Hickory Hops Brew Festival of ought-seven
"There are things that drift away
Like our endless numbered days"
Hickory Hops Brew Festival of ought-seven
Sun Drop doesn't taste the same as it did thirteen years ago. I'm not really sure if they've changed the formula, or my taste buds have evolved. Don't honestly know. Could be that the most recent batch I guzzled was after a sun-drenched day of imbibing multitudes of fermented wheat. That's right folks, beer. Nectar of our Norse forefathers.
This tale begins long ago in our humble, East Tennessee version of The Winchester, Union Jacks. One of the regulars, for which we were also, started chatting up about her crew's trips to many beer festivals across this great land. The first most event located in downtown Hickory, North Carolina, going by the moniker of the Hickory Hops Brew Festival. Catchy, ain't it? Well we decided then and there to attend. By close of business the next day we had tickets ordered, and hotel rooms booked. That's how we do it, how we roll.
The end of a particularly hard work week arrives, and we head down Friday night. We decide to get our bearings. By bearings I mean vanquishing as many beer bottles as our tired, road weary asses could handle before passing out. The Hickory Tavern was a nice, albeit noisy venue. It had the pretense of your regular sports bar, but the crowd leaned more towards both the family and the post-college crowd. As the night wore on the families thinned out, and the meat market atmosphere became more prevalent. It was still nice, didn't seem as bad as our meat markets here in K-town. Well, eventually, our old bones started chattering, and we headed out. Considering how far we'd travelled, our staying out well past midnight was a feet. Damnit.
The next morning we were free and clear of any trace of a hangover. I guess our years of poundin' 'em back makes us more tolerant than others. Somewhat. Could be that we slept in a little bit. A phenomenal thing happened Saturday morning. I realized that I left my sneakers back at the house. The only thing I had were my Lugz, which are black, work boots. No way in hell I was going to look like a crazed, ex-military goof ball. Wearing shorts with those boots. Instead I chose the wearing-slacks-even-though-its-eighty-degrees-and-the-sun-is-beating-down-hard-and-heavy, dumbass look. I was sweating balls. Literally.
Upon arriving at the beer festival we checked in, and got our glasses. The beer taster glass we received was just barely north the size of a shot glass. In fact, it was like a tall, narrow tumbler. Probably holds that much liquid too. Bird's eye view would have produced a lowercase "h" out of tents under which the beer vendors were located. We start hitting distributor after distributor, completely in hog heaven. Are you kidding? All the beer you can drink for the low, low price of twenty-five dollars, cash money? All I can say is an emphatic, Templesmithian "hells yeah!" Replete with dueling, air six-gunners. Of course.
We tasted beer, after beer, after beer. An hour passed, I start to realize that I really don't like the taste of beer. I'm not talking "don't appreciate," as in I'm uncultured. I mean, flat out, it tastes nasty. What horse piss would be like if it weren't so hayey. Just disgusting. Especially some of the oddball beers of choice. IPA especially. Bleh. I decide, once I come to this realization, that maybe I need to slow down. Tasting beers, trying to figure out which one tastes the least vomit-inducing, is not really my idea of an enjoyable, Saturday afternoon. A bolt of brilliance then hits me. I can do what I usually do, guzzle it down. Down to the bottom-most pit of my belly. If I do it fast enough, I'll get that ever-so-lovely buzz. I'm hitting vendor after vendor, chugging away. Never tasting the swill. Just letting if swiftly pass my gums. An hour or so later, I had to sit down for a quick second. I had been drinking non-stop, wearing long britches, sweating my ass off. Not a good combination when you're borderline drunk. To my luck, the consumer-friendly hosts thought enough to distribute free water. Thank God, Buddha, Allah, Chuck Norris. Whomever you believe in.
After having enough wheat in our bellies to shat a loaf of bread, we headed over to The Olde Hickory Tap Room. Located in the heart of downtown Hickory, adjacent to the festivities, was this extremely nice restaurant and bar. It was formerly a train depot. The walls were lined with a lineage of beer taps of all shapes, sizes, and varmints. After eating we headed back over to The Hickory Tavern. We wanted to see what it was like on a Saturday night. Compare it to Friday night. The clear winner, by the end of the night, was Friday. It didn't help much that our waitress only appeared at our table four times in the well over five hours we were there. How the hell were we to get our proper drink on with slow service? Not at all is how it turned out.
Overall it was a good trip. I missed out on seeing Wolfmother for the sojourn for beer. Some days it feels worth it, others not so much. One thing for sure, I will be hitting many more beerfests. Next time I'll bring a clothespin for my nose, and some damn shorts for my sweaty balls.
