Craft Beer Quotes

You know, those men: bike riding, knitted sweater? Pretends Facebook isn’t important to him, but it really is?” I was met with a blank stare, so carried on. “Craft beer, start-ups, sense of entitlement? Reads books by Alain de Botton, needs a girlfriend who doesn’t threaten his mediocrity?

it turns out, teachers think of glitter as the herpes of craft world- impossible to contain or exterminate. (Beer Buckets and Baby Jesus)

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

because he wants to look like one of those big, masculine men, whose personality revolves around craft beer and red meat consumption.

There will be craft beer, brewed by my flatmate on the balcony of our Penge new-build. The Death of Hackney tastes like a sort of fizzy Marmite and smells like a urinary tract infection and is yours for £13 a bottle. Enjoy.

If it's good enough to drink, it's good enough to cook with!

Eat Dark Chocolate and Drink Wine And craft beer, too. These foods don’t prevent or cure disease all on their own, but they are the mark of palates in tune with good food. Think of them as gateway foods to a healthier palate.

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.

But no matter how good the beer, how many honors or awards, how innovative Goose Island would ever be again, someone deep in the crowd would always boo.

If circumstances dictate that your disposable income has to come from eating ramen alongside your vintage Cantillon gueuze, so be it.

What’s a mainstream millennial?’ Darcy asked. ‘Have I made this term up?’ I questioned myself. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen it on the internet. You know those men: bike-riding, knitted jumper, loves Jeremy Corbyn? Pretends Facebook isn’t important to them but it really is?’ I was met with a blank stare, so carried on. ‘Craft beer, start-ups, sense of entitlement? Reads books by Alain de Botton, needs a girlfriend who doesn’t threaten their mediocrity?

At the same moment when massive global institutions seem to rule the world, there is an equally strong countermovement among regular people to claim personal agency in our own lives. We grow food in backyards. We brew beer. We weave cloth and knit blankets. We shop local. We create our own playlists. We tailor delivery of news and entertainment. In every arena, we customize and personalize our lives, creating material environments to make meaning, express a sense of uniqueness, and engage causes that matter to us and the world. It makes perfect sense that we are making our spiritual lives as well, crafting a new theology. And that God is far more personal and close at hand than once imagined.

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.

[N]ow that growing your own (food, dope, hair, younameit) is hip," wrote the author of an essay widely reprinted in alternative newspapers, "it's time to resurrect the Dope of the Depression - Homebrew." Homemade beer inspired "good vibrations" and a "pleasant high." Unlike the rest of "plastic, mass-produced shit" of modern America, homebrew represented "an exercise of craft" and empowered the "politically oriented" to retaliate against "Augustus [sic] Busch and the other fascists pigs who [were] ripping off the Common Man." "If you're looking for a cheap drunk," added the beer adviser, "go back to Gussie Busch. But if you dig the good vibes from using something you make yourself, plus an improvement in quality over the commercial shit," brew on, brothers and sisters, brew on.

There are those who think that a beer should be relatively high in alcohol. This is not reasonable, after all, why do you drink beer? If all you want is inebriation, drink hard liquor. Beer is a convivial beverage between friends, to be drunk for its own sake, as a friendly thing, not a drunking thing. Five to six percent is plenty of alcohol, your friends won’t laugh if your beer clobbers them.

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.

The quintessential "self-made man" (and it is almost always a man) is self-sufficient, confident, stoic, righteously industrious, performatively heterosexual, and power. His success is signified through acquisition--home ownership, marriage, and children--and display of taste and things--craft beer and Courvoisier, Teslas and big trucks, bespoke suits and I-don't-care CEO hoodies. On the surface, it looks like that idea has evolved some. We have our Beyonces, Baracks, and Buttigiegs. But that doesn't mean the American Dream has become liberated from its origins or that its promise of freedom is more free. It just means more of us are permitted entry to the club if we do the double duty of conforming to its standards and continuing to meet the ones set for us--women must lean in, queer couples must get married, people of color must be master code-switchers.

Many of the fluids we drink actually force us to be more dehydrated, even though they are mostly made up of water. Beverages like coffee, tea, beer, wine, sodas, and energy drinks send us to the bathroom to urinate more often. More water is technically coming into the system when we drink these, sure, but the problem is that they may also require much more of our water stores to remove them from the body properly. We lose water and electrolytes when drinking some beverages. That pint of craft IPA may require an additional twenty ounces of pure water to eliminate the alcohol and hops from your system.

