Pint of No Return (10 page)

Chapter Seven

Thursday morning, Callie patted Hops on the head and got into her car to head out of Skinner.  The address Walt had given Callie made her pause for a moment.  Weissworks Brewery was located outside of city limits in an area she had always thought of as primarily industrial, and not it a good way.  Maybe lying outside the legal boundary of both Skinner and Millton gave business owners a feeling of more freedom to not keep to any municipal code or standard when it came to how their buildings looked from the outside.  Broken chain link fences, vehicles Callie hoped weren’t considered roadworthy and scraggly grass and trees lined the road as she headed toward Weissworks.  She passed the turnoff to Seavey Loop Road and, as if she needed another example of the general seediness of the area, also passed a bedraggled trailer park. 

Surprisingly, the road she turned on to was paved and well maintained.  The trees were maples and oaks and, being as it was early Fall, their colors were translucent and vibrant in the sunlight.  The trees hid the brewery until she was right in front of it.

Callie got out of the car, eyebrows raised.  Weissworks Brewery was housed in an old church.  The building was covered in white plasterwork, the steeple painted a bright red.  She wondered if the arched and pointed windows had ever held stained glass, but now they sported mullioned windows, sparkling in the sun like Grandma Minnie’s faceted jam jars.

There didn’t seem to be anyone waiting outside to meet her, so she walked around the grassy lawn in front of the former church.  The lawn was crisply mowed and Callie didn’t see any garbage or junked cars. 

The doors at the front of the church were almost twice her height.  They had ornate brass handles and the carving on the wood was an intricate scroll pattern around the entire perimeter.  She tried the handle, but the door was locked.  Callie knocked, but thought she would damage her knuckles long before any sound was heard through the thick wood.  There wasn’t any kind of bell she could see, either.  She walked around to the south side of the building.  There was a small white structure attached to the side of the church.  It looked to her to be the former office of the pastor or priest who had once ministered here.  The bright red door was half glass and through white lace curtains, Callie could see into an office with shelves of account books and two brown wooden desks with chairs. 

At one desk sat a small woman industriously typing away at a keyboard, staring intently at a glowing computer screen.

Callie knocked.  The woman looked at the door and then looked at her watch.  She hurriedly got up and came to the door.  “Ach, please forgive me,” the blonde haired woman said.  “Time has gotten away from me, I’m afraid.  You’re from the brew fest, right?”  Her accent was German.

“Yes, I’m Callie Stone.  This is a beautiful place you have.”

“I’m Gerta Weiss.  Yes, although when I first bought the property, you wouldn’t believe the mess it was in.”

“This neighborhood doesn’t always bring out the best in people, does it?” asked Callie.

“Did you know there is a nudist resort not far from here, on the river?” asked Gerta.

Callie shook her head no. 

“You would have thought those people would appreciate nature and value it.  Instead this church was used for shenanigans I won’t get into, but where people left their filth behind.  I filled two dumpsters with garbage while cleaning up.”

“Do you get any intruders now?” asked Callie.

“Not many, and those that do get in, only come once.  I’ve put up a high fence and there are two Dobermans that roam the grounds all night.”

Callie was distracted by the blue highlight in the middle of Gerta’s bangs that moved from side to side whenever she said something in her sharp, clipped speech. 

“Let’s go into the tasting room,” said Gerta.  “We can sit and have a drink.”

The small office connected to the main building by an archway lined with wooden planks.  “Once I cleaned the place up, I found it didn’t need much else,” said Gerta as they walked.  “The original structure was sound, so I didn’t need to make many repairs.  When people build a church, they build it with care.”

They emerged from the passageway into what Callie supposed was originally the nave.  Instead of being filled with pews though, it now held brewing equipment.  There were an array of large metal vats, most of them with pipes and gauges running in enough directions that Callie couldn’t tell what liquids were going where.  Callie could see one or two people working in amongst the tanks.  As they crossed the nave to where the North Transept would have been, Callie marveled at the arched ceilings and the way the mullioned windows let in the light, casting diamond-like reflections on the floor and the equipment.

