Brewery Quotes

Sam was waiting for her,his gaze sweeping over her. "Looks great." "I look like a geek," Lucy said. "I smell like a brewery. And I need a bra." "My dream date.

That’s not a six pack, that’s a friggin’ brewery, and this girl’s game for a piss up!

Your mother is probably right," Dad said. "Social services frowns on drunk ten-year-ols. Besides, when I dropped my drumsticks and puked onstage, it was punk. If you drop your bow and smell like a brewery, it will look gauche. You classical-music people are so snobby that way.

I don’t want to want you, and this doesn’t change anything. I still hate your guts.” “Liar.

Aw, hell, Tessa. I was in ninth grade. By the time I got to the part where I imagined a girl without panties on, it was all over.

Sometimes when I reflect on all the beer I drink, I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. I think, 'It is better to drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver.

Apparently falling slowly is a scientific impossibility. Falling means that you’re not in control, doesn’t it? I should’ve considered that.

While the churches, bringing the sweet smell of piety for the soul, came in prancing and farting like brewery horses in bock-beer time, the sister evangelism, with release and joy for the body, crept in. silently and greyly, with its head bowed and its face covered.

No wonder Gran had managed to run a brewery with such success for the past twenty-two years. She was a Machiavelli in skirts.

Sweetling, I'm not going anywhere except upstairs, where I'm going to make love to you till you pass out happy.

She reached to give him an awkward hug, and when he hugged her back, his hand accidentally touched her belly. It was surprisingly hard and something shifted beneath the surface. “Oh, shit!” he yelped, jerking back. “What’s wrong?” “It, uh, moved.” “Feels like an alien, doesn’t it? I swear to God, I have nightmares that it’s going to burst out of my stomach like a monster. But I think it’s pretty harmless.

You're walking around here with a smile on your face, Asher. It's freaking everybody out.

Vermont breweries are symbols of everything that’s right and good about a free local economy, where neighbors make things for neighbors - and so they actually bother to give them some taste, body, and character.

We just went out for dinner. We didn't participate in a Roman orgy, I swear.

It’s possible that they were coming over to offer me homemade bread or a hand-drawn map to all the local breweries or perhaps even their friendship, but I will never know, because I’m from Chicago and I don’t believe in answering an unsolicited door knock.

They chose "beer as soda pop." Craft brewers are "beer as wine.

We were two miles from Bunker Hill, in the east part of town, in the section of factories and breweries. She

Alcohol is evil … until your loved one gets employed by a brewery.

Once again he was aware of eyes staring fixedly at him. He glanced sideways into the long, pointed face of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone, rearing up in a pose best described as The Last Puppy in the Shop. To his astonishment, he found himself reaching over and scratching it behind its ears, or at least behind the two spiky things at the sides of its head which were presumably its ears. It responded with a strange noise that sounded like a complicated blockage in a brewery. He took his hand away hurriedly. “It's all right,” said Lady Ramkin. “It's his stomachs rumbling. That means he likes you.” To his amazement, Vimes found that he was rather pleased about this. As far as he could recall, nothing in his life before had thought him worth a burp.

West Virginia had the Hatfield and the McCoys. Shakespeare had the Capulets and the Montagues. Salvation had the Martins and the Sweets.

She'd taken his heart and his virginity and left him more bitter than sweet.

And suddenly, her day turned into the kind that explained why God invented chocolate, comfy pants, and booze.

I'm just an asshole Marine...I'm not the kind of guy people like you should depend on.

I'm pigheaded, grouchy and I say the wrong things at the worst time. Basically, I'm an asshole - but I'm your asshole.

You are nothing but trouble.” ”Maybe you need some of that in your life.

Follow the fulsome fumes from the tanners and the reek from the brewery, butterscotch rotten, drifting across Seven Dials. Keep on past the mothballs at the cheap tailor’s and turn left at the singed silk of the maddened hatter. Just beyond you’ll detect the unwashed crotch of the overworked prostitute and the Christian sweat of the charwoman. On every inhale a shifting scale of onions and scalded milk, chrysanthemums and spiced apple, broiled meat and wet straw, and the sudden stench of the Thames as the wind changes direction and blows up the knotted backstreets. Above all, you may notice the rich and sickening chorus of shit.

