Reader Submission | My First Beer by Alex Lewis

Yesterday we posted a "My First Beer" story written by HBG reader Kirk Winters, in hopes of starting a little My First Beer momentum. So far, so good - Today we've got a story from reader Alex Lewis, who found true love with a Dead Guy. Care to share your first beer story? We'd love to share it. Hit us up at hoosierbeergeek @ gmail.com. Thanks again, Alex.

I grew up in a very conservative home where alcohol was not consumed. My parents never condemned those who did enjoy it, but said that it simply wasn't for them. This family background helped to keep me from breaking laws that restrict consumption before 21; however I subverted those rules once I was 18 and headed down to St. John's Island with a friends family. They did enjoy alcohol and consumed it frequently. They provided my first beer to me. It was a Corona Light with a lime stuck in it. I loved the lime taste, but the actual beer tasted what my pee smelled like. I wanted to like it so bad, but never truly enjoyed it.

After high school graduation, I traveled to England for some abroad schooling. I was given opportunity to enjoy some of England's finest brews in bars where the taps never ran dry. I was drawn to Guinness immediately and usually drank that. I tried Carling and a few other British Macros but was never guided into some of the more complex fair that those bars had to offer. The most important thing was that my time in England brought an appreciation of beer.

Upon returning from England (at age 20), I began work at a restaurant that truly appreciated fine dining. This shown through in the food as well as the beer, wine, and sake choices. I was first introduced to the concept of craft beer at this restaurant (named Cerulean). World Class Beverages used to come in and do beer trainings with the serving staff so that we could better pair customer's desires with a fantastic beer. It was at one of these tastings that I had a Bell's Oberon. I had never experienced such a complex beer in my life. The wheat taste followed by the citrus was delicious (especially on that 90 summer day). Although I really enjoyed this beer, I attribute my LOVE of beer to the brew that I had the following day. Rogue Dead Guy. The complexity of this beer had me hook, line, and sinker. This is the beer that I truly consider my first. It was the beer that built a desire to dive into the crazy world of craft brews.

Reader Submission | My First Beer by Kirk Winters

Yesterday I shared my "My First Beer" story, and asked for our readers to step up and share theirs by sending stories to hoosierbeergeek @ gmail.com. I'm happy to say that we've had a quick response... Let's keep the momentum going, shall we? Our thanks go out to Kirk Winters, who submitted this little gem.

The story of my first beer starts with a Motel bathtub full of Icehouse and ends with me and a friend hiding from the cops in a Denny's restaurant.

I'm not just a beer geek, I'm pretty much a geek in all facets of life. I spent the majority of my high school weekends watching star wars and playing video games, Dungeons and Dragons or other nerdy board games like Axis and Allies. I had gone to a few parties where people were drinking but was never interested in joining in.

But when a group of my friends decided to get a hotel room on the night of our high school graduation and have a party I figured that was as good a time as any to pop my booze cherry, so to speak.

I caught a ride with some friends to the Motel which backed up to the interstate and was surrounded by trucker-friendly establishments such as truck washes, gas stations and all-night diners--far enough away from our suburban point of origin. When we arrived the "party" was already started so to speak. The bathtub was filled up with ice and peppered with 16oz. cans of Icehouse and a few friends were smoking outside the back patio door.

My dad had frequently given me sips of his Pabst Blue Ribbon as a youngin' so I was well aware of what beer tasted like but I had never sat down and drank my own before. I was given a can which I promptly opened and took a long pull. I was not averse to the taste of those small sips my dad gave me, but drinking the real-deal out of my own can was an entirely different experience. The ice cold bite, the intense carbonation and then the awkward bitterness... I can't say I was a fan.

Fortunately I didn't have to endure it for long. I wasn't through a third of my can when a knocking was heard at the door. The person closest to peered through the eyehole and quickly turned to us and hush-shouted "It's the cops!"

There was a flurry of action as the 15-or-so of us dropped what we were all doing and bolted for the back door. We were fortunate enough to have been granted a first floor room so we were able to run free of the Motel and escape.