Each day, Internet users share more than 1.8 billion photos, according to a report by venture firm Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers. For advertisers, the social media posts that include those photos are more valuable than those with just text because pictures reveal how consumers act "in the wild." "You have a window into their world," said Duncan Alney, CEO of Firebelly Marketing in Indianapolis, which uses Ditto Labs' service. Alney, whose firm represents a beer company, learned from Ditto that people drink beer not just with pub grub but also with healthier snacks like hummus. And that consumers who favor mainstream beers also consume craft brews. Other companies use it to interact with fans. Nissan North America found a photo on Twitter of a baby peeking out from behind a cardboard cutout of a Nissan race car driver. Nissan got the Twitter user's permission and reposted the photo on the company's account, garnering 17 retweets and 37 favorites. The original photo was not tagged with "Nissan," so without Ditto the company never would have found it, said Rob Robinson, a senior specialist in social communications at the automaker.

Individually, the changes were small; together they became something significant.

American beer drinkers had been conditioned to believe they were choosing Anheuser-Busch's beer, but that was only half true; Anheuser-Busch had left them few other options.

Times were good at Goose Island. They couldn't make enough beer! But they were also dire. They couldn't make enough beer.

A beer doesn't have to be difficult to acquire, but damned if that doesn't make everything taste better.

To put it mildly, Beer Geeks are particular about the beer they drink. They don't waste time, money, and liver capacity on bad beer, and they put a formidable amount of thought into the beer they consume. But consume they do, and impressively well.

It is an indisputable fact that the more expensive something is, the better it is.

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.

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

Craft beers are a gift from God.

Baja Craft Beer The craft beer scene of northern Baja is continually evolving, with plenty to sample in Ensenada, Mexicali and the creative center of it all, Tijuana.

we’re in Portland. So it would have to be craft beer. Probably one brewed in a tree trunk with organic hops and hipster, Birkenstock-wearing beer fairies arguing over who has the nicest Subaru. “You

Costa Rica Craft Cerveza Artisanal beers are gaining momentum in Costa Rica, a development that doubtless will thrill visiting beer aficionados. Over the last several years, craft breweries have popped up in various hot spots, bringing creative birras (beers) to palates thirsting for something more complex than the ubiquitous Imperial. Imagine sipping a locally brewed pineapple Hefeweizen, red ale or cacao stout at sunset – it brings a hoppy tear to our eye (Click here).

What’s interesting about craft brewers’ proclivity for such elaborate exercises in branding is how this behavior so closely resembles the longstanding practices of the global beer conglomerates craft beer folk claim to despise. There’s an old and telling adage about business that says mass market companies, take Budweiser and MillerCoors for example, don’t sell products, they sell advertising.

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.

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

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

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

I buy us each a 40 oz. of Coors Light because right off the bat, it’s important that she knows I am the kind of guy who drinks 40s, not like wine or craft beer or stuff like that.

an open-plan cubicle kind of thing-working, doing something, writing some Lisp program. And he'd come shuffling in with his ceramic mug of beer, bare feet, and he'd just stand behind me. I'd say hi. And he'd grunt or say nothing. He'd just stand there watching me type. At some point I'd do something and he'd go, "Ptthh, wrong!" and he'd walk away. So that was kind of getting thrown in the deep end. It was like the Zen approach-the master hit me with a stick, now I must meditate.

The beer aisle would have made Carrie Nation weep. Sven had already warned me that Oregon leads the country in breweries, all of them trying to outdo each other in crafting the hoppiest pale ales, meatiest stouts, darkest porters, fruitiest wheat beers and snootiest lagers. I was hoping to score a case of Budweiser or Miller Genuine Draft, but I was out of luck; apparently I’d be forced to consume craft beer until I finished my assignment and escaped the rain-drenched state. I grabbed a few six packs of something called Beavertail Pale Ale. At least it came in cans. The cereal

Somehow, despite all the science homebrewing requires, I’d become irrationally superstitious.

There's a long discussion about craft beer that has me wanting to beat my head against the wall if I could do it without giving away my hiding spot.

The guy wants to have his beer, but got a Hoover craft.

The town has grown into a mecca for foodies, outdoor enthusiasts, and artists—those seeking to reinvent themselves far from urban centers—without forgoing access to theater, film, excellent restaurants, beautiful surroundings, and lots of beer. Ironically, the town that adopted prohibition more than a decade before the Volstead Act became law, has repeatedly earned the title of “Beer City.” At this writing, the mountain town of fewer than 100,000 boasts one of the largest number of craft breweries per capita of any city in the United States.