The hipster narrative about gentrification isn’t necessarily inaccurate—young people are indeed moving to cities and opening craft breweries and wearing tight clothing—but it is misleading in its myopia. Someone who learned about gentrification solely through newspaper articles might come away believing that gentrification is just the culmination of several hundred thousand people’s individual wills to open coffee shops and cute boutiques, grow mustaches and buy records. But those are the signs of gentrification, not its causes. As

To have a man whose name is on the label showing such interest, commitment, and determination for the best is a wonderful thing. This is someone who will throw money at quality, who believes in being the best. Never knock it. Would you prefer to have a bean counter in corporate headquarters, someone who never comes near the brewery, making decisions solely on the basis of the bottom line and profit margins?

He was careful to avoid meeting anyone. There was Stubbs, the gardener, coming along the path. He hid behind a tree till he had passed. He let himself out at a little gate in the garden wall. he skirted all stables, kennels, breweries, carpenters’ shops, wash-houses, places where they make tallow candles, kill oxen, forge horse-shoes, stitch jerkins – for the house was a town ringing with men at work at their various crafts – and gained the ferny path leading uphill through the park unseen. There is perhaps a kinship among qualities; one draws another along with it; and the biographer should here call attention to the fact that this clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude. Having stumbled over a chest, Orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.

The Sweets rarely set foot on the avenues. They'd always lived on the street-side of town, where duct tape held everything together and WD-40 stopped the squeaks.

When you people finally give up and go home, you can leave us the Budweiser breweries,” he said.

If there was ever such a thing as redemption, they would have to open a magnum of the stuff for Moist. No, a brewery.

I think I'd better plead the fifth." "Isn't that an admission of guilt, Detective?" "Legally, it's a neutral position." "Oh, but it's morally damning, isn't it?" "Morally?" His deep brown eyes sparkled and the weight in Tessa's belly melted all over her insides. "Oh, yeah," he said softly. "Morally, it's a big problem.

I'll be damned. Miranda Sweet, is it you or is my glaucoma acting up again?" Ruby Sue sat her glass down on the Formica countertop with a clank. "You always did know how to make an entrance. Who do you think you are, the Queen of England?

Beer. Beer, we need beer. Lots of it; probably hard liquor too. God knows that the breweries – bless their hearts – are gonna have to take a break for a while. Man, it would have been cool if we could’ve been stuck in one of those places.

Closure? That was not what our discussion at the brewery had been about. We’d needed to clear the air. I’d needed to tell her my side of the story and hear hers. Yeah, I’d wanted to mend the past. But closure? “Fuck no.” This wasn’t over.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Isn’t this the guy who said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy”? Well, not exactly. This quote has been somewhat paraphrased and hijacked by many of our nation’s craft breweries, and rightly so. It may be revisionist writing, but I for one am okay with it. What Franklin did write was, “Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards, there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine, a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy.” Beer, wine . . . come on. Six of one, etcetera. He also coined the euphemism for drunkenness “Halfway to Concord,” which tickles me to no end. That, my friends, is fun with words.

Among the early commercial adopters of wild beer were the Cottonwood Brewery of Boone, North Carolina, and Joe’s Brewery of Champaign, Illinois. Brewer John Isenhour gained a “cult status” for his production of beers with a lambic profile in the mid-1990s using wild yeast and bacteria that he kept active at various stages of the lambic fermentation cycle. John quite successfully marketed the “Lambic” to his rather conservative clientele in this central Illinois college town as “Belgian lemonade.

Thank God he wasn't in full uniform or her panties might have melted. Who was she kidding? The strap of silk covering the good china was already toast just looking at him in his form-fitting jeans and a black polo with the Salvation Police Department logo.

While the churches, bringing the sweet smell of piety for the soul, came in prancing and farting like brewery horses in bock-beer time, the sister evangelism, with release and joy for the body, crept in silently and grayly, with its head bowed and its face covered.

I knew that people lived badly, remembered the barracks of the Khamovniki brewery, had seen flophouses, all-night cafés, drunkards, cruel and ignorant people, prison. But all that had been from the outside, and in the courtroom I caught a glimpse of people's hearts.

Closure? That was not what our discussion at the brewery had been about. We’d needed to clear the air. I’d needed to tell her my side of the story and hear hers. Yeah, I’d wanted to mend the past. But closure? “Fuck no.” This wasn’t over. The game hadn’t even started yet.

We quickly noticed traits that we eventually learned to associate with towns on the rise. Residential buildings and new hotels. Multiple restaurants, and a brewery. Viable stores that are not part of a national chain. Corporate headquarters that have moved downtown. A nearby college student base,

You monosyllabic Neanderthal, I am not some little helpless female who can't walk across the brewery." He shrugged. "I did what was needed." "What the what?" She dropped the clipboard from beneath the hoodie and shoved her arms through its sleeves before rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm them. "That doesn't even make sense." Sean doubted there were half-crazed mules more stubborn than Natalie Sweet. "If I hadn't, you would have stayed in that cooler, freezing your ass off until you'd said everything you wanted to say - which, by the way, is usually more words than most people use in a year.