Of course we didn't have anywhere to escape *to* per se. Me and my friend Mandy just kept running until we hit the ditch between the Motel property and the interstate--all of about 100 feet away. We tried our best to stay hidden while we peered through the tall grass and weeds to see what was happening. We saw the police cars but nothing else. After a few minutes we realized that this wasn't the best place to hide so we crawled through the ditch to get to the Denny's next door. Once there we grabbed a table and ordered some drinks and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible--which wasn't all that easy considering we were dirty, scratched and itchy from crawling through the weeds.

About 10 minutes later a pair of policemen walk in which caused Mandy to panic. I have no idea whether they were the same officers that knocked on our door or not, but, luckily, they didn't appear to be looking for anything more than a cup of coffee.

After finishing our drinks we left the restaurant and found a pay phone (remember those?) where I was able to call my dad and have him come and get us. He didn't ask any questions, bless his soul.

My First Ten Beers - Mike

I was an incredibly cool high school student.

The setting: Trenton/New Baden, Illinois - A town that couldn't be much more Footloose - surrounded by corn fields, placed completely in a culture void - although I graduated in 1994, I wasn't aware of the Pixies until easily into my third year of college - all we were missing was some religious wackos who didn't want us to dance. As a result, the main source of high school entertainment was drinking. But because underage drinking is illegal, and because stopping somewhere to drink made you a sitting duck for the police, our version of underage drinking was made all the more safe by the addition of driving.

Even in those heavy peer pressure days I was against drinking and driving - an ideal I'd like to say I developed through common sense, but was more likely formed by a healthy respect for what my parents would think. As a result, when my friends began to drink, I was left behind. Well, at least until we had somewhere safe to drink. Enter the clubhouse - a friend's father's wooden shack on the banks of the Kaskaskia River, far from any sort of police presence.

Because I have a horrible memory, I've enrolled the help of my friends to tell the rest of the story -

Gentlemen,

On the beer blog we've got a thing called "my first beer" - I haven't written my story yet... perhaps you recall it. It involved 10 Milwaukee's Bests.

What I'm thinking is that maybe I could get a few recollections from you guys of the event, and see if I remember it correctly. I think I do, but who knows?

My basic memory is: I give you all a bunch of grief about drinking, finally I go drink, and drink everyone under the table with 10 beers. Brent keeps saying "Dude, you're gonna throw up".

Mike

Unfortunately, I don't think I was there. I remember hearing about it ex post facto. Although.. I think it had a 4.

Dave

I was there. It was with Jim B also. We woke up to Mike doing doughnuts in the clubhouse lawn in his truck.

Mike, I seem to remember showing up there early in the afternoon to drop off our beer and chop up a tree that had fallen across the road. I think your bro was with us too.

I pretty sure this was another trip there, but I remember when (girl's name removed) showed up with Todd but then went home with Mark, and Nate smoked some (cigarettes) and had some vodka and threw up for hours while the rest of us jumped through some fire.... There's way more, but this is a work address for some of us.

Good times,
Brent

(Same girl's name as mentioned above) made out with everybody, except you, Mike. I think. She made out with Dave after he barfed behind the bench. I then fell off the bench into aforementioned barf, causing my shiny high school jacket to become quite icky. You drank and drank without a lot of drama or stupidity, somehow. "Enter Sandman" (probably) played softly in the background as Dave crashed out of the tree stand from some fifteen feet above the ground. That may well be the same night I passed out waaaayyyyy too close to the fire and melted my sweet grey Reebok's. Or Reebok; I think it was just one.

Anyway, you slept in the back of your blazer and woke us up with fresh mud donuts, and also, Nate almost died of mixed chemical poisoning. Odds are that Dave probably tore off some or most of his clothes at some point, too. And if memory serves me, there was a heavily armed panda bear patrolling the immediate vicinity in an Apache longbow helicopter.

If we don't do that again sometime before we die, we are not men.
Jim

So there you have it - a story that has it all: underage drinking, promiscuous women, car stunts, drug use, a Metallica soundtrack, people falling out of trees, fire, vomit..

How was your first time? Drop us a line, tell us a story, let us know.

Reader Submission | My First Beer by Mark Mitchell

As part of our new My First Beer series, we invite you to submit your story for posting to hoosierbeergeek@gmail.com. Today we're honored to post our first reader submitted story. Our thanks go out to Mark Mitchell.

