in somewhere right before they close and expecting be served; those people piss me off.  We politely explained that we’d been on the road all day, been delayed by Chicago’s 200 Skyway tolls and all but begged her for food.  She offered to take our drink order and see what she could do.  We ordered beers only because we thought she’d be back with food – she came back with a tray of beers and a bowl of bar pretzels.  I can’t entirely fault them since we got there so close to the kitchen closing but we were starving and disappointed nonetheless.

Great beers would have saved the experience from being a total loss, but great beers they were not.  When your Helles Lager tastes the same as your IPA, I’d say you have no business owning a brewery.  The stout had the mouthfeel of a diet cola and no body whatsoever.  If the food is as bad as the beer, I’d say this place is in serious need of an overhaul.  At the very least it needs a new brewmaster.

We stayed at the Alpine Inn on the State St main drag, an old-fashioned motel with rooms you park in front of and a seperate office/breakfast lounge.  Our room with two doubles was clean, comfortable and very roomy.  I could’ve done without the front desk clerk chatting on the phone to her boyfriend about what brand of condoms they should try next but eh, it’s a minor detail.  Breakfast was cold cereal and pastries, and suprisingly decent coffee.  At $59 split four ways it was a much nicer experience than we’d anticipated.  We retired with some Maumee Bay leftovers, thankful we’d packed them along so we didn’t have to resort to fast food.

DAY TWO

Different states and regions have their staple foods, like Maryland crab cakes, New England clam chowder, etc.  I had only one goal going into Wisconsin: I was going to eat some fucking cheese.  I didn’t care if it was touristy, I couldn’t wait to pull off the highway and follow little cheese-shaped signs to a roadside place with a completely uninspired name like ‘House of Cheese’ and a cartoonish mouse statue on the roof.  Hell, if they’d have given me one of those cheese-shaped hats or a t-shirt that said ‘Life is Gouda” I’d have worn them.  Sure, you can get cheese anywhere; you can get jambalaya anywhere too, but it’s never going to be as good as that heaping bowl you had in New Orleans’ French Quarter.

Unfortunately, stand-still traffic jams just north of Rockford and again around Madison threw us off of our lax-but-still-somewhat-necessary schedule.  We wanted to be in Watertown early enough to see my buddy make an ass of himself out on the town the night before his wedding, so we decided to save the roadside cheese stop for the drive back and press on to Eau Claire in search of another crowned jewel of the Midwest: deep fried cheese curds.

Mogie’s Pub in the Water Street district was exactly the mid-afternoon stop we needed.  We were all looking forward to some Midwestern craft beers that aren’t distributed to PA, and Mogie’s had more than half of their 19 taps dedicated to them.  We each had something different from New Glarus, Rush River, South Shore and Point.  The New Glarus Moon Man was the group favorite and we couldn’t wait to try more from them.  The atmosphere at Mogie’s is wonderfully simplistic – a bar, some booths, beer and Wisconsin sports memorabilia on the walls.  Nothing fancy but very welcoming, and seems like a place the locals are loyal to.  Pub fare menu, with sandwiches, wraps, burgers and the like, but with some interesting sauces and aiolis to accompany and set apart from your average bar food.

The deep fried cheese curds deserve their own paragraph.  Lightly breaded white cheddar curds with ranch dipping sauce – the four of us split a large platter of them and still wanted more.  It’s going to be a long time before I’m able to enjoy mozzarella sticks again, they’re not even in the same league of deep fried bar food.  If I lived here I’d be ridiculously fat and constipated.

We wandered a few blocks down Water Street to The Goat coffee shop for a few espressos.  It was nice inside, typical indie coffee shop atmosphere – thrift store furniture and mugs, paint-spattered counters, local art on the walls and overly cheery hipster working the counter.  They had a decent selection of sandwiches and wraps, and an ice cream cooler, though we didn’t eat anything.  Dark and strong is all I require from espresso so I enjoyed mine – Jared said it tasted burnt, but I’ve learned to take with a grain of salt the opinion of a coffee shop manager  who’s overly picky about his espresso.

Unfortunately Eau Claire was another case of passing through on our way to someplace else.  The Water Street district is nice and I wish we’d had more time to explore the independent stores, artist gallery, tattoo parlors, maybe another restaurant or coffee shop.

We made a quick stop in Minneapolis at Zipp’s Liquors to stock up on beer for the wedding.  Our friend has many fine qualities but good taste in beer is not one of them.   He got three kegs of Bud Light and nothing else for the reception, and since we preferred not to spend the day after with diahhrea we figured it best to bring our own.  We’d already picked up a few New Glarus sixers during a gas stop in Wisconsin but you can never have too much.  Zipp’s has a great selection of microbrews from all over the US, and quite a few from the Midwest we hadn’t seen on the east coast:  Big Sky, Lake Louie, Surly (my personal favorite, got a sampler of six of their beers and there wasn’t a bad one in the bunch), Cold Spring, Summit, New Belgium and a few more.  Prices were fair and even if the six packs weren’t already broken up to mix singles, they don’t have a problem if you split them yourself.  Good selection of liquors as well, though we didn’t buy any.

More fun than playing Hold Steady car bingo while driving around Minneapolis was stumbling upon a gas station called Kum & Go on a back road outside of Wilmar.  Best gas station name ever.

We weren’t sure what to expect of Watertown SD, but it definitely wasn’t what we had in mind.  We were all imagining something similar to our last stretch of driving, Rt 212 W crossing into SD from MN – wide open spaces, some shopping sprawl and scattered buildings.  The girl our buddy was marrying had always talked about being a farm girl and a hick who lived out in the middle of nowhere.  Granted I’d consider SD itself to be in the middle of nowhere, but Watertown is a little different than we’d envisioned.

There is sprawl – Rt 212 turns into 9th Ave and runs through everything, with your typical lineup of fast food places, Wal-Mart, Target, Mennards, the Watertown Mall, etc. No surprises there, but getting into the west end of town everything you see is accompanied by a dingy, hole-in-the-wall “casino.”  They’re everywhere, sometimes two or three to a block.  I enjoy a little gambling now and then, but they all look beyond sad – like an old store front they cleared out and threw in some slots and Keno once something else went out of business.  We drove the strip in the morning and one or two of them had, in stereotypical fashion, older guys sitting outside waiting for them to open, clutching brown bags in their hands.  Nothing we haven’t seen before, just not something we expected in farm country.

The downtown was stranger yet.  9th Ave intersects with Broadway and leads you into a downtown area with shopping and a few restaurants.  During the day it’s pretty quaint but at night it gets lively, and not necessarily in a good way.  It’s more like MTV’s ‘Jersey Shore’ (is that still a thing?), just loud and rowdy.  Again, nothing we haven’t seen before but little dive bars with older guys shooting pool and drinking PBRs was more what we had in mind.

We shared a room our first night in Watertown at the Traveler’s Inn (now called Travel Host) along 9th Ave.  The generic name suggests a fleabag motel but it was much nicer than a lot of chains, with a $49 price tag to boot.  The furniture and fixtures are fairly dated but still clean and presentable and besides, they have the new stuff where it counts – bath towels, bed spreads, sheets, etc.  Who cares if the decorative chair in the corner that nobody ever sits in is ten years old?   People who bitch that hotels don’t upgrade everything every six months are the same people who bitch about hotel prices (I worked for years in the hotel industry and still have a lot of pent up rage that seeps out on occasion).  The place is basic; the TV isn’t an HD, the hallway carpet was likely pulled from the set of ‘The Shining,’  the room keys are actual old-fashioned keys instead of keycards, and the bathrooms are small, but the beds are comfortable and the front desk staff is extremely friendly and helpful.  (Interesting side note: there were instructions on the back of the bathroom door – “In the event of a hurricane or tornado, walk across the street to the  Hy-Vee store and stand inside the walk-in cooler.  It doubles as a bomb shelter.”  I wish I’d taken a picture of it). 

Much of the food during our three days in Watertown was at the wedding and pre-wedding functions but we managed to slip away here and there to find a few on our own.  We didn’t have the highest hopes for a brewpub in middle of nowhere South Dakota, and the reviews for Dempsey’s on Beer Advocate weren’t very positive but the last one had been posted over two years previous.  In a rare show of optimism we figured we could be the first to give a good report.  It had its positives – the staff and regulars are all enthusiastically welcoming.  By the time we’d gotten settled into the motel, changed clothes and found the brewpub it was 9:45, and they only served dinner until 10:00. With horrible flashbacks of the Carlyle Brewing incident in Rockford the night before, we timidly asked if they were still serving dinner.  The bartender bellowed an enthusiastic “Of course!” and demanded that a waiter seat us.  Some of the wait staff were seated at the bar, chatting with the regulars and they all said hello to us, ‘Welcome to Dempsey’s!’ and one guy even shook my hand.  It was like an episode of Cheers.  The atmosphere is great as well – sort of an Irish pub meets a knights-of-the-round-table theme with hanging swords, armour, coat of arms, and flags from countries all over the world.  The lights were a little bright given the dungeon theme but that’s a personal preference.

The service was quick and our waiter was only slightly less excitable as everyone else, but unfortunately the positives stopped there.  All of our food was lukewarm and tasteless.  My french dip was somehow dry even after I drenched it in au jus.  I’d assume it was the result of us showing up just before dinner hours ended in which case I wouldn’t blame the kitchen, but the preceding negative reviews suggest it’s pretty commonplace.  The beers were flat out terrible.  The Black Bear Stout, Valkyrie Red Ale and Vienna Lager were all flavorless and tasted like they’d been homebrewed on one of those kits you buy at Bed, Bath & Beyond.  The root beer was equally bad.  I hate to say anything negative after everyone treated us so well.  The staff and service are fantastic, but when they’re serving you less-than-mediocre food and drinks, it only counts for so much.

After dinner the real fun began.  Again, the Watertown nightlife is the exact opposite of what we expected.  We were very much looking forward to relaxing in a dive bar or two, maybe playing video poker and chatting up some grizzled old retired men about buffalo, or pheasant hunting.  My buddy’s wedding entourage had gathered at Harbor Bar, just down the street from Dempsey’s.  We could hear the place two blocks away, alternating shitty hip hop and even shittier hard rock/metal blaring out the open front door, hoards of trashy girls and muscleheaded frat boys yelling to be heard above the music.  We wheezed our way through the thick fog of cigarette smoke and the first thing we saw was a claw machine full of porn DVDs and sex toys, the centerpiece being a huge black dildo in a box labeled “Big Daddy.”  I hate to give advice ladies, but you probably don’t want to use a dildo you won from a bar claw machine.  From there you can see the whole place – a few pool tables in the center, elongated bar along the left wall, dance floor with strobe lights and multiple stripper poles along the right.  It’s sad but simultaneously amusing to watch trashy girls whoring themselves to everyone in sight and Vin Diesel-worshipping douchebags willing to drop a week’s salary on booze to get in their pants.