There are a thousand small honest breweries in this country that because they have been too poor and localized to compete with the big boys have been forced to close, or else operate under famous names while they turn out yeast, or hops, or some other important but unnamed ingredient of the main company's beer. Now, with the trains full of soldiers and supplies rather than pale ale, perhaps people far from the great breweries will turn again to their local beer factories and discover, as their fathers did thirty years ago, that a beer carried quietly three miles is better than one shot across three thousand on a fast freight.

A large country house was likely to have a gun room, lamp room, still-room, pastry room, butler’s pantry, fish store, bakehouse, coal store, game larder, brewery, knife room, brush room, shoe room and at least a dozen more. Lanhydrock House in Cornwall had a room exclusively for dealing with bedpans. Another in Wales, according to Juliet Gardiner, had a room set aside for ironing newspapers. The grandest or oldest homes might also have a saucery, spicery, poultery, buttery and others of more exotic provenance, such as a ewery (a room for keeping water jugs; the word is somehow derived from aquaria), chandry (for candles), avenery (for game beasts), napery (for linen) and more.

I'm going to f*** you long and hard right here in this kitchen.

Predatory. Dangerous. Confident. God, the man was her crack and her kryptonite wrapped up together in one muscular package.

She had Jessica Rabbit's curves and full lips that made him wish he was a tube of ChapStick.

Despite the man’s intimidating mountain-man looks, Wallace dated men, women and some people who seemed to skate between genders.

When I was a little girl I didn’t like the smell of the hops in the carts. Nor in the fields. Je n’aime pas les houblons. No, my God, not a bit. The man that owns the brewery said to me and my sister to go to the brewery and drink the beer, and then we’d like the hops. That’s true. Then we liked them all right. He had them give us the beer. We liked them all right then.

The problem: If you've an antique for sale, then, sad to relate, the world isn't your oyster. It's not that easy. Even if somebody gives you the National Gallery, your options are still very, very limited. Okay, you can sell the Old Masters, set up a trust, buy your favorite brewery. But that's strictly it. You're limited by honesty on one hand and law - that hobble of sanity - on the other.

Two men deep in conversation could be seen disappearing along the opposite pavement towards Mortlake, their shadows cast huge and filmily onto the brewery walls by the kind of late-night city light that, while failing to relieve the darkness in any way, seems to pour in from every direction at once. Otherwise Wharf Terrace presented itself with only minute differences from his usual point of view. He had expected more.

Denver’s first permanent structure was said to be a saloon, and more beer is brewed here today than in any other American city, earning it the nickname the “Napa Valley of beer.” For one weekend in the fall it boasts the best selection on earth during the Great American Beer Festival, a New World Oktoberfest that gathers representatives from the nation’s best breweries to tap over 1,600 different kinds of beer—enough to get it listed in Guinness World Records for the most beers tapped in one place.

I cross the bathroom floor and open the door. I stay standing there for a while. Then I go outside. When I walk down the street, it’s a struggle, as if I have roots in the house that are stretched long behind me, and no matter how far I go, no matter how many corners I turn on the way to Franziska’s flat-share by the beach, they are stuck. They stretch, get thinner and thinner until they are as fine as thread Slowly but surely I imagine that the brewery crumbles and follows me, threading itself on my cord as though it’s a house built from small gleaming beads. The front door reaches me first, then the floor panels from the kitchen, the enamel from the bathtub and the steel covering from the taps, glass-splinters from the chandelier and the apple cores from the compost. And Carral follows too. She crumbles in the bathtub. Tooth by tooth, nail by nail, bone by bone. And new beads grow, threading themselves on my roots. The beads appear from her mouth and eyes, her crotch, hip socket and fingertips.

Look at me, Elizabeth,” he commanded. His voice dark and deep. “Lizzie,” I corrected without thought, completely out of habit. My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe I had just corrected him. Instinctively I felt that was something people just didn’t do around this man. If he said the sky were purple with pink spots, I’m pretty sure everyone would agree wholeheartedly… and worse, actually believe it. He just seemed to exude that kind of authoritative power. The kind that could make you believe just about anything he said. He gave my hair a painful tug with both hands. “Elizabeth,” he stated emphatically, as if he were a god or a king commanding it be so. “I left a package in your dressing room. It’s a dress. I want you to wear it tonight.” Tonight was the cast party. It was taking place right after our final curtain call. I had no idea he was even attending. Wait, a dress? “The party is at The Brewery next door. I don’t think the cast party is that formal,” I offered, still trying to process why this man would buy me a dress. Realizing quickly that I might sound ungrateful, I stammered, “Not that I don’t appreciate it… I mean I’m sure it’s lovely and—” “Elizabeth.” The sharp command of his voice stopped my rambling. “Yes, sir?” “Wear the dress,” he ordered, not expecting a refusal and not getting one. “Yes, sir,” I whispered. Releasing my hair, he stroked the back of his knuckles down my cheek. “Good girl.” The moment I heard the Hall door close on his retreating back, I sank to my knees in the middle of the stage, feeling shaken and more than a little alarmed. What the hell had just happened?

