New Beer Friday, The Big Easy Edition (November 7)

Steve in New Orleans, LA

Preamble by Steve Siciliano

Whenever Harry Winston gets back in town he stops by Siciliano's and we make plans to meet up at our favorite tavern. If no one’s on the pool table those nights we might play a couple of games of eight ball and if the dart board is open we might throw a game or two of cricket. Mostly though we sit at the corner booth and drink a few beers and Harry gives me the low down on his latest travels. The last time I saw him he had just returned from another trip to New Orleans.

“I can’t believe you were in New Orleans again,” I said after we sat down with our Two Hearteds. “You seeing a woman down there?”

“Nope, no woman. I’m in love with that city.”

“As much as you go you must love it a lot.”

“I do,” he said. “I think it’s one the most interesting cities in the world.”

“More interesting than Rio?” I asked.

“Much more,” he said.

“San Francisco?”

“No comparison.”

I tried to think of some of the more exotic places Harry has been. “More than Cairo, Singapore, Casablanca, Istanbul, Mexico City and Tierra del Fuego?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes.”

“What’s so special about New Orleans?”

“There’s just something about it that’s hard to put into words.”

“Try,” I said.

He sat thinking for a moment while he finished off his pint. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve then motioned to Sam for two more beers. “Okay,” he said. “I love being on Bourbon Street in the morning when there’s no one awake and you have to walk down the middle of the narrow street because they’re hosing the sidewalks. I love walking in the Quarter when it’s bustling in the heat of the afternoon and cooling off in some of those hole in the wall saloons on Royal that are so dark you can’t make out the words on the tap handles. I love the Quarter at night when the neon is lit and there’s a damp breeze coming off the river and there’s gutter punks and street performers on every stoop and music coming from every juke joint on Decatur and Frenchmen.

“I love the architecture. The townhouses in the French Quarter with their cast iron railings, the shotgun shacks and Creole cottages in the Faubourg Marigny and the Bywater and the Irish Channel and the way the sidewalks in those old neighborhoods are all heaved and slanted because of the tree roots. I love riding up and down St. Charles on the streetcar and looking at the antebellum mansions in the Garden District.

“I love the food. The jambalaya, the shrimp creole, the gumbo, the po boys and the red beans and rice. I love drinking Sazeracs and Ramos Gin Fizzes in the bars in the Monteleone and Roosevelt hotels. I love sitting on a bench in the Riverfront just as the sun is going down and watching the big cargo ships making their way around the sharp bend in the Mississippi at Algiers Point.”

While Harry was talking he had the dreamy look of a man who was reciting the qualities of his lover.

“It does sound like a pretty fascinating city,” I said.

“It’s hard to put into words,” he said again. “You just need to get down there and see it for yourself.”

“I’ll put it on my list.”

“Put it at the top of the list,” Harry said.

Before we left the bar that night I assured him that I would.