“Did you replace the windows?” asked Callie.

“Yes.  Although some of the stained glass remained, there were pieces missing.  I got this glass from Bavaria.  It reminds me of home,” said Gerta.

They entered the tasting room and Callie thought she had gone back in time to some ancient German gasthaus, complete with half-timbered ceilings and hand carved tables and benches.  There were large barrels scattered throughout the room and on the bar countertop, added for ambiance.

“I didn’t know Skinner had any German restaurants,” said Callie.

“We only serve a little food.  Some weisswurst, of course,” said Gerta chuckling at the pun on her name.  “It would be a pity to serve beer and not have a sausage.”

The bar was carved with trees, birds and what Callie thought might be a representation of the Alps, complete with hikers.  “This also came from Bavaria,” said Gerta as she went behind the bar and got out two glasses.  She didn’t ask Callie what she wanted, but just poured two of the same beer. 

“This will be my premium showcase beer,” said Gerta. 

“You serve your specialty beer at your regular tap?” asked Callie, confused.

“All of my beers are special.  I will not be making an extra beer for a competition when mine are already good enough to compete.  Prost!” Gerta said, raising her glass to Callie.

Although Callie didn’t know the term, she understood the gesture for ‘cheers’ and followed suit, raising her glass and taking a drink.  The beer was a fine golden color and Callie found the flavor crisp and light as the American Lagers she was used to drinking.  However, there was a fuller, more yeasty, flavor to the beer.

“This is very good,” said Callie.

“I knew you’d like this.  We brew all our beers according to German purity laws,” she said proudly. “They only include water, hops, yeast, wheat and unmalted barley.”

“No orange wheat or coffee stout for you, I take it?” said Callie, remembering the brews on tap at the Barley and Sheaf.

Gerta suppressed a shudder.  “The beverage is delicious in its natural form.  Why gild the lily?”

Callie nodded her head as in agreement, but remembered the excellent filbert scented beer Walt had served.  There was a place for purists in beer making, but Callie thought there might be wiggle room from there.

“I’ve heard Sylvan Ales is offering a specialty beer.  I can guarantee you that one will be about as far from mine as it is possible to be,” said Gerta.

“I thought Sylvan Ales was all about being organic and natural,” said Callie.  “Certainly that fits in with your concept of beer making.”

“Yes, I guess in a way it does,” said Gerta.  “But Chris Ashton, the brewery owner, is always trying newfangled things and exotic flavors in his production methods.  Beers are not meant to be spicy.”

Callie had Sylvan Ales on her calendar for the following day.  “I don’t yet know what the other breweries are going to show.  I’ve only been to Magic Waters and, well, the owner fell ill, so I don’t know if he’ll be at the brew fest.”

“What happened to Floyd?” said Gerta, suddenly concerned.

“I was touring his brewery Tuesday and he collapsed and was taken to the hospital.  I haven’t yet heard how he is doing.”

“This is terrible,” said Gerta.  “He’s been a true leader of our small industry here.  Without him, I don’t know if any of the rest of us would be in business.”

“How so?” asked Callie.

“He was the first person to have a vision that, even though we were all competing with each other, more breweries meant more beer drinkers.  He created the Skinner Brewer’s Guild and has always been a key player in making us see that we can do more together than as rivals.  It would be very sad to lose his leadership.  I don’t see any of the other brewery owners with the skills and patience to take his place if he couldn’t return.”

“He had mentioned he was still recovering from a bad bout of the flu,” said Callie.  “If that’s all it is, I’m sure he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

Gerta finished the second half of her beer in one gulp and went to get another.  Callie had only sipped at hers, so she didn’t need more.