did you hear about the guy who worked at the brewery?” Poole’s expression was blank. “Sir?” I grinned. “His wife is at home, getting dinner ready, and a minister and the supervisor of the brewery knock on her door. I’m sorry, Ma’am, the supervisor says, your husband fell in a beer vat this morning and drowned. The wife looks back at the kitchen where the table is set for dinner. He fell in this morning, she asks, and you are only telling me now? Well, the supervisor says, it took a while because he got out a couple times to use the bathroom.

Eager to reestablish their brand as the “King of Beers,” the company’s board of directors had authorized August Jr., the superintendent of the brewery, to buy several teams of Clydesdale draft horses “for advertising purposes.” Gussie, as he was called, purchased sixteen of the massive 2,000-pound animals for $21,000 at the Kansas City stockyards. He also found two wooden wagons from back in the days when the company employed eight hundred teams of horses to deliver its beer, and set about having them restored to the exacting standards of his late grandfather, brewery founder Adolphus Busch, who liked to conduct weekly inspections from a viewing stand, with his son August at his side as all the drivers passed in parade, hoping to win the $25 prize for the best-kept team and wagon.

Most of the wine in the world sells for two dollars a bottle. Quite a bit sells for four dollars to five dollars a bottle, and there are many that sell for ten dollars a bottle. Then you have wines that sell for three hundred dollars a bottle. What the world needs is a beer that's worth five dollars a bottle. I think that would be great. If all beer prices are forced down to the level of Busch Bavarian, none of us will be there.

Suppose he really is in love. What about her? She never has anything good to say about him.” “Yet she blushes whenever he enters a room. And she stares at him a good deal. Or hadn’t you noticed that, either?” “As a matter of fact, I have.” Gazing up at him, she softened her tone. “But I do not want her hurt, Isaac. I must be sure she is desired for herself and not her fortune. Her siblings had a chance of not gaining their inheritance unless the others married, so I always knew that their mates loved them, but she…” She shook her head. “I had to find a way to remove her fortune from the equation.” “I still say you’re taking a big risk.” He glanced beyond her to where Celia was talking to the duke. “Do yo really think she’d be better off with Lyons?” But she doesn’t love him…If you’d just give her a chance- “I do not know,” Hetty said with a sigh. “I do not know anything anymore.” “Then you shouldn’t meddle. Because there’s another outcome you haven’t considered. If you try to manipulate matters to your satisfaction, she may balk entirely. Then you’ll find yourself in the sticky position of having to choose between disinheriting them all or backing down on your ultimatum. Personally, I think you should have given up that nonsense long ago, but I know only too well how stubborn you can be when you’ve got the bit between your teeth.” “Oh?” she said archly. “Have I been stubborn with you?” He gazed down at her. “You haven’t agreed to marry me yet.” Her heart flipped over in her chest. It was not the first time he had mentioned marriage, but she had refused to take him seriously. Until now. It was clear he would not be put off any longer. He looked solemnly in earnest. “Isaac…” “Are you worried that I am a fortune hunter?” “Do not be absurd.” “Because I’ve already told you that I’ll sign any marriage settlement you have your solicitor draw up. I don’t want your brewery or your vast fortune. I know it’s going to your grandchildren. I only want you.” The tender words made her sigh like a foolish girl. “I realize that. But why not merely continue as we have been?” His voice lowered. “Because I want to make you mine in every way.” A sweet shiver swept along her spine. “We do not need to marry for that.” “So all you want from me is an affair?” “No! But-“ “I want more than that. I want to go to sleep with you in my arms and wake with you in my bed. I want the right to be with you whenever I please, night or day.” His tone deepened. “I love you, Hetty. And when a man loves a woman, he wants to spend his life with her.” “But at our age, people will say-“ “Our age is an argument for marriage. We might not have much time left. Why not live it to the fullest, together, while we’re still in good health? Who cares about what people say? Life is too short to let other people dictate one’s choices.” She leaned heavily on his arm as they reached the steps leading up to the dais at the front of the ballroom. He did have a point. She had been balking at marrying him because she was sure people would think her a silly old fool. But then, she had always been out of step with everyone else. Why should this be any different? “I shall think about it,” she murmured as they headed to the center of the dais, where the family was gathering. “I suppose I’ll have to settle for that. For now.” He cast her a heated glance. “But later this evening, once we have the chance to be alone, I shall try more effective methods to persuade you. Because I’m not giving up on this. I can be as stubborn as you, my dear.” She bit back a smile. Thank God for that.

