Festivus (6 page)
ALE’s entry into the homebrewfest was Festivus, a red, hoppy ale inspired by
Seinfeld
and served from an old-fashioned English beer pump engine. It was the most popular beer at the event attended by about 400 beer drinkers who paid $25 each admission. No brawls were reported at the festival.
The brawls came later.
“The Catholic church is the only church that does a lot of fund-raising with alcohol,” griped Pam Garman, a Lutheran who sent a furious letter to a local newspaper after reading about the school’s beer festival. “It’s accepted, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Betsy Benoit, a Methodist, who, like Garman, did not have a child enrolled in the school, also wrote an angry letter. “What kind of example is that giving to our children?” she fumed.
Ruffled at the insinuations that her school might spawn a class of fifth-grade alcoholics, St. Gabriel principal Mary Jo Brown was terse. “It was a private thing,” she said, refusing to comment in depth.
ALE was not so reticent.
“In Wisconsin,” Van Rossum said, “its part of the lifestyle. And they got permission from the priest.”
Baltimore, Maryland
—During the Baltimore Ravens’ 2000—2001 run through the National Football League playoffs, superstitious coach Brian Billick forbade anyone associated with the team from using the word “playoffs.” As a result, offensive lineman Edwin Multialo came up with an alternative name for the postseason: “Festivus Maximus.”
The only problem was that two miles from Ravens Stadium, Steve Frazier and Chris Cashell, brewmas-ters at the Brewer’s Art pub, were already serving a winter beer they’d developed two years prior and dubbed “St. Festivus Ale,” a dark intoxicant with hints of bitter curaçao, orange peel, and fresh ginger.
The Ravens went on to win the Super Bowl and the word “Festivus” will live in the hearts of Baltimore’s citizens forever. “It meant much more than this obscure—to some people—reference to
Seinfeld,”
says Jeannine Disviscour, who curated the Festivus Maximus Super Bowl exhibition at the Maryland Historical Society in March 2001. “It was this moment for celebrating the Ravens’ win and the city, the whole attempt to bring Baltimore back, Baltimore, the city that had such a high murder rate and so many challenges, that it was a citywide celebration, that this is a place people want to be and want to be a part of—we were celebrating that. That was Festivus.”
All that feel-good hullabaloo angers the hell out of Frazier every time a fan tromps into his bar and praises him for naming the ale after the historic victory.
“There was no connection,” Frazier spits, maintaining the he and Cashell were the first to borrow the name from
Seinfeld,
not the Ravens. Frazier continues to tap the season’s St. Festivus every November—and swears it will fortify him to bash the heads of any lawyers from the Ravens or anywhere else who show up at his bar and start demanding royalties.
“Moderate drinking of St. Festivus Ale,” he warns, “encourages the Airing of Grievances. Heavy drinking encourages Feats of Strength.”
Pheonix, Arizona
—John Watt, former owner of the Sonora Brewery in Pheonix and creator, in 2002, of a malty ale he dubbed “Festivus,” believes his creation was a huge success.
“It was very well received,” said Watt, who promoted the ale at a Spring Festivus ‘04 party (which also featured a human gyroscope ride). “It was one of our faster movers.”
Watt’s assistant brewer at the time, Scott Yarosh, scoffed at his old boss’s memory. “It sold well in October,” Yarosh said. “The rest of the year it didn’t.”
In 2005, Yarosh bought the brewery from Watt, who moved to Oregon where his new job is repairing automobile glass. For Yarosh, Festivus is finished. “I never really liked the name,” he says. “Because of the
Seinfeld
connotations. I didn’t want to get into a political thing. If someone wasn’t a fan of
Seinfeld,
I didn’t want them to not like my beer.”
Yarosh has different ideas about how to name beers so they’ll sell well. Burning Bird Pale Ale is a name he prefers over Festivus.
Watt says his former underling was always putting forth terrible marketing ideas. Killing Festivus is another one. “He’s missing an opportunity,” Watt says. “What’s his deal?”
Yarosh doesn’t care what Watt thinks. “I wouldn’t,” he says, “call him a friend.”
Crushed Spirits
Created by a New Yorker who asked to be referred to as “Festina the Helpful Festivus Elf.”
a thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger, peeled and inserted into a garlic press
crushed ice
2 ounces bourbon
4 ounces San Pellegrino Limonata (you can substitute this with sour mix and a squirt of soda)
Crush a little of the ginger into the bottom of a glass. Add the crushed ice and bourbon. If you are feeling particularly rough, it might help you to give the drink a few good shakes before you add the soda, but this is not necessary for the drink’s sake.
