Beer | A Continuous Lean.

The Bronx Brewery | Beer Off the Beaten Path

Aug 24th, 2014 | Categories: Beer, Jake Gallagher, New York City | by Jake Gallagher

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It doesn’t take much to brew a beer. All you need is a stove-top, some water, a few containers, a little fridge space and you’re good to go. Brewing a lot of beer though, now that’s a completely different story. Large scale brewing requires all sorts of alcohol accoutrement, but most importantly it demands space. And what does New York City not have a lot of? Space. For a brewery to find a home within the five boroughs, it takes a hefty dose of perseverance and a willingness to tread off the beaten path. This is how the Bronx Brewery found their home in the Port Morris neighborhood of the South Bronx, hardly a traditional hotspot for hops.

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Revisiting The White Horse Tavern.

Dec 14th, 2013 | Categories: Beer, History, Jake Gallagher, New York City | by Jake Gallagher

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As the story goes on the night of November 3, 1953 poet Dylan Thomas stumbled up from the White Horse Tavern to The Chelsea Hotel where he was staying, reached the doorstep, declared “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies. I think that’s the record!” and promptly collapsed. A few days later, only after another visit to the White Horse, Thomas was dead.

Whether or not you believe Thomas super-human, or should I say sub-human, level of consumption, it is quite fitting that the West Village’s most iconic beatnik bar played such an integral role in the Welsh poet’s demise. For, it was the beats of the fifties and sixties that would come to define the White Horse’s history by drinking their nights (and quite often their days) in this bohemian haven on Hudson Street.





Leinenkugel’s and the Case for Summer Beer.

Jul 19th, 2013 | Categories: Beer, David Coggins, Drinking, Wisconsin | by David Coggins

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Nobody sets out to be what Kingsley Amis refers to as a “beer bore.” When you’re a teenager you don’t drone on about Belgian Lambics, how you only drink Kölsch in Cologne and mercifully you never utter the word “handcrafted.” No, when you’re eighteen you drink what’s available, familiar, cheap and geographically appropriate. And that’s as it should be.

For us, summers in Wisconsin meant Leinenkugel’s, which came, like Annie Hall, from nearby Chippewa Falls. The bottle declared that it’s “brewed by 73 people who care” which is reassuring. It’s been around since 1867 and has been run by many generations of Jacob Leinenkugel’s descendants, which is good. Then it was bought by an international conglomerate in 1988, which is not as good, but perhaps not surprising.

Even for those of use who are devoted wine drinkers, it remains a very fine beer. Well, perhaps not very fine, but certainly good enough. That’s one of the funny things about the beer you grow up with: Your associations are so strong that they can overwhelm your judgment about the taste. This comes into sharp relief when you try your friend’s favorite beer from Washington or Maine and hint that it’s subpar (perhaps over the years you have acquired a few habits of the beer bore). Your friend looks at you icily, as if you’ve insulted his mother’s cooking.