My husband was skittish and fearful from all the way back in grammar school and junior high, the only reason he went into the city was for school, the rest of the time he spent at the brewery, beyond the city limits ... he wasn't used to people, or to being inside, he was always off in a tree somewhere, or on a rooftop, always out on those endless wanderings of his, as his mother called them, racking up dozens of kilometers there beyond the brewery, alongside the river and through the meadows, as far as the Kersko forests .. but the minute he walked into a restaurant, into a classroom, into a train car, anywhere people were pressed together, eye to eye, my husband blocked right up, just like he blocks up nowadays, when I take him to the theater, or to the movies, he always feels ashamed, like he's done something wrong, and he's as shy and bashful as a young girl, just like Mother described ...

Relway mused, “Now that it’s happened I’m not so sure I’m happy with the outcome. Spared their racial theories The Call would’ve been good for TunFaire.” He would appreciate their interest in law and order and proper behavior. “Here’s a challenge you still need to meet. Glory Mooncalled. He’s weak now but he’s still out there somewhere. If you don’t get him now he’ll try to put something back together someday. He can’t help himself.” “It’s still great day for TunFaire, Garrett. One of pure triumph.” I don’t know if he meant that or was being sarcastic. You never quite know anything with Relway. And he wants it that way. “I liked the way you put it, Garrett. Faded steel heat.” I’d mentioned that to him the night he’d discovered the tanks in the old Lamp brewery. “But the war goes on.” “The war never ends. Tell you what. Send me a note when you do decide to roast that pigeon. I’ve got dibs on a drumstick.

I cross the bathroom floor and open the door. I stay standing there for a while. Then I go outside. When I walk down the street, it’s a struggle, as if I have roots in the house that are stretched long behind me, and no matter how far I go, no matter how many corners I turn on the way to Franziska’s flat-share by the beach, they are stuck. They stretch, get thinner and thinner until they are as fine as thread. Slowly but surely I imagine that the brewery crumbles and follows me, threading itself on my cord as though it’s a house built from small gleaming beads. The front door reaches me first, then the floor panels from the kitchen, the enamel from the bathtub and the steel covering from the taps, glass-splinters from the chandelier and the apple cores from the compost. And Carral follows too. She crumbles in the bathtub. Tooth by tooth, nail by nail, bone by bone. And new beads grow, threading themselves on my roots. The beads appear from her mouth and eyes, her crotch, hip socket and fingertips.

In their drunken preoccupation with the project at hand and mere locomotion, they did not look behind them. There the night-smog was thicker than ever. A high-circling nighthawk would have seen the stuff converging from all sections of Lankhmar, north, east, south, west—from the Inner Sea, from the Great Salt Marsh, from the many-ditched grain lands, from the River Hlal—in swift-moving black rivers and rivulets, heaping, eddying, swirling, dark and reeking essence of Lankhmar from its branding irons, braziers, bonfires, bonefires, kitchen fires and warmth fires, kilns, forges, breweries, distilleries, junk and garbage fires innumerable, sweating alchemists’ and sorcerers’ dens, crematoriums, charcoal burners’ turfed mounds, all those and many more…converging purposefully on Dim Lane and particularly on the Silver Eel and perhaps especially on the ricketty house behind it, untenanted except for attic. The closer to that center it got, the more substantial the smog became, eddy-strands and swirl-tatters tearing off and clinging to rough stone corners and scraggly-surfaced brick like black cobwebs.