It’s a good idea to take your time making friends: I usually give it six rounds. Whether they’re bullets, beers, or bouts depends on the day.

For previous generations, progress in life so far would have meant going through the motions prescribed by caste and class: together, the imperatives of education (inevitably vocational), marriage (nearly always arranged, with love regarded as a folly of callow youth), parenthood and professional career (with the government) imposed order, without too many troubling questions about their purpose and meaning. Regional and caste background dictated culinary and sartorial habits: kurta-pyjamas and saris or shalwar-kameezes at home, drab Western-style clothes outside; an unchanging menu of dal, vegetables, rotis and rice leavened in some households with non-alcoholic drinks (Aseem’s first publication in the IIT literary magazine was Neruda-style odes to Rooh Afza and Kissan’s orange squash, Complan, Ovaltine and Elaichi Horlicks). We belonged to a relatively daring generation whose members took on the responsibility of crafting their own lives: working in private jobs, marrying for love, eating pasta, pizza and chow mein as well as parathas, and drinking cola and beer, at home, taking beach vacations rather than going on pilgrimages, and wearing jeans and T-shirts rather than the safari suits that had come to denote style to the preceding generation of middle-class Indians. Our choices were expanded far beyond what my parents or Aseem’s could even imagine.

working in Elspeth’s craft shop in Relton three days a week in exchange for the use of the pottery wheel and kiln in the back. But Elspeth was hardly an ordinary person; she was a kindly old silver-haired lesbian who had been living in Relton with her companion, Dottie, for over thirty years. She affected the tweedy look of a country matron, but the twinkle in her eyes told a different story. Mara loved both of them very much, but Dottie was rarely to be seen these days. She was ill – dying of cancer, Mara suspected – and Elspeth bore the burden with her typical gruff stoicism. At twelve o’clock, Rick knocked and came in through the back door, interrupting Mara’s wandering thoughts. He looked every inch the artist: beard, paint-stained smock and jeans, beer belly. His whole appearance cried out that he believed in himself and didn’t give a damn what other people thought about him. ‘All quite on the western front?’ he asked. Mara nodded. She’d been half listening for the sound of a police car above the wind chimes. ‘They’ll be here, though.’ ‘It’ll probably

Old people were visible everywhere, in beds, in wheelchairs, on gurneys, huddled on hard wooden benches in the wide corridor; idle, insulated from their surroundings by senses that had shut down over the years. They seemed as motionless as plants, resigned to infrequent watering. Anyone would wither under such a regimen: no exercise, no air, no sunlight. They had outlived not only friends and family, but most illnesses, so that at eighty and ninety, they seemed untouchable, singled out to endure, without relief, a life that stretched into yawning eternity. We passed a crafts room where six women sat around a table, making potholders out of nylon loops woven on red metal frames. Their efforts were as misshapen as mine had been when I was five. I never liked doing that shit the first time around and I didn’t look forward to having to do it again at the end of my days. Maybe I’d get lucky and be struck down by a beer truck before I was forced into such ignominy.

And a bottle opener. It’s a craft beer, how civilized, Nebraska-made. That’s a clue. Maybe. “Don’t Step on Me,” the label on the bottle says.

Jeff’s expression changed from confused to mad to upset as he looked from one of them to the other. When he appeared to have made up his mind, he tossed down his napkin and rose. “Well.” It was all he got out. Delilah got her only satisfaction from the fact that the goon was in a booth, and he didn’t make it all the way to standing before he hit his thighs against the table and had to scoot out, ungracefully, to the side. “Goodnight.” He raised his weak chin high and stamped out of the bar like a child. Delilah let loose in a low growl, and it cost her every effort to keep her response to mere words. If she’d had her way, her focus was strong enough to create a small wind around her and make her eyes burn red. But her witchcraft had cost her enough already where Brandon was concerned. Even though she was mad enough to burn all bridges and say to hell with it, she kept it in check. “What are you doing?” He laughed. “What, you don’t remember Tiger and Muffin?” She drew a deep breath and held her emotions on tight rein. The waitress chose that moment to saunter her bare belly up to their booth and ask if they wanted anything else. Delilah merely ground out the word ‘no.’ The waitress didn’t seem to notice, simply smiled and said ‘thank you,’ instantaneously producing a check and sliding it to the middle of the table, before she sauntered away. Great, Delilah thought, the obnoxious Jeff had downed five very over-priced snobby beers and she was stuck with the bill. She didn’t think this could get any worse. /> But Brandon had her pinned into the booth, the fake sad look gone from his face. The humor now missing as well. Which was just fine, since she didn’t have any of her own. She asked him again. “What are you doing here in my booth?” “Running your date off. Sparing him memory loss and who knows what.” He reached out and snaked her mojito away, before taking a healthy gulp. “That’s mine!” His smile resembled a shark’s. “After everything else we’ve done, sharing a glass isn’t going to kill you.” He took another drink, draining half of what remained and a lot of her sanity. “I had to save the dweeb from you.” “He didn’t need saving.” She tried again to push past him, but he didn’t budge. “So you weren’t going to take him home and screw his brains out and make him forget everything?” She was so shocked by his blunt but accurate assessment of their first night together that she didn’t think, just blurted out, “No!” That startled Brandon, and he asked, “why not?” out of genuine curiosity, before she could regroup. “I didn’t like him.” Crap, that was a whole other can of worms. She sat back, at last resigned to this going from bad to worse. It was Brandon’s turn to be startled.