We concluded the evening’s rousing festivities just across the street at Fitzy’s, essentially a smaller version of Harbor Bar, with equally bad music being played at an equally disturbing level.  I feel bad for the poor bastards who live in this neighborhood and must never sleep on weekends.  Fitzy’s dance floor has only one stripper pole, but fear not!  They’ve got a stage from which to catapult yourself onto it, and a ceiling-length mirror so you can watch as you make a desperate looking ass out of yourself.  The only edge Fitzy’s has over Harbor Bar is the beer selection – it’s all skunk piss on draft, but they have some decent import bottles like Red Stripe, Bass, Newcastle and even a few microbrew bottles like New Belgium Fat Tire.  Big fruity drinks for the next participants in amateur stripper hour are the norm though.

We watched as our friend demonstrated his limberness on the stripper pole before having a few shots licked off of him by some of the Midwest’s classiest young ladies.  Good god were we out of place.  The awful music rattling our eardrums and smell of those giant glasses of glorified Kool Aid stuffed with Swedish Fish and umbrellas were making us all feel like we could throw up.  Time for bed.

DAY THREE

The Traveler’s breakfast offered more baked good options than most but the coffee didn’t do the job.  We wandered over to the Hy-Vee to get a look at the ice cream cooler bomb shelter and got a few Mountain Man lattes from the Caribou Coffee (the Mountain Man has since been replicated and improved on at our own Avenue 209) before making the hour’s drive to the bustling metropolis of Gary for the rehearsal ceremony.  One thing those SD bumpkins have going for them?  A 75 MPH speed limit.

The lone road into Gary is marked with a welcome sign declaring  “Population 231.”  I’m assuming they’re counting everyone in the cemetery because we didn’t see a single person outside of  the wedding party and guests.  The “downtown” consists of half a block and was equally amusing, with its homemade storefront signs and lone bar, fittingly named Gary Bar.  I desperately wanted to slip away from the wedding festivities to see what a classy joint Gary Bar is but alas, best man duties called.

We returned to Watertown after rehearsal to check in with the wedding party at the Country Inn & Suites, also on the main drag.  My preference for independents aside, I’ve always avoided staying at this chain in particular, as something about the name suggests an abundance of white lattice and Boyd’s Bears.  Nice enough for a night but definitely not our style.  Our friends took a nap while we headed to Lake Kampeska for some quaint couple time, and the Watertown Visitor’s Center in search of a stuffed buffalo or other cheesy SD tourist memento we’d promised to bring home for a friend.

We reconvened later for some pre-rehearsal dinner Mexican and margaritas at Guadalajara’s.  Who knew you could get good, authentic Mexican in South Dakota?  I order chorizo and eggs every time I see it on a menu thanks to this movie scene, viewed many times over during my childhood.  Cue up 2:17, tell me you don’t crave chorizo and eggs and I’ll call you a liar.  We passed the plates all around and everything was the real deal, and the margaritas were top notch.  Great decor in the place too, with some colorful tin sculptures in the entryway.  Afterward we went in search of additional Midwestern microbrews to bring home and spent way too much time taking pictures of a giant cowboy statue outside of the 10th Street liquor store.  We entered the store to find the employees taking our picture from the window and laughing, claiming they’d never seen anyone pose in front of the cowboy.  I refuse to believe that.

After the rehearsal dinner at 2nd Street Station Steakhouse & Lounge (meat, potatoes and beer… down home cookin’) we followed the wedding convoy out into the boonies to the bride’s parents’ farm, where we drank a few of the Midwestern IPAs we’d procured and swapped stories with everyone while staring up at the South Dakota night sky.  We were miles from civilization, the stars went on forever and the sky looked completely different than it does in PA.  It gave me one of those transcending moments where I forgot the rest of the world and was perfectly content where I was, with the company I was in.  Those simple nuances are some of the best parts of traveling.  It sounds corny but hey, we cynics can be sentimental too.

DAY FOUR

There was a wedding.  We drank, we danced, we celebrated.  I made my friend’s mom cry with my best man speech, which wasn’t necessarily a goal I had but pretty cool nonetheless.  Everything was held at the Buffalo Ridge Resort in Gary, which was nice and secluded and beat the hell out of your run-of-the-mill church wedding/bingo hall reception.  It’s an old complex, built in the late 1800’s to serve as South Dakota’s first school for the blind.  Most of the current facilities (bar, restaurant, conference and hotel rooms) are on the upper floors but we discovered a series of underground catacombs that connect everything while taking a break from the reception crowds.  I’m not sure we were supposed to be down there but it was eerily fun and if we’d gotten caught I was going to go with the “we got lost” defense.

Unfortunately, as with most buildings renovated into hotels, it was likely never intended to be one so they didn’t take that into account when constructing the walls.  They are paper thin and you can hear a person cough, sneeze, fart or hiccup in the next room.  The majority of the wedding party consisted of Tim’s navy comrades, and they were up until almost 5:00 AM the next morning drinking and setting off fireworks in the parking lot.  Needless to say it wasn’t the most restful nights’ sleep, and it was going to be a long eight hours to Madison.

I didn’t have many expectations going in but South Dakota started to grow on me.  I would’ve liked to have visited the Badlands and maybe even Mount Rushmore but they’re a seven hour drive out of the way, on the opposite side of the state.  I really miss the wide open spaces, views for miles and scenic back road drives because hell, most everything is a back road.  That 75 MPH speed limit was pretty nice too.

Man Voyage III: UK & Ireland

Man Voyage III came early this year, and completely by accident.  I was slated to go on tour abroad with my folk/blues/roots duo Rattlesnake Gospel for five dates in March, alongside London singer/songwriter Chris Stringer.  Shows were booked and my plane ticket was purchased when the other half of RG had to withdraw due to a serious flare up of his Nomad’s Disease, which moved him to four different cities and from one end of the country to the other within a few months’ time.

(Side note: Nomad’s Disease is a laymen’s term for the medical condition Icantstayinoneplaceforlonggodforbidthepeoplewholovemegetusedtohavingmearound
imsuchaselfishjerkyesjakedavisandstephaniekeelerimtalkingaboutyou-itis. You’ll want to avoid those who have Nomad’s Disease, as symptoms such as broken heart and pangs of guilt may be quite devastating. Fortunately as the name suggests, those affected with the disease will ultimately leave you anyway so it’s not often a problem).

We began promoting as a singer/songwriter tour with two solo acts when a bright, bearded light shone at the end of the tunnel: my Echo & Sway comrade was available and interested in joining us. Jared and I travel well together, and the chance to take Man Voyage international and have some TE&S tunes to play alongside my solo material sounded like one hell of a trip.

LEAVING ON A JET PLANE

We stopped at Old Forge Brewing Company in Danville for lunch en route to JFK airport in NYC, because if you’re not starting the day with food and beer, you’re not doing Man Voyage properly. Breakfast burger with rosemary bacon and syrup was among the best brunch items I’ve ever had and paired beautifully with a Beligan pale ale. Jared’s hot bleu cheese burger and white IPA were equally tasty. We’ve been to Old Forge several times and the consensus remains the same: food, beer and service are all top notch, but their music selection kills the atmosphere. Imagine a playlist made entirely of classic rock songs you’ve heard enough to last two lifetimes, and you’ll have an idea. Every brewpub should strive for that little something that sets them apart from the rest, and playing the same generic crap you hear in every bar everywhere ain’t the way to get it.

Several hours later we were wading through the shit storm that is NYC traffic. We crawled at five MPH for a solid 90 minutes due to an accident on Belt Parkway and arrived at JFK about five minutes before our flight took off. Aer Lingus managed to get us on a flight three hours later (with a penalty fee of course) and we settled into the airport lounge in the meantime for a few drinks. I expected draft beers at the airport to come with a hefty upcharge but I was floored by our $26 bill for two 20 oz microbrews. For that price I was expecting the bartenders to serve them topless.

DAY ONE: LONDON, RISE 46

I slept on the plane for the first time ever on an international flight, thanks to a valium and the aforementioned world’s most expensive 20 oz beer. We woke up refreshed and took the Tube (Brit speak for subway train) from Heathrow into Covent Garden, central London. Many tour guides list the Tube as an attraction in itself and I can’t argue with that – there’s a wealth of culture to be observed on even a short 20 minute ride. The rich, poor, drunk, stoned, spoiled, nice, rude, timid, loud and belligerent all grace the Tube at some point in the day.

Covent Garden is a bustling area, full of restaurants and shopping. We met Chris Stringer at his shop, where he graciously took us for a much needed coffee at local roastery Monmouth, a post office for currency exchange, Tin Pan Alley (Denmark Street) where bands like the Rolling Stones and Sex Pistols have recorded at Regent Sounds Studio, and Forbidden Planet (nerd paradise) for comics before showing us the Cock. The Cock was quite big but we found a spot that felt nice. We rather enjoyed the Cock, and if I lived in London I’d be at the Cock frequently (the Cock is a pub with an unfortunate name, providing us with endless jokes for the duration of the tour… exhibit A). They serve exclusively Samuel Smith Brewery beers; Old Brewery Bitter, Double Four Lager and India Ale all hit the spot after hiking through Covent Garden and Oxford Circus all morning.

We stayed our two nights in London with Chris and his gal Charley, both lovely hosts at their flat in Seven Sisters. Before I go any further it must be said just how much we’re going to miss these two. Admittedly we all had some reservations going in – what if we don’t get along, and we’re committed to spending a week traveling together? It took only a few short hours for those fears to subside and all of us to start asking what we would do without each other after tour.  We enjoyed hot showers and quick changes of clothing before heading back to the Tube for an hours’ ride to Battersea Rise, south London for our first night at Rise 46.

Rise 46 was a decent show and great warm-up tour opener, but easily the most lackluster night we had. Great PA and soundsystem, stage lighting and classy atmosphere were among the highlights, along with a sizeable crowd. Their payment scheme was unlike any I’d encountered before – they pay £4 per person you bring in, provided they sign in at the bar and register as an audience member of the band. It didn’t sound like a bad deal, but it’s awkward hassling your audience repeatedly to walk upstairs and put in writing why they came to the venue. And what of the rest of the crowd who wandered in for drinks and stayed because they enjoyed our performances? “Hey, thanks for listening. I really appreciate that you’re here and enjoying my songs. Now would you mind taking a walk upstairs and signing a guestbook so I can get paid a little extra?”

