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Beer Review: Flying Dog Dead Rise Old Bay Summer Ale

May 21, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

Wooden mallets strike claws, sending fissures through crabby chitin, exposing the sweet, seasoned flesh beneath. Soft hands meet sharp shells, poking, probing, splitting, snapping; a modest labor for a morsel of meat. Twelve spices form a homogeneous cocktail with light lager and briny boil, resulting in a liquid unique to the summers of the Chesapeake watershed. The crustacean covered newspapers lining the tables tell a new story now, a story that to the outsider sounds like barbaric ritual, but to the native sounds like hallowed tradition.

Despite my international birth, I’m a Marylander. All of my education – from Jones Lane to Johns Hopkins – unfolded in the Old Line state, and I’ve called the marshy lands north of the Potomac home for nearly 25 years. There are those in other parts of the country who don’t understand Maryland’s insistence on maintaining a unique identity; those who find such cultural fervor from a small state cute, or quaint, or some combination there of. But the people of Ocean City, Baltimore, Annapolis, and Salisbury don’t just mindlessly crab and boil or Raven and Oriole, they hold high their state standard, proud that 9th smallest state boasts one of the biggest personalities.

A veteran of the picking art shows a tourist where and how to lift the plate to get at the blue gold in the body, like the master teaching the neophyte who reached the peak all the simple secrets of life. A little girl takes her time, building a mini-mountain of crab to eat all at once, while her older brother yanks white chunks out of cartilage lined crevices with the only tool he needs: his teeth. Corn on the cob sits cooked but idle, waiting for the pile of dusted red delight to give up the spotlight.

Maryland suffers from poorly built sandwich syndrome; its thin landmass pressed between the top bun of Pittsburgh, Gettysburg, Lancaster, and Philadelphia, and the bottom bun of DC, Shenandoah, Richmond, and Norfolk. New York City is only a 4 hour drive from our naval-steeped capital, and a brief jaunt south would have you in North Carolina before the sun fully lowered itself into a western bed. There’s a lot of artisanal bread for Maryland’s meat to contend with, and it knows it needs to taste damn good to get any attention when someone takes a bite of the East Coast.

The notes that haunt the humid air are distant but familiar – bluegrass, country, possibly Jimmy Buffet. The giant stock pot – already full of potatoes and garlic and onions – sits on open flame, slowly rising to boil as a bushel awaits fate. On the shore, seagulls have taken note of the feast, and caw their dinner bells to nearby friends, hoping to snag some scraps after the lungs, mustard, and empty shells have been tossed. As the sun begins to set, the hiss of bottle cap sighs fade into the backdrop of ten thousand cicadas.

You might expect a beer brewed with Maryland’s favorite crab seasoning to be nothing more than a well-marketed gimmick. But Flying Dog, after moving to Frederick after a few years in Denver, is one of the oldest functional breweries in the state. Like Heavy Seas and their nautical flair, Flying Dog understands what it means to be in this state, but also what it means to live in Maryland. What it means to wear purple during football season. What it’s like to contend with a parade of transient traffic as I-95 shuttles people to states external. What it’s like to pay a tax on rain.

Deposits of seasoning get stuck under your fingernails. Little cuts from shards and spikes sting when hands meet soap. The entire process means a lot of work and a lot of clean up, but the rewards, tangible and tantalizing, make the effort seem minor. Those who partake in the rituals of the bay go to bed satisfied, dreaming of food and friends and family and future.

The beer isn’t perfect; the smell hits you like a fishy breeze off of a populated wharf, and the Old Bay spikes a flag into your tongue, marking its savory territory despite the summer ale’s crisp attempt to quickly wash it down. But Maryland isn’t perfect either. It’s a hodgepodge of DC politicians and career fisherman, a swampy land swarmed with mosquitoes and mariners. Its weather can be extreme and unpredictable and relatively slow speed limits lead to some of the worst traffic in the country. But it’s a state that knows who it is, where it stands, and what it likes, by virtue of geographic necessity.

Flying dog tried to brew and bottle Maryland itself. Did it work? That ship’s still at sea. Either way, it’s a flattering homage, and I’m willing to bet a lot of Old Bay junkies just found the perfect partner for a summer romance.

"Have you ever watched a crab on the shore crawling backward in search of the Atlantic Ocean, and missing? That's the way the mind of man operates." - H. L. Mencken

“Have you ever watched a crab on the shore crawling backward in search of the Atlantic Ocean, and missing? That’s the way the mind of man operates.” – H. L. Mencken

How to Ireland: Dining

August 28, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

(Before we start, I’m forcing myself to do some PR. I’ve made a Facebook page for this here blog, so feel free to “Like” it if you prefer to get your updates through that medium for whatever reason: LitLib on Facebook! I also have a Twitter profile that I thoroughly neglect @OliverJGray)

Ireland is like a small East Coast fishing town. Paint peels from wood from overexposure to salt air, there is a subtle quaintness to the tininess of the houses, and every business in the entire place shuts down around 9:00 PM.