My first beer was actually a "craft" home brew

As a kid growing up in Indiana, every summer vacation we would make our annual pilgrimage to go visit my Grandparents and Great Aunts and Uncles back in Beckley, West Virginia. We would usually try to coincide our visit with visits from My Uncle Jack (my Dad's brother) and Aunt Eleanor's family from Georgia, And my Aunt Nancy (my Dad's sister) and Uncle Jim's family from Maryland, all converging on my "Granny's place" mid to late summer. When we did ALL make it in to visit at the same time my family would stay with my Great Uncle Jack and Great Aunt Madge, who raised my mother in nearby Harper Heights. And every summer part of that visit would be to spend at least one day fishing with my Great Uncle Wilson and Great Aunt Marie (my Granny's sister). They were both avid sports-persons (can you even say sportsmen these days, when it also refers to a woman?), who fished and hunted all the seasonal game available in the mountain state. I had been going out with my Dad and my Uncle Jack on these fishing outings since I was about 8 years old. We would fish various places, below the dam on New River and Flat Rock lake being a couple of my Uncle Wilson's favorites. Days of fishing began early, either out in their john boat or shore fishing. But come mid-day it was time for one of Aunt Marie's famous fishing lunch feasts.

She would always have a basket full of massive sandwiches and either a bowl of her mustard potato salad or her famous coleslaw. She would offer me a root beer while the rest of the "fishermen" drank some of her home made beer in Ball mason quart jars. She grew her own hops, hanging on the trellis off the back porch of the old family home on top of the mountain above Beaver, WV, and made a batch of beer each summer just for these special occasions. After 2-3 years of participating in this ritual mid-day feast I began to ask about the beer. It was usually a little cloudy and you could see "stuff" floating in it. But Dad and Uncle Jack always smacked their lips with an appreciative "Ummmm" when they took there first drinks each year. (As an aside, you should know that my Dad and Uncle grew up in a tee-totaling family, Granny didn't approve of "drink" in the house. But in later years she did tolerate my Uncle bringing in a 6-pack occasionally when visiting, and later, the rest of us heathens too.)

Now I do remember specifically, I was 12 years old (this was back in the summer of '64, yes...I'm old) and we were fishing below the dam on New River that day. We already had a good stringer of yellow mud cats waiting for that evenings usual fish fry at my "Granny's place". We had pulled the boat in to a rocky bank and were preparing to indulge in yet another one of Aunt Marie's fisherman's feasts. As the food was being distributed I noted a series of nods between my Uncle Wilson, Aunt Marie, and my Dad, but had no clue. When she went to the cooler, expecting to be handed my usual root beer, I instead received a cold mason jar, just like my Dad's. It was full of a lightly clouded and particulate laden golden yellow elixir. I asked my Dad, "Really ?" and he just nodded. Aunt Marie cautioned me to be sure to tip it slow and to drink it through my teeth, I didn't want any of the solids to get through. Serious instruction to be heeded, especially when coming from the Great Aunt who made this wondrous brew. With anticipation everyone watched as I carefully unscrewed the Ball jar lid and ever so slowly (as instructed) tipped the jar up to my pursed lips for that first drink. The ensuing rush of the bitter tang and mellow smoothness twisted my lips, widened my eyes and put a mile on my face as I smacked my lips and let out the obligatory "Ummmmm" to jovial laughter and a pat on my back from my Uncle Jack. I had joined the ranks of "the fishermen" with that first swallow. I continued to nurse the beverage with my summer sausage, tomato, and lettuce sandwich, with some of Aunt Marie's mustard potato salad. I don't recall if I actually finished the whole quart that day or not (somehow I doubt it), but I do recall that Uncle Jack laughingly told the story of being the afternoons entertainment that evening at our catfish dinner, much to the chagrin of both my Mother and Granny. I think all the other "fishermen" were in trouble that evening.

From that time on, until I was about 18, and our days of fishing ended with the advance of age and infirmity of my Great Uncle Wilson, and the intrudence of "other" interests of my own, I was a full fledged fisherman on those family outings. Always enjoying Great Aunt Marie's beer, a treasured libation through those years, going from mysteriously forbidden to anxiously anticipated in my youth. That alone made it special. But as my tastes have improved and experience expanded I don't think there will ever be another beer quite a important, or tasty. as those first "Great Aunt Marie's Ball Jar Beers".