We and our audience were also jostled around quite a bit during the sets, in favor of small groups who had “reservations in this area.” The seating consists of two very long couches lining the sides of the long narrow room with barrels to set your drinks on. It looks nice, but how does one reserve an “area” of the room? “Yes Mr. Maitre’d Sir, I’d like to reserve the left arm of this couch, along with the adjacent two feet and barrel numbers four and five. WAIT! No, I like barrel number six better. Please swap out barrel number five for six.” Several members of our audience (who had properly registered as such per the aforementioned instructions, by the way) were relocated. If that weren’t enough, the bar staff showed us the registration sheet when we went to collect, and it was ridiculous – name, date, phone, email, and band you’re seeing. Who the hell wants to fill out a questionnaire just to listen to someone play a 45 minute set? We played to damn near a full room and got paid for the 10 who remembered to fill out their lengthy survey.

Nevertheless, tour had begun. Our first audience was attentive and intrigued, the drinks were tasty (I’m absolutely not going to mention that a bartender at an establishment boasting a cocktail list so extensive should know enough to put a maraschino cherry or orange slice garnish in an Old Fashioned), we’d played well and had fun, which for two unsigned artists on their first international tour is pretty much the only point. Just after my set, Jared and I realized we’d been so busy all day we’d forgotten to eat. After spending years mocking stupid Americans for traveling to other countries only to eat what they could get at home, we ducked into a McDonald’s for a quick bite. I can still feel the shame but we didn’t want to miss Chris’ set, and we were pleasantly surprised to see it’s quite different: the portions are smaller and less greasy with virtually no salt. As a bonus, the UK franchise features a Cadbury Egg McFlurry that we don’t, so I’m not a total hypocrite.

We headed back to Seven Sisters with The Jam’s “Down in the Tube Station at Midnight” stuck in our heads, and laughing as an extremely drunk gentleman made himself at home on Jared’s lap. We rang in the evening with nearby Dixy Chicken takeout and a few bottles of Hobgoblin Ruby Ale before collapsing. Tomorrow we would take London by storm.

DAY TWO: LONDON, BIDDLE BROS

So, by “take London by storm” I actually meant sleep until noon. Jet lag must’ve hit us hard, because I woke up at 11:50 with Jared still snoring on the floor, next to a note from an errand-running Chris with instructions to text him if we required coffee and/or any sort of breakfast items.  Jared adjourned shortly after to a local coffee shop to make use of their WiFi while Chris and I spent the next few hours silk screening tour posters. A total pain in the ass, but it gave us time to chat about life, jobs, family, friends and of course, the Cock.

We’d researched a number of attractions on Atlas Obscura and food/drink destinations on Beer Advocate, the majority of which we didn’t have time for since we’d slept so late. With a 99% rating on BA, we figured CASK Pub & Kitchen in Pimlico was a solid bet for dinner. Boasting 10 drafts, 10 cask ales and some of the best burgers in London, it more than delivered. We shared an assortment of pints from Acorn, Beavertown, Salopian and Evil Twin breweries alongside two Heat burgers (buffalo and bleu cheese) and my Elvis burger, with peanut butter, bacon and a fried banana.

Back at Chris and Charley’s, we pre-gamed for the gig with Desperados, a “barrel-aged lager” (yea right) blended with tequila. Much like the Elvis burger, I tried it only out of sick curiosity but finished because I needed something to wash down my potato chips. We hopped on the Tube to Hackney and found Biddle Bros, a wonderfully simple dive with a friendly staff and great music room behind the narrow entryway bar, pumping some great soul/R&B tunes through the soundsystem. I almost didn’t want to turn it off to perform. They serve ales by local brewery Pressure Drop, and their pale may be the best beer I had all week. It was perfectly balanced and went down smooth, so smooth in fact that when barman Sammy kept bringing fresh pints I kept drinking long after I’d had my fill.

Following Chris is no easy task as he’s damn brilliant, but the set flowed much easier than the night before, likely thanks to a more relaxed atmosphere and welcoming staff. The crowd was great as well, notably Peter, who sat front and center in a Wyle E. Coyote “Super Genius” t-shirt and inserted his own harmonies into our songs, and Ryan and Farrah, who challenged us to a chess game post-show and were made to look like fools when they were beaten by my drunk ass. The booker paid us without our having to ask, thanked us for the music and invited us back anytime. Jared came up for a few TE&S tunes and Chris got the place singing along with his set closing cover of Duran Duran’s “Rio.”

We stayed to hang out with everyone long after we should’ve gone home, as we had a 9:00 bus to catch to Worcester. We stopped at a corner store for beers and drank them on the sidewalk waiting for our taxi (it’s eerie how liberating it feels to drink out in the open after a lifetime of dealing with our archaic liquor laws). The Dixy chicken didn’t sit as well after all of the Pressure Drop but I’ll be damned if I was passing it up on our last night in London. Charley felt as miserable as I did, but at least we were in familiar territory on the one night we picked to overdo it. From here on out, things were much more civilized.

DAY THREE: WORCESTER, MARR’S BAR

The travel gods were not smiling on our tour. The Tube stop we needed to get off to connect with our bus was under construction so we had to go one further and walk back, causing us to miss said bus. There was another leaving 90 minutes later, giving us time to grab a small breakfast at a nearby Wetherspoon’s. Fine if that had been the end of it, but our connecting bus at Birmingham broke down, prompting the company to arrange for taxis to the train station, then to Worcester from there.

We arrived a few hours later than planned, giving us just enough time to check into The Osborne House B&B (our lodging splurge of the week), shower and change before a rushed but delicious Indian meal at Rajkot. It was much more formal than we’d anticipated and we hated rushing through dinner to make sound check (which we were already fashionably late for) but we were all craving Indian and it was the highest rated in the city. Butter chicken, Vigan Bahar and Kabuli were among the best Indian I’ve had, and the complimentary pakora platter with four chutneys was fought over and devoured in moments.

The Marr’s Bar is a great venue, designed by musicians who know exactly what performers are looking for. The 5k sound system and lighting rig are run by an in-house sound engineer who made sound check a breeze. Sundays are strictly acoustic and they had the place done up right, with candles adorning each of the tables and low lighting above, putting all of the focus on the stage. Local indie folk/pop trio Richard Clarke & the Rafters opened the evening with a tight 50 minute set, blowing us all away despite their claims of being unrehearsed. Each night was proving better than the preceding, as our sets were our best yet, and for our biggest crowd.

We swapped music and stories with the Rafters during set breaks and enjoyed a few beers with some locals, most notably a character named Laura who quickly established herself as our biggest fan. She rushed the stage twice, bought us a round of drinks and danced the night away. She also demanded we take her photo with our tour EP sticking out of the top of her dress. She’s clearly a promoter and proved to be much better at marketing than us – we just had our merch sitting on a table.

Post-show we were all craving Indian food again, undoubtedly the result of gulping down our dinners without fully appreciating them (it appears I’ve resorted to fabricating excuses to eat more Indian food). Foregate Street downtown is lined with takeaway shops, unfortunately all closed by the time we left Marr’s Bar. Chris and Charley settled for a Domino’s pizza, while Jared and I split a pie from the creatively named Pizza Shop. Unsurprisingly, both were underwhelming. The others retired to the Osborne House while I took a late night stroll through the backstreets of Worcester to catch up on some much needed alone time.

I found a quaint little church garden barely lit by nearby lamp posts, sat on a bench under an ivy-covered trellis and spent an exorbitant amount of money talking to my wife on my international cell phone. The tour was going well and I couldn’t have been happier with the company I was in but goddamn did I miss my wife and kid.

DAY FOUR: MANCHESTER, CASTLE HOTEL

We awoke refreshed after our first good nights’ sleep in days – Chris and Charley were more than generous allowing us to crash on their couch and floor respectively but nothing beats a comfortable bed, and never was that more apparent than after all the sitting on planes, trains and buses we’d been doing. We convened in the common room for our full English breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, tomatoes and a french press of coffee (I’m happy to go along with local customs 99% of the time, but the idea of tea being an adequate substitute for coffee is nonsense).

I rarely go the B&B route. I’m not a morning person, and I’d rather eat my breakfast in peace without chatting among strangers about grandchildren and stock trades but we had a great morning with Rick & Josie Osborne. We swapped travel stories with Josie and laughed at Rick cooking us breakfast in his overly garish “It’s 5 o’clock Somewhere” tie-dye t-shirt. How ironic that the Englishman was the one looking most like an obnoxious and uncultured American.

Rafters drummer and all-around gentleman Dan Bramhall met us at the Osborne House with his lovely family and took us into town to Bolero for coffee and reminiscing about the previous nights’ gig. Damn good espresso, somehow needed even after the full french press at breakfast. Dan’s little boy Ruben warned us not to go on to Manchester, as there’s a lion roaming the streets who would eat us upon arrival. We convinced him that Jared is a lion tamer and would use his whip to keep him at bay, at which point Ruben cried because he didn’t want us to hurt the lion. Make up your mind, kid – are you more concerned about us, or the lion? Toddlers are so irrational.  We spent the remainder of the day collaborating on song lyrics to the next Echo & Sway (featuring Chris Stringer) hit single called “There’s a Lion Loose in Manchester.” Ruben will receive a songwriting credit for inspiration.

The East Midland train ride to Manchester was a highlight of the week. The seats were comfortable, none of us were sleepy or hungover and we enjoyed some nice conversation, endless dirty jokes and some beautiful scenery out the window. We arrived at Piccadilly station and quickly stumbled upon Empire Exchange, a wonderful mess of collectibles, memorabilia and old junk. Magazines, books, CDs, vinyl, antiques, jewelry, postcards, and a healthy selection of porn are just a small sampling of what you’ll find in there. After spending way too much time looking for souveniers to take home, we made our way to the Northern Quarter, where we ditched our bags at the Castle Hotel and headed out in search of nourishment, i.e. food and beer.

Pie & Ale serves almost exclusively what’s in their name, and they do it well. We grabbed a table and were about to ask for a beer menu when the bartender invited us up for a full sampling of their six cask ales (plus two other drafts) and poured us liberal tasters to share. There were some great bitters, pales and stouts from craft breweries all over the UK, including Blackjack (Manchester), Sonnet 43 (Coxhoe), First Chop (Salford), and Weird Beard (London). When we couldn’t choose just one for a pint, he offered a flight of three 8 oz beers instead. More establishments need to have such varied drinking options. The pie was magnificent as well, particularly the featured “What’s Up Croc?” with gator, andouille, peppers, onions and cajun gravy. I’m really going to miss this place.

Manchester’s Northern Quarter is a hipster’s paradise. Vintage boutiques, tattoo shops, bars, restaurants and cafes in all shapes, sizes and colors stretched out as far as the eye can see, most of them marked with vibrant graffiti. They have a Forbidden Planet as well, run by fascists who want to make sure your comic shopping experience is as miserable as possible. Admittedly we didn’t see they were closing at 5:30 when we walked in about 10 minutes before but damn man, all you’ve got to do is politely say “Sorry guys, but we’re closing in 10 minutes. We’ll be opening again tomorrow at 9:30 for all of your comic book, action figure and assorted nerd needs.” They verbally accosted us as if we were attempting to shoplift the eight foot Iron Man prop in the display window. Maybe they were speaking in character, I don’t have enough comic knowledge to know.