The Netherlands capital of Amsterdam amsterdam cruise is a thriving metropolis and one from the world's popular cities. If you are planning a trip to the metropolis, but are unclear about what you should do presently there, why not possess a little fun and spend time learning about how it's stereotypically known for? How come they put on clogs? When was the wind mill first utilised there? In addition, be sure to include all your feels on your journey and taste the phenomenal cheeses along with smell the stunning tulips. It's really recommended that you stay in a city motel, Amsterdam is quite spread out and residing in hotels close to the city-centre allows for the easiest access to public transportation. Beyond the clichés So that you can know precisely why a stereotype exists it usually is important to discover its source. Clogs: The Dutch have already been wearing solid wood shoes, as well as "Klompen" as they are referred to, for approximately 700 years. They were originally made out of a timber sole along with a leather top or band tacked for the wood. Nevertheless, the shoes had been eventually created completely from wood to safeguard the whole base. Wooden shoe wearers state the shoes are usually warm during the cold months and cool during the warm months. The first guild associated with clog designers dates back to a number exceeding 1570 in Holland. When making blockages, both shoes of a set must be created from the same kind of timber, even the same side of a tree, in order that the wood will certainly shrink in the same charge. While most blocks today are produced by equipment, a few shoemakers are left and they normally set up store in vacationer areas near any city hotel. Amsterdam also offers a clog-making museum, Klompenmakerij De Zaanse Schans, that highlights your shoe's history and significance. Windmills: The first windmills have been demonstrated to have existed in Netherlands from about the year 1200. Today, there are eight leftover windmills in the capital. The most effective to visit is De Gooyer, which has been built in 1725 over the Nieuwevaart Canal. Their location in the east involving city's downtown area signifies it is readily available from any metropolis hotel. Amsterdam enjoys its beer and it actually has a brewery right on the doorstep to the wind generator. So if you are enjoying a historic site it's also possible to enjoy a scrumptious ice-cold beer - what more would you ask for? Mozerella: It's impossible to vacation to Amsterdam without sampling several of its wonderful cheeses. In accordance with the locals, probably the most flavourful cheeses are available at the Wegewijs Emporium. With over 50 international cheese and A hundred domestic parmesan cheesse, you will surely have a wide-variety to pick from.

Lederhosen Maker Opens First U.S. Store in Cincinnati By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS Wiesnkoenig (pronounced VEE-sehn-koh-neg), the official supplier of lederhosen for the Munich Oktoberfest, opened its first store in the United States on Wednesday, in a brewery in Cincinnati’s Over-the-Rhine neighborhood. Oliver Pfund, a Wiesnkoenig consultant, said, “We want to show people here in the U.S. you can wear the lederhosen with Chuck Taylors, you don’t have to wear the suspenders.” Founded in 2007, Wiesnkoenig has five stores in Germany and sells in department stores there and in Switzerland and Austria. Mr. Pfund said a brewery was a perfect location. He said the company hoped visitors to the brewery would “have an interest in the German culture, as well.

I'll be damned. Miranda Sweet, is it you or is my glaucoma acting up again?" Ruby Sue sat her glass down on the Formica countertop with a clank. "You always did know how to make an entrance. Who do you think you are, the Queen of England?

The Sweets rarely set foot on the avenues. They'd always lived on the street-side of town, where duct tape held everything together and WD-40 stopped the squeaks.

West Virginia had the Hatfield and the McCoys. Shakespeare had the Capulets and the Montagues. Salvation had the Martins and the Sweets.

2000: 1,509 craft breweries 29 noncraft regional and national breweries AB InBev and MillerCoors: 81 percent share 2013: 2,594 craft breweries 10 noncraft regional and national breweries AB InBev and MillerCoors: 74 percent share

American breweries preexisted American government; some of the breweries’ staunchest supporters were also the leaders of the new nation. In colonial America, the alehouse was second only to the church in importance. (As Martin Luther once said, “’Tis better to think of church in the alehouse than to think of the alehouse in church.”) Aside from being where the brewer plied his trade, the tavern also served as the unofficial town hall and the social and political focal point of every town. It was here that the townsfolk gathered to deliberate and debate, to socialize and share news and information with the community. To the colonists, the alehouses were cradles of liberty; while to the British, the alehouses were hotbeds of sedition. As early as 1768, the Sons of Liberty were holding meetings at the Liberty Tree Tavern in Providence; the Green Dragon Inn in Boston was called the headquarters for the revolution. George Washington made his headquarters at Fraunces Tavern in New York, where it still stands and serves beer, now in the heart of the financial district.

Four states account for one-third of all U.S. breweries — California, Washington, Colorado and Oregon, according to the Beer Institute, the beer crafters’ Washington, D.C.-based lobbying group.

I knew that people lived badly, remembered the barracks of the Khamovniki brewery, had seen flophouses, all-night cafés, drunkards, cruel and ignorant people, prison. But all that had been from the outside, and in the courtroom I caught a glimpse of people's hearts. Why had that quiet, modest peasant woman brutally murdered her next-door neighbour? Why had this old man stabbed to death the stepdaughter with whom he lived? Why did people have faith in this pock-marked ugly miracle-worker? Why were they full of darkness, prejudice, violent passions which they themselves could not understand?