It’s more than possible that the world’s first mixed drinks were created in order to mask the bad flavors of the base ingredient. Alcoholic potions of our dim and distant past were far inferior to the technologically clean products we enjoy today. Archeological evidence shows that the ancient Egyptians used dates and other fruits to flavor their beer, and that Wassail, a spiced drink originally made with a base of hard cider, dates back to pagan England—it was served to celebrate a bountiful apple harvest. We also know that the Romans drank wine mixed with honey and/or herbs and spices. The practice could have arisen from the inferior quality of the wine, but it probably also had roots in the medicinal, restorative, or digestive qualities attributed to the various ingredients.

[A]ccording to Hell’s Best Friend, by Jan Holden, if you were unfortunate enough to order a Manhattan at the Humboldt in Grays Harbor, Washington, the owner, Fred Hewett (who apparently didn’t much care for anyone who drank cocktails), would pour a mixture of whiskey, gin, rum, brandy, aquavit, and bitters into a beer mug, top it up with beer, and stir it with his finger before handing it to you.

The Drunk’s Blue Book, written by Norman Anthony and O. Soglow in 1933, for instance, details what the authors call the Drunk’s Code: Free lunch. Free speech. Free cheers. Five-day week. Every third drink on the house. Lower curbstones. Overstuffed gutters. More lampposts. Rubber nightsticks and rolling pins. More keyholes for every door. More farmers’ daughters. Colder ice. Two cocktails for a quarter. Bigger and better beers.

It’s important to understand that, back in the mid-sixties, there were few, if any, New York bars where single women felt comfortable—bars in New York were mainly beer joints for men. And so, all of those stewardesses and models back then simply partied at, well, house parties. Stillman was about to change all that when he opened a bar called TGI Fridays, which welcomed both men and women, thus creating the first singles’ bar—one that felt like a cocktail party.

Why do people choose to adulterate fine wines, beers, and spirits?

Why do people choose to adulterate fine wines, beers, and spirits? For variety’s sake. It’s the very spice of life.

US Craft Brewery Sales to Anheuser-Busch InBev March 28, 2011: Goose Island Beer Co. (Chicago) February 5, 2014: Blue Point Brewing (Patchogue, New York) November 5, 2014: 10 Barrel Brewing (Bend, Oregon) January 23, 2015: Elysian Brewing (Seattle) September 23, 2015: Golden Road Brewing (Los Angeles) December 18, 2015: Four Peaks Brewing (Tempe, Arizona) December 22, 2015: Breckenridge Brewery (Littleton, Colorado) April 12, 2016: Devils Backbone Brewing (Roseland, Virginia) November 3, 2016: Karbach Brewing (Houston) May 3, 2017: Wicked Weed Brewing (Asheville, North Carolina)

the time he spent on Saturday morning, crafting a response to Al’s latest text message on the subject. He finally chose brevity over further argument: Haven’t changed my mind, but no hard feelings or bitterness this end. Hope all goes well & let’s get a beer when you’re next in town.

With lively bluegrass music playing in the background, Nora started to arrange a table display designed to appeal to the festival attendees heading to the Balloon Fest, the Craft Beer Fest, or the Mountain Bike Fest. “Balloons, beer, and bikes? I’m picturing Pennywise getting a DUI at the X Games.

The same misconception applies to them all: If smoke is good, more smoke must be better. This reminds me directly of the 20-year arc of hoppiness in American craft beers: hoppy, hoppier, hoppiest . . . no, hoppier still!

There’s an incredibly tedious craft beer culture as a break from London’s incredibly tedious craft beer culture!