We caught up with Mountain Song at the Castle and got acquainted over sound check with the wonderful Lucinda. She’s one of the most patient and professional sound engineers I’ve ever seen work and though Chris and I only needed a few minutes (a single acoustic guitar and vocal combo doesn’t take long unless you’re really picky) she made it a much less tedious process for the full band than it tends to be. Afterward we grabbed a few beers in the main bar area, chatted with some locals and marveled at the Castle’s killer jukebox, loaded with Tom Waits, Bruce Springsteen, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and Manchester legends like The Smiths, Buzzcocks and Joy Division. It rivals my two favorite jukes, The Khyber (Philadelphia) and Chanticleer (Ithaca).

The show was the best of the tour, hands down. We damn near packed the room with an attentive and respectful audience, fully focussed on our every word and holding their applause long after each of us left the stage. It was one of the best crowds I’ve ever performed for, solo or with any group. Chris and I collaborated with Mountain Song drummer Alex Palmer on an impromptu cover of the Hold Steady’s “First Night” and knocked it out of the park, save for one lyric I flubbed. Mountain Song were loud, intense and fucking brilliant. My ears are still ringing.

We mingled awhile afterward, attempting to personally thank everyone in the audience for being there. I can’t overstate what a superb gig this was; I’d fly back to Manchester just to play for that crowd again. I had some very enlightening conversations with John the Scaffolder, who bought me several obscure Irish whiskies after my set and chatted me up about life. I was also treated to about six pints by a very friendly, drunk older gentleman named Paul. Even as he stood watching me sip the initial beer, he kept repeating his need to buy me a drink and paid ahead for several rounds. When he wouldn’t stop ogling at the bartender and repeating phrases like “she needs banged real good” loud enough to be overheard, I suggested she not pour any more beer for me but take his money and keep it as a tip. Sorry, Paul.

We waited in the rain for a cab and took a 15 minute ride to Mauldeath Road, passing a filming location for scenes from Captain America: The First Avenger along the way. We were welcomed into the humble abode of Alex Palmer and Lisa Smith for the evening, where we shared their living room with Miles, a very friendly border collie, and Lily the cat, who did her best to make Jared uncomfortable (watching Jared pretend to not be awkward around cats is one of my favorite pastimes). We chatted awhile before settling in, and I drifted off astounded at our good fortune, to be in the company of such kind and generous people.

DAY FIVE: DUBLIN BOUND

As if they hadn’t done enough, our gracious hosts allowed us to invade their bathroom and shower in the morning. Alex walked us to a nearby Wetherspoon’s, where I somehow resisted the temptation of an early morning pint with my breakfast.  After fighting his greatest of morning enemies (quote of the day: “Cold butter is my nemesis!”), Alex bid us adieu and put us on a bus back to Piccadilly where we braved Forbidden Planet again, poked around a few vintage boutiques, book stores and spent yet another 45 minutes in Empire Exchange. We apparently hadn’t gotten our fill of looking at dusty old shit the day before.

We took a train to Manchester airport where we encountered some of the friendlist staff I’ve ever come across. Our boarding agent laughed off our failure to stop at the baggage check area before boarding (apparently required for all non-UK passport holders) and feigned slapping us in the face. Jared even made a new friend in a TSA agent who was more than happy to relieve him of two bottles of beer he couldn’t transport when he decided not to check his bag. The guy even smiled for a photo while holding them and big surprise, he had a beard.

We stood in line for what seemed an eternity to board the plane, cracking cattle slaughterhouse jokes with a gal behind us, who turned out to be the tour manager for A Place to Bury Strangers. She invited us to their gig at the Workman’s Club that evening which unfortunately, we didn’t make. We were led outside to meet the plane on the tarmac where the wind damn near blew us to Dublin. Awhile later we were being entertained by the safety lecture when I wondered, as I always do, who in the hell actually needs instructions on how to fasten a seat belt?  A child perhaps, but surely a parent could assist them in most cases.  Moments later the gentleman seated next to Jared, easily in his 50’s, asked us for help.  Wow.  I passed out shortly after boarding and slept until we landed, pissed that I missed takeoff. It’s my favorite part of the flight.

The Airlink double decker bus from the airport dropped us a few blocks from the Avalon House, the hostel where we booked private rooms because we’re all too old to be sharing sleeping space with 18 year old backpackers. Our room had two beds and a sink, with a community bathroom down the hall that was surprisingly clean and kept up. We’d promised to take a plunge into Sandycove’s 40 Foot swimming hole if we amassed enough followers for our tour Instagram page, but later decided that using the Avalon House showers was more punnishment than the 40 Foot would be.

Chris and Charley caught up on some relaxation time in their room while Jared and I headed across the street for a few beers at the Swan, a locals pub with a fireplace in the back room to warm us from the rain pouring outside. Jared and I travel together well and often, and though we were beyond happy with our tour comrades it was nice to catch up a bit just the two of us. We reconvened later at the Mercantile for dinner, where we had a delightful spread of seafood chowder (the best of Jared’s life) and a Thai, Indian and Piri Piri chicken assortment. And beer… good God, do we love beer.

We hit the Dame Tavern after dinner because good God, do we love beer. The Dame is a warm, cozy little pub that probably fits less than 30 people. We enjoyed some Guinness and Galway Hooker pale ale before trudging back to the Avalon House where Jared and Charley retired for the evening while Chris and I hit the Swan for one last pint. Within a half hour we witnessed two extras from the set of 1992’s Singles storm the place with a ukelele and video themselves serenading some locals, followed by a party of tuxedo clad gentleman persuading the entire bar to sing “Happy Birthday” to their 90 year old buddy, who sat at the bar swinging his Guinness around looking like he was having the best day of his life. There was no better way to end our first night in Dublin.

DAY SIX: DUBLIN, BRUXELLES

We had a surprisingly decent nights’ sleep in our closet-sized room. Too decent in fact, we slept in way too late like our first morning in London and lost a good portion of the day. Jared and I dragged our asses out of bed just before noon and walked a few blocks south to Gerry’s Coffee for our first full Irish breakfast, similar to the English only with the added black and white puddings, and what seemed like a full loaf of bread. Even as we ate the pudding we had no idea what the hell was in them; truthfully I’m still not sure. I’ve been tempted to Google it but I think I’ll keep the mystery alive.

We headed to Temple Bar, which apparently comes alive at night with stag and hen (bachelor and bachelorette) parties and all sorts of other drunken hooliganism but during the day is quite lovely with its cobblestone streets and old buildings with decorative facades. We enjoyed some Bailey’s coffees at Cappuccino Bar (another fine establishment with a fantastically uncreative name) while laughing at the massive lot of hopefuls in line to be extras on Vikings, most of which looked like they’d be horribly out of place on a show with said name. When you think of a show called Vikings, do you think of metrosexual looking dudes with $50 scarves and $100 haircuts? Or girls with 10 pounds of makeup and Dolce & Gabbana leather jackets? I think not. We were pulling hard for the tall, portly guy with long scraggly hair and oversized Thin Lizzy t-shirt.

We dropped in for a quick pint at the Foggy Dew (on recommendation from my buddy Wal Lira, tattooer extraordinaire at Classic Ink Tattoo in Temple Bar), swapped a few stories with a dapper gentleman at the bar, and hit our third Forbidden Planet of the week (followed by Sub City Comics on Dame Street; we’re looking into a local Comics Anonymous chapter for Jared upon returning home) before heading to Ireland’s oldest pub, the Brazen Head for dinner and beer because good God, do we love beer. Built in 1198, it houses a maze of chamber-like dining rooms and bar, with a nice beer garden outside we would’ve loved to sit if it hadn’t been for the pouring rain. We grabbed a table by the fireplace and ordered a few bowls of Beef & Guinness stew, which were amazing and paired quite well with our pints.

By the way, a tip on how to not look like a complete dipshit of a tourist: don’t go to a pub in Ireland and order a fucking Irish Car Bomb. The bartender went easy on some moron by simply denying him rather than tell him to leave for being such an offensive jackass. First of all, if you’re over the age of, say 25, you’re too old to be doing that crap anyway – just order some whiskey and a beer and drink them seperately like an adult. Second, even if you don’t know exactly what the term references, doesn’t the phrase “Irish car bomb” suggest something of violence that maybe the Irish people don’t want to be reminded of? Suppose the Europeans invented a cocktail called the 9/11 – it’d be bold and equally offensive for them to order it here in ‘Murica, right? But I digress.

The Porterhouse Brewing Company is a maze much like the Brazen Head, with the added bonus of being three stories so while you jockey for position somewhere in one of their many bar rooms you also get your cardio in by climbing several flights of stairs. It’s a classy place though, with hand-carved wood everywhere giving a modern twist on the traditional Irish pub look. There was a guitar, flute and mandolin trio playing traditional Irish music in a booth on the first floor, but unfortunately nowhere to sit or stand anywhere near them. The TSB (bitter) and Hop Head (“beyond the pale,” whatever that means) were quite tasty and if we hadn’t a gig to get to we would’ve stayed to try a few others. If you’re sampling, don’t get too comfortable in one particular area, as their beers are spread throughout their many draft systems. I asked the bartender which he’d recommend and he steered me toward the TSB – then sent me down two flights of stairs to get it.

Another tip on how to not look like a complete dipshit of a tourist: it’s cool if you want to tour the Guinness factory while in Dublin, but when you go to another brewery that boasts nearly a dozen of their own brews, don’t order a fucking Guinness. You’re doing yourself a disservice enough with the “Guinness Is Good For You” t-shirt, “I Love Guinness” baseball cap, Guinness factory gift bag and sandals/white socks combo. I’m assuming that somewhere between entering the factory and finding the gift shop you probably drank Guinness. Why even bother going to another brewpub if you’re just going to order the one beer you can find anywhere in the city? But again, I digress.

For our last night on tour, we were the featured acts for the Zodiac Sessions, a sort of open-mic-by-invitation at Bruxelles, a legendary music bar that’s played host to Oasis, Paul Weller, Depeche Mode, 50 Cent, Ronnie Wood and Thin Lizzy, whose Phil Lynott is immortalized in statue just outside the front door. We’d planned to eat at the venue but were told upon arrival the kitchen had just closed. One of the locals recommended us to the “best pizza in Dublin” just up an adjacent alleyway at Pizza Stop. My instincts told me a place with such a generic name didn’t have the best pizza in Dublin but what the hell, we were hungry and it was 100 feet away. I wouldn’t give it any awards but it wasn’t too shabby. Their Italian dinners looked better and if we’d had more time I would’ve tried one of those instead.