Time for a showdown with her mutinous brewmaster. She'd tried nice. She'd tried all business. She'd tried cajoling. Now, it was time to try bitch with big brass balls.

In her career, she'd closed multi-million dollar deals without a hint of nerves. Now she needed a jumbo-sized bottle of antacids just to get out of her car. Or a double shot of whiskey. God, she was losing it.

She shivered under his touch, desire dampening her panties and making her clench her thighs together in an attempt to find some relief. His devilish hands relaxed their grip on her hips and slid around to cup her ass, pulling her close. Thick, hard evidence of his desire pressed against her belly. God, she wanted this man, and not just to silent the stressful thoughts always swirling in her head. She wanted him, not just the divine moment of oblivion that blocked out everything else. The realization scared her and brought some unwanted reality into the room. "We shouldn't be doing this." "Why?" He made quick work of the buttons on her petal-pink cashmere sweater and parted her cardigan. Sean gave a soft growl as he stared at her silver satin pushup bra that presented her boobs like an all-you-can-lick buffet. "Because I'm your employee?" He licked his lips and slid his thumb across the satin covering her hard nipple. "Yes," she said, sighing. An answer to his question or a response to even the lightest of touches? Both. "Easy fix." He snapped the front closure of her bra and her tits tumbled out. "I quit." Bending forward, he lifted one heavy globe and took the hard nub into his hot mouth. Fire sizzled through her veins and it felt so good she couldn't wait to burn. "You can't quit." She reached down for the top button of his jeans and flicked it open. "We need you. I need you." He released her nipple and she groaned in frustration. Then he found the hem of her skirt and inched it higher and the soft groan that floated out of her mouth was for a whole other reason. "Hire me back in about an hour or, better yet, a few days." The cool air caressed her upper thighs as he raised her skirt, but it wasn't enough to relieve the molten heat engulfing her. "I like how you think.

Pride filled him. He'd put that soft look in her eye, the purr in her voice, and given her loose limbed ease.

Being this close to him was like sitting under a hotness heat lamp. In the desert. At high noon.

She hadn't just drunk the Salvation Kool-Aid - she'd started to brew her own.

Experimentation also proved serendipitous for Greg Koch and Steve Wagner, when they were putting together the Stone Brewing Co. in Escondido, California, north of San Diego. It was destined to become one of the most successful brewing startups of the 1990s. In The Craft of Stone Brewing Co. Koch and Wagner confess that the home-brewed ale that became Arrogant Bastard Ale and propelled Stone to fame in the craft brewing world, started with a mistake. Greg Koch recalls that Wagner exclaimed “Aw, hell!” as he brewed an ale on his brand spanking new home-brewing system. “I miscalculated and added the ingredients in the wrong percentages,” he told Koch. “And not just a little. There’s a lot of extra malt and hops in there.” Koch recalls suggesting they dump it, but Wagner decided to let it ferment and see what it tasted like. Greg Koch and Steve Wagner, founders of Stone Brewery. Photograph © Stone Brewing Co. They both loved the resulting hops bomb, but they didn’t know what to do with it. Koch was sure that nobody was “going to be able to handle it. I mean, we both loved it, but it was unlike anything else that was out there. We weren’t sure what we were going to do with it, but we knew we had to do something with it somewhere down the road.”20 Koch said the beer literally introduced itself as Arrogant Bastard Ale. It seemed ironic to me that a beer from southern California, the world of laid back surfers, should produce an ale with a name that many would identify with New York City. But such are the ironies of the craft brewing revolution. Arrogant Bastard was relegated to the closet for the first year of Stone Brewing Co.’s existence. The founders figured their more commercial brew would be Stone Pale Ale, but its first-year sales figures were not strong, and the company’s board of directors decided to release Arrogant Bastard. “They thought it would help us have more of a billboard effect; with more Stone bottles next to each other on a retail shelf, they become that much more visible, and it sends a message that we’re a respected, established brewery with a diverse range of beers,” Wagner writes. Once they decided to release the Arrogant Bastard, they decided to go all out. The copy on the back label of Arrogant Bastard has become famous in the beer world: Arrogant Bastard Ale Ar-ro-gance (ar’ogans) n. The act or quality of being arrogant; haughty; Undue assumption; overbearing conceit. This is an aggressive ale. You probably won’t like it. It is quite doubtful that you have the taste or sophistication to be able to appreciate an ale of this quality and depth. We would suggest that you stick to safer and more familiar territory—maybe something with a multi-million dollar ad campaign aimed at convincing you it’s made in a little brewery, or one that implies that their tasteless fizzy yellow beverage will give you more sex appeal. The label continues along these lines for a couple of hundred words. Some call it a brilliant piece of reverse psychology. But Koch insists he was just listening to the beer that had emerged from a mistake in Wagner’s kitchen. In addition to innovative beers and marketing, Koch and Wagner have also made their San Diego brewery a tourist destination, with the Stone Brewing Bistro & Gardens, with plans to add a hotel to the Stone empire.

