Warehouses: Where it’s at

A week or so ago, my husband and I managed to float the same Friday off work and traveled to Portland, Maine, for a beer and yarn spree. Tess’ Designer Yarns was the first stop.

I won’t focus too much on the yarn in this post, other than to say that it is just so pleasant to browse these luxurious yarns in the quiet atmosphere of the shop, in contrast with the crowded, rushed feeling of a festival. (No doubt my purchases will be featured in later posts). Tess is located in downtown Portland on the second floor, where I imagine she pays much lower rent than a sidewalk-level shop would cost.

Speaking of costs, parking lots in Portland are five dollars an hour, hotel room prices are comparable to those in Chicago, and while I’m sure there are still hipster eateries, we stumbled into having lunch at an upscale French bistro, Petite Jacqueline. I enjoyed it very much, but it would seem downtown Portland is a different city than the Portland I met back in 2010 — and I know if I had more history with the city, the changes would be even more dramatic.

Before our parking bill grew any larger, we got back in the car and drove west on our quest for delicious beer.

Bissell Brothers was the first brewstop. Located in the Thompson’s Point development, the parking is pricey here too, but this is one of the latest trendy breweries everyone wants to visit. I honestly can’t say I was blown away by the beers - they weren’t my style and I’ll admit I wasn’t entirely caught up in the mood. Other blogs do this brewery more justice than I can.

It was our next stop, Bissell Brothers’ original location, that really struck me, and got me thinking. Located just off I-95 on Industrial Way, three breweries and a distillery occupy a warehouse near the western boundary of the city. On this Friday afternoon, cars filled (free) parking lots and lined both sides of the road. We snagged a parallel spot next to the warehouse (I just love showing off my parallel parking skills) and set out to explore. Austin Street Brewery, Battery Steele Brewing, and Foundation Brewing Company are all in one large building. The long-established Allagash Brewing Company is across the street, and Maine’s first microbrewery, D.L. Geary Brewing Co., is right up the road.

Flight of beer at Allagash.

In this warehouse environment we found friendly people of all ages, friendly dogs, friendly babies, and lots of tasty beer. Each tasting room was open to the warm afternoon, and featured roped-off outdoor seating, with the exception of Battery Steele, which is temporarily closed after selling all their beer. After tasting and purchasing from Foundation and Austin Street, we crossed over to Allagash, where their impressive distribution and market share affords them the ability to offer a free flight to every guest. The atmosphere reminded me of our favorite breweries at home: Great North Aleworks, located in Manchester, NH in a warehouse next to a giant Bingo hall, and our trifecta of the Londonderry and Derry town line in New Hampshire: Rockingham Brewing Company, From the Barrel, and Kelsen Brewing Company. While not in such close quarters as these Portland breweries, the trifecta are located close enough to each other to make it fun to carpool from one to another on a Saturday afternoon — and while they are not all technically located in warehouses, their locations are decidedly industrial.

As small breweries need cheap real estate (and proper drainage, as explained to us by the Foundation barista), and local micro and nano breweries continue to be popular, these industrial back roads are now the trendy spots. I’m sure no one is more surprised by this than the Bingo players in Manchester, who find their sprawling parking lot is suddenly smaller in size.

Ebenezer's Pub, Lovell, Maine

Are you okay? my husband wants to know.

Actually, I tell him, no. I meant to bring a change of clothes so I could change in the pub's restroom but I forgot, and right now my techie hiking pants are biting into my crotch. My feet are propped uncomfortably against the bar rail running along the floor to prevent my butt from sliding off the bar stool. No, I am not okay.

Go get your clothes, he urges. I won't drink your beer. I swear.

My beer! It has just arrived, an inch of head rising above the rim of the stemmed glass.

I happen to know that the change of pants I brought are also pretty tight, but anything has to be better than the current situation. Okay, I say. I'll go change.