The Sessions are run by Barry “Jazz” Finnegan, a photorealistic artist known the world over for his large scale charcoal portraiture. He was swell and maybe the only person that night who wasn’t a complete tool. We attempted to mingle with the other performers in between sets and were treated like outsiders from the onset. They all huddled together in one booth, save for the guy who opened the evening but we noticed no one talked to him either. One of them ran the sound board and I could barely muster a grunt out of him during setup. It was all very clique-ish, like we were back in high school trying to find a seat in the cafeteria and we weren’t welcome at the cool kids’ table. We sat together in the corner undeterred, drinking our beer and poking fun at what a pompous bunch of idiots the rest of the room was (hey, we did that in high school too).

Our sets were good and drew favorable reactions from the crowd, but nothing was going to top the Castle gig. Manchester was the official end of tour and Dublin was a bonus. Barry was extremely gracious, inviting us back anytime and while I’d love to sit and have a few beers with the guy, I would’t play this gig again. The email we received after booking describes the Sessions as “a community we are creating for musicians to come down, have a drink, play a few tunes, laugh and meet other musicians.” Barry aside, everyone treated us like we needed to work for their approval. Sorry fellas, I’m not an insecure teenager and I don’t need your acceptance. None of you were nearly good enough to warrant that level of arrogance anyway.

We were hoping for one more pint at the Swan before turning in but most Dublin pubs close early, by 11 or 12. The Long Hall was nearby but done for the evening as well. Their bartender recommended a nearby late “pub” called the Globe, which turned out to be a trashy dance hall with shit for beer. We did get to take in the sights of young, sweaty Dublin bumping and grinding, and a couple with at least a 20 year age difference in the midst of what appeared to be a public audition for softcore porn. There’s no way they weren’t stuck to the bench by the end of the night.

DAY SEVEN: HOMEWARD BOUND (ALMOST)

Delicious as the full breakfast was, we were all in the mood for something different by the time we got our asses moving the next morning so we hit up Tolteca for tacos y burritos before heading back to Temple Bar. I hadn’t necessarily planned on getting tattooed but I’m always open to the idea, so when my friend said to stop in before heading to the airport I was more than happy to oblige. It was great catching up with Wal and if you want a much cooler souvenier from Dublin than a t-shirt, Classic Ink will do right by you.

We shared one last round of pints, exotic chicken and seafood chowder at the Mercantile before saying our goodbyes to Chris and Charley. We were hoping to merely get along well enough to tolerate each other for a week on the road, and now we’re contemplating a Kickstarter fund to fly them across the Atlantic for the US version of Radio Silence. Keep your eyes open for that. We jumped into a cab shortly before 2:00, where the driver told us we had plenty of time to make our 4:20 flight. What should have been a 25 minute drive to the airport turned into a little over an hour when our cabbie suddenly realized that half the city was leaving Dublin for an early start to the Easter holiday weekend. I’d mentioned before the travel gods hadn’t been smiling on this trip, and now they were outright shitting on it.

The next flight to New York wasn’t until the following morning at 11:00, which meant either sleeping in a chair at the airport or springing for a local hotel room. We found the Dublin Airport Manor nearby for $40 (plus a $12 cab ride) so we took our chances, not expecting much at that price but we were pleasantly surprised. The room was huge, beds were comfortable and the shower was the best we’d had in a week, much needed after the previous two mornings of prison-esque Avalon House facilities.

Since we were laid over another night we briefly contemplated taking a cab back into the city, but there was a binder full of food delivery menus and a list of alcoholic beverages available from the front desk, and after all of our travel woes, a meat-loaded pizza, spicy wings and bottle of cheap red wine was a damn fine way to ring in the evening. Our TV got about six channels and at one point our options were Irish politics or the last installment in the Twilight series. Maybe it was the wine, but we quickly got caught up in how fantastically awful Twilight is. The acting and dialogue are so terrible it’s like watching them all parody themselves. We were laughing out loud at scenes I’m sure were supposed to be sad, but it’s hard to tell when none of the actors have more than two facial expressions.

I’ve never seen Shameless, or know how the two brands compare but the UK version came on next and was hilarious, but in a way that was actually supposed to be funny, unlike Twilight. We were begging for another episode when it ended. It appears to be on YouTube and I look forward to streaming as many episodes as I can.

HOMEWARD BOUND (FOR REAL THIS TIME)

We weren’t taking any chances so we arranged for a cab to pick us up four hours before our flight, despite only being four miles from the airport. Somehow the cab ride was $7 more than it had been the day before, but at this point we didn’t care enough to question it. We checked in, went through customs and made it to the boarding area where I realized I’d been on vacation all week and never had a breakfast beer. I ordered a Guinness with my chocolate chip scone… breakfast of champions. After an eight hour flight, we sat in NYC traffic for two hours. Welcome home.

It was an amazing trip, but I returned home with the conclusion that as much as I enjoy playing shows, I’ve largely outgrown touring. Once upon a time it was an adventurous alternative to higher education and/or entering the workforce. It didn’t matter that I’ve been to Atlanta twice and couldn’t tell you anything about it… I got drunk and played a show in a smelly club, and somehow it was otherworldy different than getting drunk and playing a show in a smelly club in Pennsylvania. I’ve always taken pride in the fact that I’ve seen a great deal of the country, but only as it rolled by the window from the backseat of a van, and as the years pass I’m beginning to wish I could do all of that travelling over and make more out of it.

I suppose my tastes have changed as I’ve gotten older. My professional and semi-professional musician friends who tour frequently will regale me with their tales of the road and the two spare hours they had to grab a sandwich and explore the four block radius surrounding the venue and while it used to be the most exciting prospect I could imagine, it’s not enough for me anymore. It’s as alluring to me as a cruise – sitting on a boat for days where you can go to the movies, play mini golf or any number of activities you can do at home, then docking in an exciting location for mere hours, maybe a day or two if you’re lucky.  I’d tour again, especially with this crew but it’s nothing I could do on a regular basis.  If I’m playing abroad I think I’d rather have a few shows in a concentrated area so I have a bit more down time.

I wanted to slow down a bit and breathe, to enjoy Chris and Charley’s company without worrying about making bus schedules and sound checks. I wanted to focus less on how to get more people out to the shows and more on what else we could eat, drink and look at. I don’t care so much that I was in London for two days and didn’t see Big Ben or Westminster Abbey, but thinking about all of the Indian food and cask ales I didn’t get to enjoy makes me sad.

Still, it’s always a pleasure to travel with Jared, and we made some great new friends. We ate and drank very well and played quite possibly the best gig of my life in Manchester (definitely top five). It was another fantastic travel chapter I’ll never forget but I’m very much looking forward to returning Man Voyage to its truest form this August, with its trademark slower pace and relaxed vibe.

Man Voyage II: NY’s Hudson Valley & CT Ale Trail

Last year I contributed a write-up to The Oracular Beard about Man Voyage, an annual three day male bonding jaunt my pal Jared and I embark on every August. The piece focused on the inaugural 2013 trip around the Delmarva peninsula and northern Maryland, in search of good food, craft beer and the settling of nerves as we both inched closer to fatherhood. Without even discussing it we knew Man Voyage would become a yearly affair, and I’m happy to report that our 2014 venture into New York’s Hudson Valley and down the Connecticut coastline was bigger and better yet.

The journey evolved a bit this year with the addition of hiking, hard liquor and an Echo & Sway gig, but the spirit remained the same. For a full manifesto please read Man Voyage I: The Delmarva Peninsula.

Day One

We began by climbing I-81 into Northeastern PA (or NEPA if you want to sound cutesy) for a stop at Dante’s Deli in Childs, just outside of Honesdale. Their six pack has some good reviews on Beer Advocate and we were anxious to try some bottled brews by recent Carbondale startup 3 Guys & a Beer’d.  Clever wordplay there. The selection wasn’t as abundant as BA suggested but we managed to score two of the 3 Guys beers and some singles from NY breweries we’d never tried. Not an hour into the trip and we’d already delved into the Combos supplied by Jared’s lovely wife so we weren’t hungry enough to order food but it smelled good, and the lady who ran the register was more than friendly and jumped at the chance to chat us up about 3 Guys brew, even telling us where we could get it locally on tap.

A big change in the journey this year was a heavier use of back roads over major highways, inspired by Jared’s 35 mph cross country moped journey in 2010, and the lack of any interesting scenery during last year’s trek along a large stretch of I-80. This is Man Voyage after all, we’re not in a hurry – why shouldn’t we take the road less traveled and enjoy some of the fine scenery this country has to offer? And so we headed east via NY Route 6 into the boonies, where we stumbled upon a delightful second stop.

We were ambling through Bethel, NY when Jared noticed a tie-dye colored sign for Catskill Distilling Company.  Why was this place not listed on any of the Hudson Valley beer/wine/food trail guides I read through? We made a quick turnaround and found a gorgeous rustic tasting room, well stocked with seven liquors distilled on premise and a two-story picture window with a view of all the action. The gal behind the bar was quick to fill us in on their brief history, winning an award for best bourbon in a competition they didn’t enter, and created by a completely sober distiller who has more interest in breeding horses than he does hard liquor. Tastings varied between $2 and $4 per, save for the feature of the day (gin) which was free. Jared isn’t much of a liquor guy but left with two large bottles of gin. Just goes to show that when it’s made well, spirits can grow on even the most loyal of beer loyalists.

Turns out this weekend was the 50th anniversary of Woodstock, so we got to see several couples around town who’d dusted off the outfits they wore to the festival and were sporting them once again. They looked about as graceful as you’d imagine. And if you’ve ever wondered what Bethel Woods looks like where Woodstock was held, it’s just a field.

Java Love is just up the road in White Lake and though we were only three hours in on the first day, we needed to fuel up for our afternoon hike. The shop is situated on a steep hill overlooking White Lake, in a converted old house. There’s not much room inside but you walk in to the smell of fresh roasted coffee, which was quite tasty. Jared got the bottom of the pot and it didn’t quite fill his cup so the kindly, heavily tattooed barista offered to top if off with an espresso at no extra charge rather than make us wait for him to brew a whole batch.

Gaby’s Cafe in downtown Ellenville, NY has rave reviews on Tripadvisor, many calling it the best Mexican they’d ever had. An oversell if I ever read one, it certainly set the stakes high and unfortunately didn’t deliver. Not bad by any means, but I suddenly feel for everyone who’s never had better Mexican than this. I realize not everyone has the means or desire to travel to Mexico but I’ve had more authentic everywhere from Toronto (El Trompo) to South Dakota (Guadelejara’s), and even our local Rey Azteca (State College) beats the hell out of Gaby’s. The margarita was fantastic though, and the people watching from our outdoor seating was outstanding. Ellenville must be a major bus stop point for this area, as most every shop downtown advertised Greyhound tickets and the main drag was bustling with colorful characters.