FESTIVUS WINE
Unlike Festivus beer, Festivus wine, made in Okema, Oklahoma, has been a success. It could be that the idea of bottling wine in the town where Woody Guthrie was born pleases the “this land was made for you and me” spirit of Festivus. Or it could be that a holiday that first flourished in southern Italy prefers being accompanied by the fruit of the vine rather than the ferment of dusty grain.
“Our ranch is seven hundred acres in Oklahoma,” says Jack Whiteman, co-owner of Grape Ranch. “And we have some oil and gas properties on it. We had forty acres there that was crappy sandy soil and nothing would grow, so we thought maybe we’d grow grapes on there—and darned if it didn’t take off.”
Because the first grapes weren’t planted on the ranch until 2002, and would take years to be ready for cultivation, Whiteman got a start on building his business by buying bulk wine from California and bottling it on the ranch.
Why call the stuff Festivus?
“I was always a
Seinfeld
fan and thought it would have some marginal interest,” Whiteman says. “But it has had a
lot
of interest.”
First distributed in 2004, Festivus, in red, rose, and chardonnay varieties, now sells hundreds of cases annually.
Then there are the cheapskates who want their Festivus vino gratis.
“We get many ‘opportunities’ each year to provide wine for Festivus-related events as a ‘sponsor,’ “Whiteman gripes. “Usually they really are just looking for free wine.” Which begs the question both freeloaders and potential paying customers may want answered: How does the stuff taste?
Okema, Oklahoma’s finest vintage
A Review of Festivus Red
by Jim Clarke, wine critic for the respected Web site for culinary insiders, StarChefs.com
T
he Grape Ranch Festivus Red 2002 is medium ruby in color, fading to a violet-pink rim. The nose is dominated by fruity aromas and a stab of alcohol; there are clear notes of blackberry, bing cherry, and plum, while more subtle, spicy aromas of cedar and clove round out the wine. The fruit-forward character continues on the palate, while the spices broaden into touches of chocolate and vanilla. These non-fruity elements suggest the tasteful use of oak-aging. However, the only place where oak really steps forward is in the tannins; the pull of wood tannins on the cheeks is gently apparent, while grape tannins, which typically show themselves in the front of the mouth, are pretty much nonexistent.
It would make for a good cocktail wine, quite suitable to parties. Festivus Red won’t overwhelm many foods; barbecue, hamburgers, and chicken dishes should get along well with it.
The wine’s only serious flaw is the alcohol; as noted on the nose, there are some balance issues here. The bottle says 13.4 percent alcohol, which is fairly typical for a California red. However, while the wine is not too weighty in the mouth, the flavors do not keep pace with the alcohol in the finish, leaving instead a rather strong burning sensation in the throat.
At the Festivus Party
Stupendous Feats of Strength in Winnipeg
The Airing of Grievances
Festivus is celebrated because people want to celebrate it, not because they have to. Gushing to someone that their aluminum pole is “beautiful, a real nice pole” mocks all the times people feel social pressure to make comments like, “Nice aboveground pool, Mike,” and “What a wonderful display of rat pelt coats, Marie—using them as wallpaper in the baby’s room . . . wonderful!”
But such metaphorical subtlety as pole-praising is for early in the Festivus evening. Eventually most Festivus nights veer straight into the meat of the matter, the moment that never seems to come at “proper” social occasions: people telling others what they
really
think of them. This is the Airing of Grievances.
Watching other people being told what disappointments they are can be fun
TRADITIONAL
Like everything else Festivus, the AOG has evolved some wild variations, but the core of it remains lashing into others and the world about how they have been disappointments. This usually brings participants into a circle of sorts in which each takes turns excoriating friends, enemies, relatives, acquaintances, and strangers. When all who care to have taken a turn griping, there is no required hugging or making up.
That said, it is no mere coincidence that wrestling and other fury-absorbing Feats of Strength generally follow immediately after the AOG.
NONTRADITIONAL: GRIEVANCE FRIDGES, POLE PIÑATA, AND THE ETERNAL LEDGER
There are many clever ways to castigate. There are also many stupid ways.
At Petros Kolyvas’s Festivus in Montreal, a dry-erase marker is tied to the refrigerator door. The grievances are scrawled on it throughout the night and are legible until someone either rubs against the door or is thrown against it. “The fridge was instituted,” says Kolyvas, a computer network consultant, “because if we did air grievances face-to-face, it might get out of hand, and people might start fighting.” It is true that recent fridge grievances, such as “F—ing cell phones won’t suck you off!” “Where the F— is Krista?!” “Kelly didn’t f—ing show!” and “I hate bending over,” imply a level of sexual frustration that could, if uttered aloud in mixed company, lead to nose-punching.