Well, the pubs stay open, but those don’t count.

Due to a slight logistics explosion, our first day in Ireland was set back roughly six hours. We had planned to pick up our rental car and careen into Kilkenny around 1:00 PM Irish time, but a delayed train and missed flight had us pulling into the hotel around 7:45 instead.

We checked in, dropped off our gear, and sat around for a few minutes, trying to shake the travel dust from our shoulders. It’s pretty hard to keep up the international kickassery after 36 hours of being awake, in a completely different time zone, after hurtling through the air at 505 MPH next to a demented clown-woman, but we tried anyway.

We got back into the car and drove to the heart of Kilkenny; an awesome Irish town with brightly colored row houses, a decidedly European bridge smack in the center of town, and a nearly 900 year old castle looming on a nearby bluff. After fighting with some locals for a place to park, we got out and sauntered around like tourists will do; giggling at the accents, remarking on the obvious cultural differences, and pining after pints of Guinness and Bulmers.

Kilkenny by day.

We were in no rush. Drunk on wanderlust, we were happy to finally be together on our honeymoon, and happy to just enjoy the lively Sunday evening. Kilkenny had beaten long standing rivals Tipperary in the All Ireland Senior Hurling semi-finals match earlier that day, and the town was awash in mirth and merriment. Every pub we passed was overflowing with music and loud patrons, despite it getting later and later on a work night.

Tiff and I wandered down a side street that had Chinese-style stringed flags hanging over head, each one decorated with a carp or a flower. All I could smell was beer and cigarette smoke, which was oddly welcoming. When we finally decided our stomachs were too hungry to ignore, we popped into one of the less rowdy pubs, Kyteler’s Inn, that had a delicious sounding menu scribbled in mutli-colored chalk just outside the door.

This inn is supposedly haunted, but we didn’t see any ghosts. Next time, I guess.

But as we sat down, the waitress informed us that the kitchen was closed. We were free to get drinks and take a seat wherever, but food wasn’t going to happen. We thanked her and tried another place.

Then another.

Then another.

After five restaurants, we began to realize that kitchens close early in Ireland. By 10:00, we had resigned ourselves to eating Lion Bars and Tatyo brand Cheese and Onion crisps in our hotel room for dinner.

Fortunately, on the way home, we found a Turkish Kebab restaurant that was still open, and was more than happy to serve us massive portions of doner, salad, and pita bread. I’m not sure if it was the hunger or just really good kebab…but it was the best meal I’ve had in a long time. We even had to pull the typical American move and take some home with us.

This night set the tone for the rest of our trip. We spent most of the day out having grand adventures, only to be rushing to any place we could find, praying their kitchens were still open.

If you decide to eat while you’re vacationing in Ireland, be aware of the following:

1. There are pubs and bars, but they aren’t always the same thing. Pubs sell food, but only until about 10:00 PM, and that’s on the extreme end. Bars typically only sell alcohol (you may find a bowl of nuts if you’re lucky).
2. Most normal restaurants serve meals between certain hours (like dinner between 6:00 PM and 9:00 PM); there are no Applebees or 24 hour fast food restaurants like the ones that kept you alive during your college binge-drinking years.
3. There are no hostesses. Do not go into a restaurant and assume that someone will lead you to your seat like an elementary school teacher leading a recess line. Seat yourself. A bar back or other employee will notice you, so don’t worry.
4. Menu items are not always available all day. You may find that a pub only serves sandwiches at lunch time. Deal with it. Nothing is worse than a confused, whiny American asking for Bangers and Mash at 8:43 PM after drinking four pints of Beamish.
5. Fast food is almost non-existent. You may stumble upon a Subway or a McDonald’s, but who wants to eat that garbage anyway? Ireland doesn’t have fast food, because there is no slow food. Menus will inform you and apologize if a certain dish will take 15 minutes to get to you. You’ll get your food fast, wherever you eat.
6. Tipping is not required. It’s kind of the way tipping should be, if the American restaurant industry hadn’t ruined the whole thing by paying their servers slave wages and making them rely on tips for sustenance. You can tip if you thought the service was especially good, quick, or friendly. Otherwise, there would be no harm in paying what you owe and saying thank you.

The good news is that almost all of the food we had was excellent. We may have been lucky in choosing our places to eat, but I liked everything I ordered, and only felt it was overpriced on one or two occasions.

So, eat, drink, be merry. Also remember pulling a real pint of Guinness takes about ~5 minutes, so make sure to order your second before you’re done with your first.

Blaa blaa blaa sandwiches are soooo blasé. Ba dum ching.

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