A five mile hike after large plates of Mexican cuisine doesn’t sound like the greatest idea but hey, we were hiking in the woods… plenty of room if some sort of emergency should arise. The Mohonk Preserve in Grandier, NY has several miles of hiking trails, some even fit for us not so experienced trekkers who just want to enjoy a few hours in the great outdoors. The Undercliff/Overcliff carriage road hike on the West Trapps Trailhead is a five mile loop with fantastic views of the Hudson Valley below, and rock climbers above. We’re both fairly new at this whole trying-to-stay-in-shape-so-we-can-keep-up-with-our-rapidly-growing-kids thing, but we finished the loop feeling only slightly tired, and only a bit humbled after crossing paths with two 60+ gentleman on bikes who chuckled when we asked if we were at the halfway point. I guess retirement brings out your inner smartass.

We rested up a bit at the evening’s digs, Highland NY’s Atlas Motor Lodge before heading out for a well deserved dinner and beers. The Motor Lodge was a fascinating combination of Eastern tranquility and crazy cat lady chic. The lobby and hallways were decorated with Buddhas, dragons, red and gold curtains, and had soothing Asian music coming through the entryway speakers, with the added charm of several resident felines roaming the property (insert token gag about cats in Chinese food here) being stuffed to the gills around the clock by a woman in a bathrobe, presumably the owner. Nonetheless, I like no-frills hotels. So long as they’re not overrun by bed bugs or other unexpected living things, a $40 pricetag is much better than paying for the name of a chain hotel with no personality, especially when you spend as little time in the room as we do. We essentially need a bed and a shower.

Mill House Brewing Company was a short drive from Highland across the Mid-Hudson bridge into beautiful downtown Poughkeepsie (it’s hard to convey sarcasm in text, so I’ll clarify: downtown Poughkeepsie is anything but beautiful). The bridge drops you right into the ghetto, where we nearly ran over an apparent drug deal going down in the middle of a cross street as we turned to find the brewery. Ahh, the comforts of home. A quick loop around and a few blocks back toward the bridge and we were welcomed by the glowing lights of the brewery sign from the second story patio where we asked to be seated outside.

The food and beer at MHBC were pretty good. I’d even say our kielbasa with garlic pierogies and caraway sour cream was great, and oak-aged Scottish ale, black IPA, PK Pale and Velvet Panda stout on nitro were better than average. The terrace is nice, as is the dim lit brick and iron bar area where we enjoyed our last beer after rain chased us inside. And yet, something about the place just doesn’t feel authentic.  We both picked up a very unorganic vibe, and the best way we could describe is that it seemed like they had no interest in opening a brewpub until it became the cool thing to do. Maybe it was just us, we can be picky bastards. Either way it’s worth a stop, and certainly the bright spot of downtown Poughkeepsie.

Day Two

We grabbed a fantastic breakfast at the Walkway Cafe, a two block walk from the motel toward the river. Fresh, made-to-order omelettes and french toast while we sat outside to let the crisp morning air wake us a bit, then coffees to go on a short walk down the hill toward the Walkway Over the Hudson.  We couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend the morning than a stroll across the river with miles of Hudson Valley views.

It’s a good feeling when the first stop of the day sets the bar high, and Two Roads Brewing practically shot it into the stratosphere. Similar to Harrisburg’s Appalacian Brewing, it’s a large warehouse on an industrial outskirt of Stratford, CT. The long tasting room is situated in the midst of their brewing and bottling operations, with glass picture windows all around so you watch everything happening from the bar. They have set tasting flights of four flagships and two seasonals, with a general rule that if it’s not too busy, they’ll pour whatever you want. We tried nearly everything in tasters while splitting a full pour of double IPA and there wasn’t a bad beer in the bunch. The Czech-style pilsner was especially tasty.

Two Roads doesn’t do food but they have alternating food trucks parked out front on weekends, which sounded awesome but we were a few hours too early. The bartender offered us a binder of menus from local restaurants that offered delivery and we waited for what seemed an eternity for a few sandwiches from Gaetano’s, only to be greeted by a rather testy deli employee who demanded the brewery remove them from the binder because they don’t deliver. He then handed us our bag of sandwiches, which had “GAETANO’S DELI – CALL AHEAD FOR FREE DELIVERY” printed on the outside. The same logo was printed on the wrappers and napkins. Seems like an odd logo choice for a deli that doesn’t deliver. Maybe they’re not even called Gaetano’s and it’s all a ruse. The sandwiches were good though. (UPDATE: nearly six months later and I Googled the deli to find their website still advertising free delivery.  You can’t make this shit up).

We were getting ready to leave when one of the managers stopped us to compliment Jared on his beard. Before I could mock the public display of beard camaraderie he offered us an impromptu (and quite extensive) private tour of the brewery, and let us into the gift shop to buy beer and souveniers when it wasn’t scheduled to open for another few hours. I’ve long been saying the facial hair phenomenon has overstayed its welcome, but on this day, even I was grateful for Jared’s beard.

If Two Roads set the bar high for the day, Thimble Island Brewing Company brought it crashing down. A 40 minute ride up the congested Connecticut coast to Branford and hidden in a small and unassuming industrial complex, it has absolutely no brewery feel to it. Rather it feels like you’re drinking in your buddy’s basement bar: the decor is as random as I’ve ever seen, the walls adorned with everything from sports memorabilia and music posters to photos of “I Love Lucy” and beer-themed plaques worthy of a frat house. Plus a random 4-foot light up Darth Vader on the floor.

Again I realize we can be picky bastards, but the decor wasn’t our only beef. You don’t offer tours on Fridays? Fair enough, but then who’s this group you’re bringing in to show the brewery tanks, talking to about your beer and offering samples from a special bottle of aged brew? Probably your friends, and that’s fine – perks of being chummy with the brewer, but maybe you shouldn’t do that in front of us regular people who drove five hours and included your establishment on our manly brewery tour. It was out of the way and practically a complete waste of time… practically. Their three offerings – amber ale, IPA and stout – were all very good, but their 97% rating on Beer Advocate is completely unwarranted.

We needed a pick-me-up after sitting in traffic to and from Thimble Island, and we were granted one by Coalhouse Pizza, also unassumingly located in a strip mall a few miles off of I-95 in Stamford. There are fewer combinations in life better than pizza and beer and Coalhouse does it exceptionally well. Check their menu for their unconventional pizza combinations and NY/CT-centric draft list and know I’m not exaggerating when I say the four hour drive from central PA would be worth it for a pie and a few pints. As if that’s not enough, the walls and tabletops are decorated with large-scale prints of R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz and Country and the sounds of good ol’ early Americana fill the place and spill out onto the patio.

Jared had previously been to the Peekskill Brewery in NY and spent much of the day’s drive raving about their honey chipotle wings. We hadn’t eaten in almost 45 minutes, when we’d wolfed down nearly an entire pizza with a massive amount of toppings so we were due for some more grub. The room forms a U shape around the bar and everything is bare bones concrete and steel, making it one of the loudest pubs I’ve ever had a beer in. The noise was seriously deafening; I was struggling to converse with Jared sitting three feet away. We kept it light with an IPA and a honey saison, both good but nothing remarkable. He wasn’t kidding about the wings though. They alone were worth the stop, and among the best wings I’ve ever had.

We ended the day’s festivities on a great note with Newburgh Brewing in Newburgh, NY. Another warehouse brewery, this one was a little more difficult to find with its back alley entrance and lack of neighborhood street lights. We made our way to the second floor and found a nice wide open space filled with German-style long beer tables, an assortment of arcade games and billiards and a long bar with 12 selections on tap, half of which were session beers. Saison, Hop Drop DIPA and Berliner Weisse were great but I was anxious to try the C.A.F.E. Sour. The acronym is Coffee Acquired From Ethiopia, and I’d read just days before we left that Thrillist named it one of the best and most unique beers in America. A sour beer infused with coffee sounded like a strange combination, but it’s worthy of the accolade.

Even the best brewpubs too often settle for lackluster live music, but Dan Stokes is anything but. He plays songs you know, but haven’t gotten sick of – we walked in to a Colin Hay tune and heard Ray Charles, Duke Ellington, Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello, to name a few. I asked if he knew any Tom Waits, expecting to maybe hear “Ol’ 55″ if anything. Instead he politely obliged with “Hold On”, “Heartattack and Vine” and “Drunk on the Moon.” All while wearing a kilt, no less. We relaxed to the songs of one of our favorite singers over a game of bumper pool, the rules of which we made up after Googling the actual rules proved them too hard to follow. Jared claims he won but I’m pretty sure I kicked his ass.

We retired to the New Windsor Motel, another no-frills joint stuck in the late 1980’s with floral pattern comforters and pink bathroom fixtures. Still, it was cheap and clean, with comfortable beds to collapse on and chat about our fantastic day marred only by the Thimble Island experience, and our tandem near heart attacks brought on by some asshole driving the wrong way on the bypass and nearly crashing into us. We ate our Coalhouse leftovers and drifted off to the sounds of traffic outside, wondering just how fashionably late we’d be for our brunch gig in the morning.

Day Three

An Echo & Sway gig is a unique thing. We’re not the most refined duo; we don’t practice often due to families, jobs, other musical and creative ventures, and life in general. We’re often unrehearsed (and in this case, barely awake) but there’s a lot of heart and soul in what we do, and it’s always a good time. We were scheduled for noon at Sweet Pea’s Cafe in New Windsor, with a pre-show breakfast at 11:00. Though just a short drive from the motel, we were still fashionably late at 11:20. Thankfully they anticipated as much, posting a start time of Noon-ish on their Facebook while playfully ribbing us with the line “you know how musicians are.” I liked them already.

The owners and staff at Sweet Pea’s were among the friendliest bunch we’ve encountered at any venue. They welcomed us with smiles and waited on us hand and foot, never letting our coffee get cold. We played to a sizeable crowd for two hours and then they packed us a lunch to go, which saved us when we got stuck in construction and starving around Matamoras for an hour. Everything was delicious and we couldn’t have asked for anything better. If you’re in the Hudson Valley, Sweet Pea’s is worth seeking out. They’ll treat you right.

Every day’s got to have a hiccup, and Saturday’s was worse than the Thimble Island debacle. We drove about 20 minutes out of our way to find Westtown Brew Works & Hop Farm, a relatively new startup. Their website advertised them as being open, with Saturday tasting hours from 11-6. There are also a number of photos of the property, growlers, people sipping beer out of tasters and a list of their current selections. Imagine our surprise when we climbed to the top of their long dirt driveway to find an unfinished barn and rather motley looking crew sitting around a card table smoking cigarettes. After a few minutes one of them trudged over looking like that creepy stoner uncle that shows up occasionally at family barbeques, and the conversation went something like this:

Us: “Are you open?”
Him: “Naw. Few weeks yet.”
Us: “Your website says you’re open.”
Him: “Yup we gotta change that.”
Us: “Do you have any beer we can sample while we’re here?
Kind of a long drive to get out here.”
Him: “Naw. Not open yet. Few weeks.”
Us: “What kinds of styles are you brewing?”
Him: “Few differn’t ones.”
Us: “Okay. Um, are local brewers gonna use your hops too?”
Him: “Yup.”
Us: “Uh, okay. Thanks.”
Him: “Yup. Few weeks.”

