I never did make it to the Fletcher Street Brewery after my gig in Alpena last December. Not that I didn’t want to, not that I didn’t try, but I’m here to tell you that life has its ironies.
A few other band members seemed reasonably enthused about hitting the brewpub once we had packed up the equipment, so we wound up with a bit of an entourage cruising the streets of Alpena. Finding Fletcher Street Brewery was not much of a problem, but I had forgotten one small detail: the place doesn’t serve food.
No food!
What’s wit dat?
How can you serve beer without offering something in the way of edibles to take the edge off an appetite, not to mention off the alcohol?
Now, this lack of food didn”t bother me to the extent that I was prepared to give up on my prospects of a fine IPA. But everyone else was hungry. So off we went to a restaurant down the block for a meal, all ten or twelve of us.
The place we wound up at majored in high-decibel background noise and your usual American pilsners. Frankly, I would rather drink lizard pee than Miller’s, but at least Sam Adams was available in a bottle, and that”s what everyone ordered.
Everyone, that is, except me. Nothing against Sam Adams, mind you–it”s decent enough beer–but I was saving myself, you see. Fortified by visions of that mug of IPA at Fletcher’s, I wasn’t about to sacrifice either my stomach space or my sobriety on lesser brews. So I suffered beerlessly through my hamburger. It was hard. But my mind was focused on a higher cause.
An hour later, we headed back to our vehicles, spun down the side streets, and pulled into Fletcher’s parking lot.
The lot was empty.
Fletcher Street Brewery had closed five minutes before our arrival.
And that, my friend, is why my lip trembles and there is a tear in my eye as I write these words. If ever a man wanted a good beer that night, I was that man. If ever a man deserved a good beer that night, it was I. And yet, out of all our little coterie, I was the one–the only one–who didn”t get a beer. Not even a lousy Sam Adams. Still, tonight, nearly two months later, just thinking of this is causing me to relive the trauma.
Thankfully, I”ve got just the cure for the pain. There’s a sweet, fat growler of Hopnoxious IPA from the Walldorff sitting in the fridge. There’s a good, solid glass beer mug in my cupboard. As for the rest, well…you know the drill.
