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YOU WANT A BEER COLUMN? YOU GOT A BEER COLUMN
"Okay, Ort... you're back. Now how about a beer column?"
I hear at least 11,964 of you blat in unison. Okay, you're
on—but bear one thing in mind: I won't make beer columny a
habit. That very factor (too many beer columns) is part of what
squelched my desire to research and to write on other topics,
and I can't let it happen again. I have too much time invested
in those areas; hopefully forthcoming verbiage on these varied
fields will prove to be amusing and/or interesting to at least a
few of you. A digression is now in order to spew forth some of
my pending topics.
I'm still working on finding out more about the victims
of the terrible Terminal Hotel fire in Atlanta in 1938, and
have unearthed a few groovy tidbits about several of these
35 people for your reading pleasure... plus, several road
trips are in order to uncover more.
I want to tell you the story of Henry, my indestructible
1972 Dodge Dart, and the places he and I travelled to...
oh, what a CARACTER he was!
At least some of you might be interested to know some
of the records I have recently turned up, as well as a few
stories about the people who made them.
Surely, another column on good radio is in the offing. I
have several stations to tell you about, a few of which you
can receive locally.
I want to write about my father sometime. He was a tre
mendous inspiration to me in a great many ways.
The creation of Barrow County in 1921 merits space.
Poor Winder: in the 1920 census, it was chopped up among
three counties!
...And there are more. But now we telescope back to
where we started, a beer column. Julio Iglesias never sang
"To All the Beers I've Loved Before," but I could do that. I
have a logical place to start.
My recent Atlanta journey brought me back to the place
where I'd bought my first legal beer, Manuel's Tavern. The date
was something like July 31, 1970.1 was there with companions
drinking a Schlitz because my friend's father distributed that
in Athens. Dry of bottle, I proceeded to the counter and spoke:
"Surely, you've got something here that I can't get in Athens...
something out of the ordinary; maybe even something exciting.
I'm up for a surprise." The bartender paused, then replied, "Yes,
we have such a beverage. It'll cost you $1.25." The Schlitz was
75 cents; I was willing to risk the extra four bits to go on a
safari, so I donned my invisible pith helmet.
The barkeep opened the beer. Instantly the floral smell of
hops filled the room. People in booths turned around and won
dered what they were smelling, witnessing. I was entranced.
I asked for a glass and poured this magic elixir slowly into it.
The odor was akin to bouquets of flowers suddenly appearing
as if from out of nowhere. I sat down on a stool, awaiting my
Nirvana.
The folks behind the bar had played this saga out before,
generally as a joke. "If you can finish that, the second one's
on the house," someone told me. I steadied myself and took
a taste. I then took my glasses off and started crying. "Too
much, isn't it?" someone chuckled.
"Oh, no... this is the best thing I've ever had in my life,"
I joyfully sobbed. I was 21 and this was Ballantine Pale Ale
(which I had enjoyed before with my dad)... but somehow this
bottle was different—the label had the word "India" festooned
across it. I slowly savored every drop, although I did ever-so-
slightly cheat and let my companions take a tiny taste (nei
ther of them could stand it: it was far too intense). This was
acceptable to the employees, so the second one was indeed on
the house, and I savored it just as much.
On every Atlanta trip thereafter, I would return to the coun
ter of Manuel's and order up a Ballantine Pale Ale India, fork
over my $1.25, and slowly enjoy every drop. It was common for
me to down two in a sitting—but not three; there was a limit.
Then came the sad day in 1972: "We don't have that any
more," the barkeep told me. "P. Ballantine & Sons of Newark
went out of business." I was heartbroken, but only briefly,
because then I discovered Andeker, a fine Pilsener which was
a Pabst product (the Andeker mural is still on the back wall of
Manuel's main room). I missed my old friend, but was glad to
make another!
For many years Andeker remained my beer of choice on my
sojourns to Atlanta. By the time it left the market, I had dis
covered newly available goodies from a distributor in Macon...
brands like Stegmaier Gold Medal, Utica Club, Iron City, Dunk's,
Dixie, Falls City, Drummond Bros, and a score of others. I
also enjoyed drinking Hop 'n' Gator (a cross between beer
and Gatorade!) while it was sold in Georgia, along with
Old Chicago, Old Chicago Dark, Yuengling, Schmidt's (of
Philadelphia) and even sometimes Gablinger's Extra Light
(one of the first low-calorie beers).
Employment in Richmond came to me in early
1979 (this is where I discovered the incredible WGOE,
Progressive Radio Richmond, 1590 on your AM dial—but
that's a whole 'nother story!). There I drank National
Bohemian, National Premium (yum!) and Ortlieb's (I kid
you not!). A road trip up to Washington, DC for a brief visit
found me at a corner deli one sunny Sunday morning. I
idly looked into the beer cooler there, and what did I see?
My old friend, Ballantine India Pale Ale! I told my story
to the owner, who pulled me up a box in the back room
so I could have a bottle. It was just as I had remembered:
"Deep brown gold, pungent aroma of hops. This is long
aged, probably in wood," wrote James D. Robertson in The
Great American Beer Book. (Yes, it was held in cask for nine
months'. Such aging is hardly cost-effective today, but it
sure made for some fine brew then.) I noted that it was
now being made at Narragansett Brewing in Cranston, RI.
While there still is a Ballantine India Pale Ale on the mar
ket, it has slipped in quality: it is no longer held in wood,
and contains only about 45 International Bittering Units; the
bottle I savored from Newark in 1970 had 67... most standard
brews have 10 or less.
Today, however, we can readily find products that rival
Ballantine I.P.A. in execution. I can highly recommend Terrapin
Rye P.A., Sweetwater I.P.A., Peachtree Pale Ale, and several
other widely sold brews of comparable quality. This is leaving
out Copper Creek Brewing's nearly-always-available pale ales,
which are uniformly excellent.
Okay, there's yer beer column and a bit o' my nostalgia
mixed in. Soon, a new adventure. Prosit! (30).
William Orten Carlton
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II FLAGPOlf.COM • DECEMBER 17,2008