No exaggeration there. He had no interest in chatting about their farm or anything beer related, so why they started a hop farm is beyond me. I felt foolish, like maybe we should’ve called ahead but when it’s August and the website says TASTING ROOM OPEN SPRING 2014 in big, bold letters, we assumed that well, they were open. Maybe we caught them all in a game of strip poker, but he couldn’t have hustled us out of there faster, it was a very weird vibe. I began to fear Leatherface running out of the barn towards us, so we left promptly. A bigger waste of time than Friday; at least Thimble Island had beer to drink.

A long stretch of I-84 across PA brought us to our last stop of the day, and the best IPA of the trip at Wilkes-Barre’s Breaker Brewing Company.  Breaker resides in an old schoolhouse atop a hill in a residential area, easy to bypass so be on the lookout for a big horse on rollerskates outside the door. The main bar area is a nicely lit room with hardwood floors, pub tables fashioned out of old church pews (a pew I don’t mind sitting in one bit), photos of the area’s coal mining heritage on the walls and a large chalkboard with the daily food and beer offerings on display. The attentive gal at the bar was quick to get us beer menus and chat about their unorthodox brews, like Blackberry Jalapeno ale, chocolate mint ale (ale, not stout or porter), and grapefruit ale. They’re fond of flavor experimentation and while I can’t say I’d enjoy a full pint of some of the aforementioned, they were worth sampling.

The regular pale ale was quite thirst-quenching, but none of it mattered because the Mosaic Hop IPA became the only beer we cared about. Hell, it pretty much trumped every beer we’d had the previous few days. The citrusy hops punch you in the face in the very best way. I’m not great at deconstructing little nuances in beer flavor (it’s why I don’t write more reviews on Beer Advocate) but if you gave up beer for a solid month then took a sip of something like Yuengling Lager, for a moment it would be the best beer you ever tasted. Well, we’d been drinking delicious beer for three straight days and that’s what the Mosaic Hop IPA was, but it didn’t last a moment… long after the first sip, even after the growlers we brought home were empty, I’m still confident in saying it’s one of the top five best IPAs I’ve ever tasted.

Speaking of growlers, Breaker is the first brewery I’ve seen to offer a more fun alternative to recycling plastic milk jugs.  In our short time at the bar we saw several patrons forego the traditional glass vessel and opt instead to carry their beer home in empty Galliker’s containers.  With my son downing gallon after gallon of whole milk like there’s a shortage, I think I’ll be tossing some of the empty jugs in the trunk of my car before the next trip to Breaker.

We returned home to my little boy running around the driveway waiting for us, and my loving wife’s homemade “Welcome Home Beer Bros” sign hanging in the window. We unpacked the car and divvied up our beer and souvenirs, then Jared headed home to his lovely family. Later that night when our little hurricane was asleep and my wife and I were catching up over a few pints of Mosaic Hop IPA on the couch, I thought about how important Man Voyage has become, and will continue to be. Some dudes bond over ball games, hunting, fishing, poker games, strip clubs… we take in the best food, drink and scenery this land has to offer, and I couldn’t be happier with our choice of hobby, or the sense of fellowship it brings. What’s better is that in about 20 years, we’ve got two more dudes to add to our annual jaunt, and share in the joy that Man Voyage brings.

Actually, maybe we’ll bring them along in 16 years and make them drive.

Suba’s, Harrisburg PA

I like small, intimate gigs.  I’d rather play for 30 people in a quiet sit-down environment than 200 in a crowded barroom.  I don’t mind the bar scene with a more upbeat style, and some of Rattlesnake Gospel’s rocking originals and occasional Clash and Pogues covers have won us over many a drunken brewpub and dive bar crowd, but my more mellow solo material and the folk/beat poet stylings of The Echo & Sway are much better suited for the café, bistro and listening room audience.  It’s something my TE&S comrade and I bicker over once in awhile, and something else that’s changed with age: I’m much more selective when it comes to gigs these days.  Playing for free beer and food is great, and I’m not a working musician who needs compensated with a set guarantee every show, but I put a lot of heart and soul into these songs and it feels like a waste to play them for a bunch of drunks who really just want to hear our take on “Wagon Wheel.”

Suba’s Tapas Bar, above Mangia Qui on North Street in Harrisburg is the epitome of a small, intimate gig.  The room seats 45, and truthfully it’d be pretty tight if it were filled to capacity.  I played solo last Saturday evening and considering I had very little time to do any promotion (I’d just wrapped up the UK tour when this gig came together) I was happy to have the room about half full with a genuinely interested crowd.

Suba’s is upscale but welcoming and unpretentious, faintly lit by a lone chandelier overhead and tabletop tea candles.  The staff is friendly and navigated the tight spaces between tables and around the small L-shaped bar rather impressively, never spilling the small plates of shrimp, chicken, smoked salmon, lamb, vegetables and a stunning plate of flaming cheese.  On recommendation from one of the bartenders, I had the Suba Tacos (tilapia, cabbage, avocado, mango & cilantro salsa) and brought home the Taco 47 platter (chicken, sofrito, feta, pico de gallo) for my wife.  I’d eat either again but the menu has so many other things I’d try first.

The cocktail list is impressive as well, with modern twists on classics like the Manhattan, mojito and mai tai.  The Scarlet Letter with lemon shrub, Hooker’s House Bourbon, rosemary maple syrup and a splash of Angry Orchard was damn good, as was the Marrakesh Manhattan with Cherry Bomb whiskey, Moroccan bitters, Antica and black tea.

I wasn’t aware Harrisburg had any decent neighborhoods but it’s quite nice here.  The trees along North Street are adorned with white string lights, several restaurants have burning lanterns for outdoor seating and there looks to be a nice park around the Capitol building where North meets 3rd Street.  I’m sure there are other worthwhile areas I just haven’t seen, and admittedly most of my trips to Harrisburg have revolved around the Appalachian Brewing Company on Cameron Street, which even the locals warn to stay away from after dark.

The bartenders looked after me all night, were quick to refill my drinks, put in food orders before show time and paid me without incident afterward.  I’d dine or play here again anytime; matter of fact I’m hoping for the not-too-distant future.  Unfortunately I didn’t get any photos, as I spent my down time catching up with some family and friends who live locally and made the trip.

Suba’s seems like a great place for a night out if you’re in the area, and they really put an emphasis on live, original music so there’s someone playing most weekends. I wouldn’t mind foregoing my own gig to catch a show with my wife sometime.

Man Voyage I: The Delmarva Peninsula

*Circa 2013*
Originally appeared as a guest post on The Oracular Beard.  Please click here to visit the original and have a look around, but don’t stay too long – you may start to itch or develop a rash.

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This past August, my pal Jared and I took a three day road trip up through NY’s gorgeous Hudson Valley in the second installment of Man Voyage, an annual tradition that began in 2013 to celebrate our impending fatherhood. The trip evolved a bit this year but the basic premise remained the same: a general recharging of the batteries through good food, craft beer and a renewal of friendship. Afterward he asked me to write a guest blog entry for TOB and though I don’t share his enthusiasm for facial hair, I’m more than happy to oblige.

It wouldn’t feel right to omit the first chapter, so we’ll begin with 2013’s Man Voyage I: the Delmarva Peninsula. Part II will follow suit, and I’m hoping these entries are up to the high standards Jared sets with his writing, as I’d love to make this contribution after each years’ trip.

First of all, let’s make sure we’re pronouncing it correctly: like Bon Voyage, only we’re two dudes on a trip celebrating our manhood, so it’s Man Voyage. If you think it’s a stupid name, you’re clearly not manly enough to understand.

As the summer of 2013 was winding down, we began to realize how excited, nay woefully unprepared we were for this greatest of changes about to besiege our lives. What better way to calm our nerves than to talk the whole thing out on the open road, stopping occasionally to indulge in some food and brew? We pride ourselves on going local wherever we are, and Man Voyage was going to embody that spirit.

Delmarva is a term for the peninsula that shares land between Delaware, Maryland and Virginia (clever, right?). It used to be a wasteland for decent beer – in all the years my wife and I vacationed in Ocean City the best we ever found were European imports at the Irish pub on the boardwalk. I poked around on Beer Advocate and found a few new places had opened in the years since, and I’m happy to report that Delmarva has finally joined the world of craft beer, with some damn fine establishments so far.

Fordham/Dominion and 16 Mile breweries would’ve added a few more stops but we skipped them.  Fordham/Dominion was once the exclusive craft beer they served at Rams Head Live in Baltimore – I tried several at a Hold Steady show and none impressed me. I bought a sixer of 16 Mile once on a whim and downright hated it. If you’d whole-heartedly recommend either place please share; I’d love to make this trip again and will include them next time.

Dogfish Brewings & Eats is a Rehoboth staple. There’s a reason their beer is so widely distributed and renowned – I’ve long been a fan of Sam Calagione’s innovative brews, and their take on simple styles like the pale ale (Shelter Pale) and the IPA (60 Minute) stand out more than most, and the food at the restaurant has never disappointed. We met our friend Tom at his Milford, DE apartment 40 minutes north of Rehoboth (he and his lovely wife Maria were kind enough to let us couch surf for the night), and he drove us the rest of the way.

The only negative is word’s gotten out about this place.  Arriving after 5:00 during peak season, I expected a wait but I’d never seen it like this, on a Tuesday night no less.  We waited an hour to get seated and could barely squeeze in at the bar in the meantime.  And it wasn’t just busy, it was overrun with drunk frat boys and family men deep into their mid life crises, wearing their sunglasses indoors, whining about the lack of sports on TV and holding entire conversations exclusively via dick and fart jokes. One in particular repeatedly harassed the hostess about his wait time, attempting to woo her into seating him sooner by draping his creepy, sweaty arm around her.  I offered my condolences and asked if this type of malarkey was common. “More often than I’d like,” she responded with a frustrated smile. It’s a shame really. The bitter part of me wants to blame Sam’s involvement in the “Brewmasters” show for overexposing the brand, but my sensible side knows it’s just damn good beer and the morons would seek it out eventually.

Aside from that unpleasantness it was a damn fine visit. Previously, my only complaint was their lack of one-offs or draft only selections. For such a renowned brewery, they only ever had their flagship brews, maybe a seasonal and some aged bottles. This time around they boasted a whopping 19 beers on draft, four of them brewpub exclusives. This is what I’ve always expected from a place with the production capabilities of DFH. Ever the IPA loyalist, Jared had the 120 Minute, which is delicious and smooth but it’ll knock you on your ass. The 15% ABV is really well hidden in the flavor and it sneaks up on you quick. The Firefly (session pale), Stewed (strong English style pale) and Piercing Pilsner were all very quaffable, the pils and Firefly tasting especially nice on a hot summer night (we’ve since seen the pilsner in bottles in PA).