Outside, I glance again at the row of cars in the tiny parking lot - two from Massachusetts and one very silly three-wheel motorcycle that must be some kind of a custom job. This Belgian beer bar of renown is located "in the middle of nowhere" Maine, which is pretty much anywhere in Maine that isn't a coastal community. It does happen to be next to a golf course, but no one is on the greens today. I may as well just change in the car, parked alongside the quiet road. I climb into the backseat of our Scion and wiggle into green jeans and a cozy heathered oatmeal v-neck. Ahhhhh. Nylon-blend hiking clothes have their purpose, but cotton is where it's at for spending the afternoon in a pub.

Back inside, I take a sip of foam from the Slaapmutske Flemish Old Style Krisk, a "Flemish brown with cherries." I love a Flemish brown. This isn't as sour as I like my sour beer to be, but it's good. Plus, I'm no longer sliding off the bar stool. Things are definitely looking up. I take a look around the bar.

The bar is made of copper and is just starting to tarnish; it's watched over by a large carved wood vulture. My husband and I look in the coolers directly in front of us behind the bar. So many gose-style beers! It would take a week to try them all. A Loud Voice behind us is explaining the virtues of the only dark beer from Mexico, Negra Modelo. I happen to love Negra Modelo, although I'd be pretty surprised if it were really the only dark beer brewed out of Mexico, and I certainly can't imagine ever being pompous enough to feel qualified to give a lecture extolling its virtues. I try to ignore him and turn my attention instead to the food menu.

Brie stuffed wantons? Oh my heavens.

Burgers, pizza, and of course New England seafood offerings are here, (the "best lobster roll in Maine!" Quite the claim, my husband says) but I can't get away from the idea of brie stuffed wontons. We decide to start with those, and the oh, what was it, some kind of farm platter that's basically a cheese plate. When it comes out, it's beautiful. There's a strawberry expertly sliced to look like a little fence. That's how beautiful it is. I finish my beer and ordered a second, the Drie Fontenien/del Ducato Beersel Mattina. Paul Simon's Graceland album is playing, and I try really hard not to sing along. We discuss whether the music sounds more African or Caribbean-inspired. For some reason I have always imagined the darker corners of a random South American city when I hear Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes. That part where they end up sleeping in a doorway; I always imagined turquoise peeling paint on the door frame.

The second beer, Drie Fontenien/del Ducato beersel mattina, is pretty tasty; it, too, is sour, with a smooth finish. The woman serving us is young, with dark braids hanging in front of her shoulders and a cotton print skirt skimming just below her knees. What is the most sourest beer you have on tap? I ask. She tells me. I order.

Whoah! My husband says, nudging me. Making it rain over here! I realize that the beer she has suggested, the Biriffico del Duocato Chrysopolis, is fourteen dollars. In an unusual display of largess, I shrug. I really want to try this beer.

The beer arrives, alongside a plate of coconut shrimp we've decided to order. I take a sip. Whooo hoooo! Now that is a sour beer. My husband takes a sip and wrinkles up his face, laughing. Damn, that is a sour beer! he says. You really like the ones that punch you in the face! I nod, laughing, faintly afraid that I might come off like one of those hopheads who doesn't care about the taste of the beer as long as there's enough hops to wither away any consideration of any other taste. Well, hell. I'll come to terms with that on another day.

I try his beer, which the barkeep tells us is too rare for her to allow us a taste. Holy Jeezus! The barkeep laughs. I really like my beer, but that thing is... wow. Hanssens Oude Lambik. That's one hell of a beer. It's incredibly complex. Well all right then.

Coconut and shrimp are two of my favorite foods. I am usually disappointed by the result of combining them, but today, they are fantastic. I murmur that we could just get our tent out of the car and pitch it in the yard. We could just kind of forget that we were supposed to go back to work tomorrow, I say hopefully. We'll just sleep here and eat here and drink here again.

But, somehow those fourteen-dollar beers must be paid for. The Graceland album has looped back to the beginning; it is time to go. We journey home to New Hampshire with Paul Simon's tunes echoing in our ears.

--Visit to Ebenezer's Pub on Labor Day, Monday, September 7, 2015