My First Beer | Jim's story

We strive to provide you with variety and novelty here at Hoosier Beer Geek. Consequently, we now offer you a new HBG feature, "My First Beer." In our My First Beer series, we'll each provide you with a tale of two beers--the story of our first beers and the story of our first craft beers. And because we love our readers, we invite you to submit your My First Beer story for posting to hoosierbeergeek@gmail.com. Stories including debauchery are a plus (sorry to disappoint you, but my stories don't include any of that).

On with the show...

My First Beer

"Here. Try this."

This was my father speaking, and I was 12 years old. While 12 is young for someone to try beer for the first time, it was not unusual in my family because I grew up being invited by my parents to have a nip of something during big family meals, especially at holidays. From the time I was 10, I was used to having a small splash of wine or a little champagne at Thanksgiving and New Years. It didn't hurt that my great grandfather had been a bootlegger during the Great Depression and was still making some sweet red table wine when I was a kid.

But my dad's offer was unusual because it didn't occur during a holiday. There Dad was out on the deck, barbecuing some steaks on a summer evening, holding a Stroh's in his hand.

"Take a sip," he said as he held out the can of lager to me--the vintage tan-colored can, not the late-model blue one.

Hesitantly, I took the beer from him and sipped. The first thing registering in my mind was "putrid wheat." My face crinkled in disgust. It was the same face that bar/bat mitzvah kids make when they take their first slug of kosher wine after reciting the kiddush.

"That happens to everyone the first time," he said. "Try it again. You'll get used to it."

Frowning, I raised the can to my lips once more. I managed to suppress the strong urge to make "the face" a second time, but my taste buds were still reeling. I thought that if someone had soaked a loaf of bread in some rubbing alcohol and then squeezed out the "bread juice," this is what it would taste like.

"What do you think?"

"I don't think I'll ever want that stuff again," I answered, clearly demonstrating my utter lack of clairvoyance. But then again, I was only 12.

My First Craft Beer

1991...

The craft beer industry was in its infancy, and I was in graduate school in The Region, my boyhood home and, at present day, the location of two fine breweries. Mom, God bless her soul, knew about this wonderful restaurant in Chicago that happened to brew its own beer. She wanted to know if I wished to head up there with her (yes, parental influence again). I was always eager to venture into the city, and I was in sore need of a break from my studies, so I took her up on the offer.

The restaurant/brewery was a fairly new place at the time (three years old). According to Mom, it was called Goose Island and was located on the Clybourn Corridor, a section of Lincoln Park that was going through a gentrification phase.

So, on a warm Saturday night that summer, we headed up the lakeshore to see what this place was about. I wasn't quite sure what to expect. By this time, I had developed a taste for beer (of course), largely due to my college days of drinking the classic American macrobrewery swill. But a few of my college friends and I were a little more adventurous than that, occasionally indulging in the limited number of imports that were available in the late 1980s, including Grolsch, St. Pauli Girl, and Guinness Extra Stout.

I suppose I expected to drink beers at Goose Island that were a lot like these imports. Once we arrived and were seated, we went right for the beer sampler tray. If memory serves me well, here was the lineup of the sampler tray--

Lincoln Park Lager
Honkers Ale
IPA
Hex Nut Brown
Oatmeal Stout

There were five of us, so each one of us took a sampler. Because it looked to be the most radical of all of the samples, I grabbed the Oatmeal Stout before anyone had a chance. I wanted to challenge myself right away.

I was in love after my first sip. I was expecting a beer much like the Guinness Extra Stout, but this was richer, not as dry, more like coffee and chocolate, and slightly sweet. I was already developing a one-track mind for malty beers because I didn't even try the others, and when the server returned to the table, I ordered a pint of the Oatmeal Stout, savoring it all the way to the bottom of the glass. The experience was similar to a first kiss--thrilling in its newness, leaving an indelible mark that colors my taste in beers to this very day.

=====================

Speaking of that indelible mark, a recommendation--please, please, please head up to Hot Shotz and get a pint (or two, or three) of Dark Horse's Tres Blueberry Stout while it's still on tap. I was skeptical about this beer because I don't think fruit and stouts mix all that well; however, the Tres is quite a notable exception to this rule (another notable exception: New Albanian's Thunderfoot Cherry Imperial Stout). The nose is full-on blueberry scone, and the dark chocolate flavor is enhanced, not overwhelmed, by the berries. Truly awesome stuff!