Some genius in the kitchen deserves a promotion for stuffing an onion ring with bacon and putting it on top of a burger – maybe this is already a trend and I’m late to the party but it’s the first time I’ve encountered this miracle of burger innovation. And just when I thought it couldn’t get better, they actually cooked it rare – Wisconsin cheddar, bacon stuffed onion ring and a little bit of blood.  The other highlight was our dessert of Choc Lobster, a beer I admittedly was prepared to order based on the name alone. I balked when the waitress told us it was brewed with live lobsters in the kettle – I don’t care for lobster, but she insisted it was the perfect dessert beer. She wasn’t lying – a chocolate porter with an aftertaste of ocean.  Sounds funky but I’d drink another in a heartbeat.

A post-dinner dip in the ocean was the perfect end to the evening, for me anyway. I’d poked fun of Tom and Jared for not having the nerve to get in, though they didn’t spend the 40 minute drive home soaking wet with nothing to dry off with. Maybe the joke was on me.

After a refreshing nights’ sleep Maria prepared a lovely scrambled egg and sausage breakfast. We stopped in downtown Milford at Dolce, an extremely welcoming cafe and bake shop, snagged some piping hot coffees to go and took them on the downtown river walk through the shopping district, along some boat docks and a public park. It was quiet and scenic, and a relaxing way to spend an hour before heading south to Salisbury, MD for Evolution Brewing.

Evolution didn’t open until 12:00 and it was only an hours’ drive to Salisbury, so we had some time to kill.  Fortunately in the very small town of Laurel, DE we stumbled upon Attic Fanatic, a very large antique mall sprawled out over a few buildings. We were looking to kill maybe 30 minutes and wound up inside almost two hours. Antique malls are always a mix of useless junk and things you can’t believe someone would want to get rid of. Me, I go for vintage clothing and furniture, 50s/60s bric-a-brac, vinyl, old photos and postcards, and they had plenty. If we’d been driving a small pickup truck instead of Jared’s Ford Focus I might have walked out with a mid century end table or even a small dresser.

A few miles later we saw a road side coffee stand called Muggs & Juggs: Bikini Barista.  Is this a thing I wasn’t aware of?  I love boobs as much as the next guy but this is laughable.  Isn’t it enough we have Hooters to appeal to the lowest common denominator?

Evolution is a rather large building with a nice palm tree façade, houses a more formal sit-down restaurant and tasting room with a long bar, a few pub tables and table top video game console with all the classics – Donkey Kong, Space Invaders, even Mappy. We played a few video games over beers until we got hungry enough to order some lunch. Best sandwich on the trip was a toss-up between the DFH burger and Evolution’s glorious Wednesday special of a $5 brisket sandwich. Slow-smoked and tender with a house-made root beer sauce, Jicama apple slaw and a big pile of fries. The bartender offered us a locally made cajun dipping sauce for the fries and I dumped it on the second half of my sandwich as well.

The beer at was every bit as good as the food. The IPA was delicious, very hoppy but balanced and thirst quenching after coming in out of the heat. The ESB was good but I’ve got to learn to stop ordering ESBs.  My favorite representation of the style is Oliver’s ESB at the Wharf Rat in Baltimore, and thus far no other has lived up to it. The brewery exclusive Wandering Monk Belgian Pale Ale, however, was exceptional. A lot of traditionalists, even some whose writing I admire (I’m talking to you, Lew Bryson) aren’t keen on the style but Belgian Pales and Belgian IPAs have really grown on me and if I’m in the right mood, have become my go-to when trying a new place.

The Prelude Belgian Gold (also a brewery exclusive) sounded tasty but a bit high in ABV after we’d already had a few pints. The bartender poured us a 4 oz sample size and didn’t even charge us for it. Add in a friendly chat with a down-to-Earth local who congratulated us on procreating, offering us some wisdom he’s acquired after raising three daughters, and the bar was set quite high for the day.

Tall Tales Brewing Company in Parsonburg, MD, was an easy 20 minutes up Ocean Gateway toward Ocean City.  They have the benefit of sharing their building with a landscaping company so the place is really done up, though we were both disappointed in the lack of the “tall tales” theme. Aside from a few small logos printed on the beer menu, there’s nothing of it to be found. Rather the atmosphere is a bit industrial for our taste; the bar area and tasting room have a sort of corporate feel, and the men’s room looks like something that yuppie couple from Beetlejuice would’ve had installed in the house after Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin died. It’s all very sharp, just not our style.

Anyway, that’s a small complaint. The beer was tasty – we had the Some Beach Island Ale, a nice session Blonde ale with Kolsch yeast, the Excalibur IPA and Bonnie & Clyde DIPA, and Paul Bunyon Pale. The Paul Bunyon was probably my favorite – very citrusy hop character like an IPA but a bit smoother and balanced like a pale. It seems like one of those all-around good beers that craft beer snobs and fizzy yellow piss water drinkers alike could agree on. The bartender couldn’t have been friendlier, chatting us up about their brews and renovation plans to put a massive patio and fire pit area out back before sending us on our way to Burley Oak Brewing, just up the road in Berlin.

Either the bartender at Tall Tales needs some help with her directional skills or we just weren’t paying enough attention.  She attempted to guide us to Burley Oak by telling us to “turn right at the big produce sign a few miles up the road.” By “big” she meant “slightly larger than an average street sign” and by a few miles, she meant 15.  It was a small hiccup, and well worth it. Burley Oak was one big open space with a long bar, a few tables constructed from old barrels and a display area with a ton of merchandise (though hell, how many different shirt designs does one brewery need?).  Christmas lights bordering their detailed chalkboard draft list and a cutout picture window view of the brewers in action are both nice touches.

Their beer was some of the best on the trip, with fun names to boot – Aboriginal Gangster (IPA with New Zealand hops), Waffle Stomper (Belgian IPA), and Golden Sex Panther (lemongrass & basil saison, admittedly not as fun to drink as it was to order…I settled for a sample). Small-batch stuff is always the best; most I’ve found aren’t quite as good as our nearby Selinsgrove Brewing Co, only served in-house, but Burley Oak is close. Everything tasted like it had just been tapped moments before we arrived.

After just a passing glance at each, Tall Tales seems to cater more to the flourishing summertime tourist crowd whereas Burley Oak had a more local feel. Burley Oak’s event calendar features original singer/songwriters and bring-your-own-vinyl nights rather than the run-of-the-mill karaoke and Jimmy Buffet tributes that overrun most beach vacation spots. The drawback is slightly less focus on the travelers – which isn’t to say the staff at Burley was the least bit unfriendly, just more eager to chat up the regulars they know will be back every week. It’s more an observation than a complaint – the bartender was quick to offer refills and answer questions so if he’d rather chat business with the guy who owns the jet ski rental place down the road it’s fine by me.

Two and a half hours and a drive across the good ol’ bay bridge later and we were in my home-sweet-home-away-from-home of Baltimore. I’ve written countless songs about my love/hate relationship with that city, and being there with my wife, family, friends, and anyone I care about is centering in a way I can’t describe.  My sister lives in suburban Catonsville and was a very gracious host, so we treated her to dinner at the newly opened Heavy Seas Alehouse downtown, just off Little Italy.

The Heavy Seas brand has been a Baltimore staple for years but until recently they’ve only had a tasting room and tours at Clipper City Brewery in Halethorpe, just south of the city. The alehouse looks like a revamped old warehouse and impossible to miss with the giant Heavy Seas logo shining down Bank Street.  It’s gorgeous inside, all rustic looking wood to compliment the brick walls, large scale beer posters and ship memorabilia hanging everywhere. Since there were three of us we decided to order an assortment of the snacks and small plates to share: cured meats and cheese with mustards, soft pretzels with beer cheese sauce, prosciutto with apple compote and ciabatta crisps. Everything was good but not as filling as we’d hoped; we were hungrier than we’d realized and should’ve ordered sandwiches or dinners.

The beer was top notch as always, matey. I was thrilled they still had their summer seasonal Red Sky at Night on tap. Saison with Belgian yeast and candied sugar, goes down smooth with a warming, boozy finish.  We gulped down a few beers, filled a growler with their Marzen lager for later and headed back to the ‘burbs for some video games and Netflix before passing out on the couch.

You can count on three things in life: death, taxes and every coffee shop ever employing at least one mopey hipster with unkempt hair too tired to take your order because he hasn’t had his coffee yet.  Bean Hollow in historic Ellicott City is no exception.  Sad emo barista looked physically pained after writing our short order of two coffees and one muffin. Top notch brew though, and the girl behind the counter was much more awake and friendly.  We took our coffees on a stroll through Taylor’s Antique Mall (since closed), and headed on toward Frederick for our last stop of the day.

Brewer’s Alley in downtown Frederick was the first brewpub established in Frederick County, in 1996.  Maybe that statistic set our expectations a little high but we didn’t enjoy our experience there at all. We sat on the patio outside. Our waitress took forever to come over, and was bored and annoyed at answering our very simple questions about the menu. She interacted the same way with the other patrons, and after listening in a bit I discovered most of the other servers were the same way. I asked the hostess where the bathroom was and she grunted and pointed without looking up. Maybe there was a unanimously hated announcement or new policy instituted by management that morning that had everybody reeling; either way they all gave sad emo barista a run for his money.

The visit would have been salvaged by a decent meal and beer but those weren’t great either. Pale ale and IPA tasted so similar I wondered if the bartender accidentally poured the same beer twice.  I ordered the cask IPA next figuring I couldn’t go wrong with a cask beer and was wrong again. Aside from having a better mouthfeel from the cask pour it was one of the most unexciting IPA’s I’ve had. Fish tacos and pulled pork sandwich were decent enough but nothing I’d make an out-of-the-way drive for. I don’t mean to totally run the place down but how it scores an 89 (“very good”) rating on Beer Advocate is beyond me. It would take a lot of steady rave reviews over a decent period of time for me to go back. The rest of downtown Frederick is nice though. Tree-lined and clean, with a quaintness despite the constant bustling of traffic.

The Man Voyage manifesto was accomplished. We ate and drank heartily, most of it very, very good, and what wasn’t all that great didn’t matter. The driving in between, singing Bruce Springsteen, Tom Waits and Van Morrison tunes, imagining the mistakes we’ll make in the years to come while championing each others’ strengths and positive attributes, giving encouragement and wondering how our kids have any chance of leading normal lives with us as their fathers.  That’s the stuff Man Voyage is made of.

Beer and food too…because who wants to think about all of that on an empty stomach?