The sheer magnitude and sameness of mass-produced and mass-marketed goods that Americans have grown to expect can be really disorienting.

It is testimony to the importance of beer in their story that the brewery was the first permanent building the Pilgrims constructed.

You and me, we are a dying breed, we have to look out for each other. You will build your brewery here. I will help you.

Amid the material comforts and the relentless distractions of modern life, the universe at large may appear remote, intangible and irrelevant, especially to those of us who are city dwellers. But the next time you catch a glimpse of the Milky Way in its true glory, from a dark outpost far from city lights, think of those countless stars as nuclear factories and the starless hazy patches as molecular breweries. It is not much of a stretch to imagine

The hard part is discovering the name of the beer. We know how to brew good beer, but it is the name that animates the liquid and gives it a voice. The flavor comes afterward, to the consumer, and it must live up to their expectations, but first there is the name. If the beer really does speak, the label is the first sentence.

On the spur of the hill stood the ruins of an old brewery. The roof had long since disappeared and the rain had beaten the stone floors smooth and yellow. Some enterprising Englishman had spent a lifetime here making beer for his thirsty compatriots down in the plains. Now, moss and ferns grew from the walls.

The natural dynamic is to drink less, but drink better. There are no longer masses of workers exiting steel factories in Pennsylvania and coal mines in northern England, ready to wash away the day's work with cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon and the like. Most workers sit at computer screens. They still get thirsty, but not for Pabst Blue Ribbon. They want something better-tasting.

Beer culture is a part of the world of food and drink. It's not just a commodity in cans and bottles, but has a value as an agricultural product with good ingredients.

I still see people buying and swilling terrible beer. I sometimes think that my job is like farting against a gale, but I just keep moving forward.

Two things were inarguable. There was too much beer, a lot of it of dubious quality, and too many breweries, brewpubs and contract brewers, the latter dominated by entities that might not have been in the movement for craftsmanship.

Liberty Ale would become quite possibly the most important beer of the late twentieth century

You may not dine at the Reform Club, but you deserve courtesy and respect.”  She sighed.  “Which is more than rumor will allow.  Sometimes I think we parvenus are more protective of the social pecking order than the nobility.  I suppose it’s born out of fear.” She had the most surprising mind, and fingers as pretty as  music.  “Fear of what?”  “Insufficiency, I suppose.”  She frowned as she worked out a knot in the horse’s mane.  “That somehow we aren’t as good as those whose manners we ape.  So we beat down anyone in our path, anyone who is different or who doesn’t precisely adhere to codes of behavior.” “Like cowboys.” “Or women who run breweries.” 

archeologist Patrick McGovern found evidence of an eight-thousand-year-old brew of rice, fruit, and honey at the Jiahu site in Henan Province. (He worked with Dogfish Head brewery to re-create the brew, which they named Chateau Jiahu.) It

all good things come to an end, and sometimes that’s the way you know if they were good to begin with.

negative feedback is good medicine for a company even when it is unfounded.

Meux followed this up by erecting an even bigger one in 1795, which held 20,000 UK barrels (about 28,000 US barrels) of porter; that would be a quite respectable annual output for a modern US craft brewery. In 1814, one of Meux’s vats burst, and the escaping porter did considerable damage to surrounding buildings and killed eight people. But

She married Luther in 1525 and became actively involved in his ministry and helped to provide for them financially by managing their household, farm, brewery and other properties. As the wife of such a prominent theologian, she helped promote a positive view of Protestant family life. Together they had six children, four of whom survived to adulthood.

When Americans sip their iconic Budweiser, they are in fact enjoying a beer produced by a company engendered by a 2004 merger of Brazilian and Belgian breweries that in turn managed to gain control of Anheuser-Busch in 2008, thus forming the world’s largest beer company. Its CEO, Carlos Brito, is from Brazil.

You fascinate me.”  Chris leaned away so he could see her face. “How so?” “You quote Augustine, and you make an awesome campfire. You carry a rosary in your pocket, and you’re going to work at a brewery. You’re a virgin, and you ride a Harley.

When they established a college—Harvard, in 1636—they equipped it with its own brewery.