Until next time:
"I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move." - Robert Louis Stevenson
Like our endless numbered days"
Hickory Hops Brew Festival of ought-seven
Sun Drop doesn't taste the same as it did thirteen years ago. I'm not really sure if they've changed the formula, or my taste buds have evolved. Don't honestly know. Could be that the most recent batch I guzzled was after a sun-drenched day of imbibing multitudes of fermented wheat. That's right folks, beer. Nectar of our Norse forefathers.
This tale begins long ago in our humble, East Tennessee version of The Winchester, Union Jacks. One of the regulars, for which we were also, started chatting up about her crew's trips to many beer festivals across this great land. The first most event located in downtown Hickory, North Carolina, going by the moniker of the Hickory Hops Brew Festival. Catchy, ain't it? Well we decided then and there to attend. By close of business the next day we had tickets ordered, and hotel rooms booked. That's how we do it, how we roll.
The end of a particularly hard work week arrives, and we head down Friday night. We decide to get our bearings. By bearings I mean vanquishing as many beer bottles as our tired, road weary asses could handle before passing out. The Hickory Tavern was a nice, albeit noisy venue. It had the pretense of your regular sports bar, but the crowd leaned more towards both the family and the post-college crowd. As the night wore on the families thinned out, and the meat market atmosphere became more prevalent. It was still nice, didn't seem as bad as our meat markets here in K-town. Well, eventually, our old bones started chattering, and we headed out. Considering how far we'd travelled, our staying out well past midnight was a feet. Damnit.
The next morning we were free and clear of any trace of a hangover. I guess our years of poundin' 'em back makes us more tolerant than others. Somewhat. Could be that we slept in a little bit. A phenomenal thing happened Saturday morning. I realized that I left my sneakers back at the house. The only thing I had were my Lugz, which are black, work boots. No way in hell I was going to look like a crazed, ex-military goof ball. Wearing shorts with those boots. Instead I chose the wearing-slacks-even-though-its-eighty-degrees-and-the-sun-is-beating-down-hard-and-heavy, dumbass look. I was sweating balls. Literally.
Upon arriving at the beer festival we checked in, and got our glasses. The beer taster glass we received was just barely north the size of a shot glass. In fact, it was like a tall, narrow tumbler. Probably holds that much liquid too. Bird's eye view would have produced a lowercase "h" out of tents under which the beer vendors were located. We start hitting distributor after distributor, completely in hog heaven. Are you kidding? All the beer you can drink for the low, low price of twenty-five dollars, cash money? All I can say is an emphatic, Templesmithian "hells yeah!" Replete with dueling, air six-gunners. Of course.
We tasted beer, after beer, after beer. An hour passed, I start to realize that I really don't like the taste of beer. I'm not talking "don't appreciate," as in I'm uncultured. I mean, flat out, it tastes nasty. What horse piss would be like if it weren't so hayey. Just disgusting. Especially some of the oddball beers of choice. IPA especially. Bleh. I decide, once I come to this realization, that maybe I need to slow down. Tasting beers, trying to figure out which one tastes the least vomit-inducing, is not really my idea of an enjoyable, Saturday afternoon. A bolt of brilliance then hits me. I can do what I usually do, guzzle it down. Down to the bottom-most pit of my belly. If I do it fast enough, I'll get that ever-so-lovely buzz. I'm hitting vendor after vendor, chugging away. Never tasting the swill. Just letting if swiftly pass my gums. An hour or so later, I had to sit down for a quick second. I had been drinking non-stop, wearing long britches, sweating my ass off. Not a good combination when you're borderline drunk. To my luck, the consumer-friendly hosts thought enough to distribute free water. Thank God, Buddha, Allah, Chuck Norris. Whomever you believe in.
After having enough wheat in our bellies to shat a loaf of bread, we headed over to The Olde Hickory Tap Room. Located in the heart of downtown Hickory, adjacent to the festivities, was this extremely nice restaurant and bar. It was formerly a train depot. The walls were lined with a lineage of beer taps of all shapes, sizes, and varmints. After eating we headed back over to The Hickory Tavern. We wanted to see what it was like on a Saturday night. Compare it to Friday night. The clear winner, by the end of the night, was Friday. It didn't help much that our waitress only appeared at our table four times in the well over five hours we were there. How the hell were we to get our proper drink on with slow service? Not at all is how it turned out.
Overall it was a good trip. I missed out on seeing Wolfmother for the sojourn for beer. Some days it feels worth it, others not so much. One thing for sure, I will be hitting many more beerfests. Next time I'll bring a clothespin for my nose, and some damn shorts for my sweaty balls.
Until next time:
"I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move." - Robert Louis Stevenson
posted by The Big Man | 6/05/2007 12:01:00 PM
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