Trying to take Gerta’s mind off of Floyd’s sudden illness, Callie said, “In addition to Sylvan Ales tomorrow, I’m visiting Sullivan’s Cider and Barton’s Pub next week, and I’m curious as to what sort of beverages the others will present as their showcase beer.  Sullivan’s will, of course, be presenting a cider, and not a beer.”

Gerta sat back down.  “Bill Sullivan at the cider house will try to tart up an apple cider with cherry flavoring or something like that.  Chris Ashton will spend time telling us he hand fertilized the hop plants and picked them using local schoolchildren on a garden project.  Who knows what that Zeke at Barton will offer?  His beers are as unpredictable as he is and he has only been brewing a short time.”

“His is the only premium showcase brewery to be located downtown,” said Callie.

“Right in the heart of the weirdness of Skinner,” said Gerta.  “When he finally manages to get a batch of beer done, he hires homeless folks to come in and help him bottle.  He says it supports the local economy.  I say it probably lowers the quality of his beer.”

Callie laughed.  “I bet they drink as much as they bottle.”

Gerta nodded, “That, too.”

As Callie left Weissworks, waving to Gerta as she stood in front of the former church, Callie realized she had an idea for her glassware and decided to call Creative Imprints as soon as she got home.

That evening, Callie drove to the Cloudburst Pub to hang out with Jeremy Bilson.  The Cloudburst was participating in the brew fest, but not in the premium showcase. 

The restaurant tables were only half full and there was no one at the bar, so Callie went and sat there.  Jeremy, his hair in his usual blond spike, came over.

“Callie, it’s good to see you,” he said.  “How’s the brew fest going?  We got our info packet today.”

“Good.  I was hoping those would give you at least a week to prepare your booths.”

“It was a little surprising.  I don’t think we’ve ever gotten an info packet before.  We’ve been participating for about ten years now and things were usually just done over the phone and with a conversation.  It’s a big help.”

Callie smiled.  “I’m glad.  The idea is that if you have all the information at your fingertips, I’ll receive less phone calls.  Plus, it helps advertise the sponsors and the Barley and Sheaf.”

“What would you like to drink?” he said.  “We’ve got a new pinot noir in from one of our local vineyards.”

“Jeremy, I’m running a brew fest.  Don’t you think I should be drinking beer?”

“Have you tried any of the beers that will be served at the fest?” he asked.

“Not really.  I was over at Magic Waters and I almost had a drink, but then Floyd fell ill and I didn’t get to try anything.”

“That’s too bad.  Sounds serious.” he said, his brow furrowing in concern. 

“I couldn’t tell, but he’s in the hospital now, so hopefully it will get taken care of,” she said.  “I’ve also been to Weissworks to drink a pure beer, according to Gerta Weiss.  What type of beer is the Cloudburst going to offer at its table at the brew fest?”

“Well, everyone is familiar with our Liquid Sunshine, so we’re going to try to get away from that,” he said.  “I think we’re going to offer something we call the Brazilian Bean Stout, which is a coffee flavored dark beer,” he explained at her questioning look at the beer’s name.  “Then we are thinking of something more middle of the road like a kolsch.  Although I’m sure we can’t do a better one than Weissworks.  That Gerta Weiss has got a lock on any German style beers.”

“Maybe you could walk me through the beers you have on tap here.  I feel like I have no idea what everyone is talking about when they throw out names such as stout and kolsch—I had a nut brown ale at Walt’s the other day and I couldn’t tell you the difference between that and a bean stout.”

Jeremy laughed.  “We wouldn’t want you to be uneducated in beer,” he said.  “I’ll get together a tasting tray for you.”

He spent a few minutes busy at the taps and returned to her with a tray loaded with small glasses.  “Let’s start with the light beers, move through the hoppy ones and then on to the dark.”

Callie looked at the selection of beer doubtfully.  “Do I drink all of this?”

“Some people do.  But think of it like a wine tasting, you can just take a sip.  You don’t have to drink the whole glass,” he said.