New and Returning Beer

• Brash Urban Achiever, $15.49/22oz - "Barrel Aged Smoglifter Stout" (source).
• Victory Moving Parts, $8.19/22oz - "We like to mix it up. New flavors, new ideas, new ingredients; we welcome them all. In celebration of our penchant for prolific experimentation, we present Moving Parts: The Ever-Evolving IPA. Each release in this series (every four months) celebrates a tweaked ingredient or two, creating an endless array of possible flavor profiles. For us, Moving Parts are a good thing" (source).
• Founders Backwoods Bastard, $3.89/12oz - "Expect lovely, warm smells of single malt scotch, oaky bourbon barrels, smoke, sweet caramel and roasted malts, a bit of earthy spice, and a scintilla of dark fruit. It’s a kick-back sipper made to excite the palate" (source).
• Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale, $1.69/12oz - "Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale represents a time honored tradition of brewing a special beer for the holiday season. There are generous portions of barley malts and fine whole hops of several varieties, creating a brew with a full, rich and hearty character" (source).
• Bells Christmas Ale, $1.89/12oz - "The basic inspiration for Bell's Christmas Ale was to create a sessionable holiday beer, using locally grown malt, which would stand apart from the array of spiced winter warmers that are typically introduced this time of year. In contrast to many other seasonals, Christmas Ale doesn't contain any spices: all of the dry, toasted notes & subtle toffee flavors come from the 100% Michigan-grown barley, custom malted by Briess Malting, while a blend of hops from Michigan & the Pacific Northwest lend earthy, herbal aromas. At 5.5% ABV, it stands as a smooth, highly drinkable beer intended to complement holiday menus, not overshadow them" (source).
• New Holland Cabin Fever, $1.79/12oz - "Cabin Fever is a roasty brown ale and a hearty, comforting companion for long, mind-bending winters" (source).
• Finch Pig In The Wood, $12.59/22oz - "A deep red malt-forward ale brewed with plenty of caramel malts and a touch of rye. Brewed and dry-hopped with Palisade and Zythos hops and aged for over six months in Koval barrels, a local Chicago distillery" (source).
• Dark Horse 4 Elf, $2.19/12oz - "A spiced Winter Warmer brewed with nutmeg, clove, allspice and other holiday flavors" (source).
• Lagunitas Little Sumpin' Wild Ale, $1.99/12oz - "Another Big Sister of the Little Sumpin’ Sumpin’ Ale…. Loads of Malted Wheat for a Curious Malt Foundation and a Light Color, But Our Belgian Yeast Leaves a Huge Flavor and Complexishness" (source).
• Greenbush Remnant of Dragon, $3.49/12oz - "Imperial red IPA" (source).
• Saugatuck Serrano Pepper Ale, $2.59/12oz - "An amber ale spiced with fresh Serrano Peppers, pleasing to both the nose and palate. A great beer for casual enjoyment and perfect for food pairing" (source).
• Traveler Jolly Traveler Winter Shandy, $1.69/12oz - "Driven by a desire to embrace all things wintry, the Jolly Traveler warms the spirit during the months when it’s needed most. Embracing the flavors of the season, Jolly is the first-ever winter shandy with notes of orange, pomegranate and spice" (source).
• Southern Tier 2XMAS, $1.99/12oz - "Double spiced ale brewed in the tradition of Swedish Glögg" (source).
• Left Hand Warrior IPA, $6.69/22oz - "
• Brewed only once a year with fresh hops hand-picked in Longmont, CO and Warrior hops straight off the vine from Yakima, WA. 
• Warrior is brewed using a unique style called 'Wet Hopping,' which requires only hops that are no more than a day from the vine. 'Wet Hopping' imparts only a mild aroma, but an exceptionally fresh unfiltered hop flavor" (source).

New and Returning Spirits

• Journeyman Old Country Goodness, $18.99/1000ml - "The taste is in the secret. Let your imagination run wild with this apple cider liqueur to excite your taste buds from a recipe passed down generations ago" (label).
• Buffalo Trace Buffalo Cream, $19.99/750ml (limit 2) - "
• Bourbon Cream is handcrafted using Buffalo Trace Kentucky Straight Bourbon, making it a perfect marriage of rich delicious cream and smooth Kentucky bourbon. You can enjoy it chilled, on the rocks, or pour it in a cup of coffee for an indulgent after dinner treat. This liqueur is rich and sweet. The smooth taste of Buffalo Trace Bourbon compliments the creamy vanilla flavor" (source).
• Glenglassaugh Torfa, $74.99/750ml - "Glenglassaugh Torfa, with its smoky, peaty, phenolic nature, is a unique expression and quite different to the usual type of whisky produced in the Highlands. Torfa has a brooding, edgy character whose personality is to be found at the darker end of the spectrum. Its name takes its inspiration from the Old Norse language with which the Scots dialect spoken in North East Scotland has an affinity and translates to 'turf' or 'peat'" (source).
• Glenglassaugh Evolution, $79.99/750ml - "Glenglassaugh Evolution is created by maturing the whisky in a unique combination of the finest hand-picked ex-Tennessee first-fill whiskey barrels. This expression shows great depth of character and finesse, a harmonious combination of whisky and oak. Bottled at 50%, natural colour and non chill filtered, Evolution represents the heart of Glenglassaugh’s distinctive personality, and indeed the landscape in which it is set" (source).
• Glenglassaugh Revivial, $67.99/750ml - "The Revival is the first expression released from Glenglassaugh distillery after being mothballed for more than 20 years. The Glenglassaugh Revival has been matured in a balanced mix of ex-red wine and fresh bourbon casks, vatted and re-racked for double maturation in rich sherry casks. Bottled at 46%, non chill filtered and of natural colour, Revival is a stunning Highland single malt with a coastal charm" (source).

Video of the Week | Sierra Nevada

The story of Sierra Nevada Brewing Co.

Cheers!

On the problem of disappearing dive bars

By Harry Winston

Last week while driving up Michigan Street hill on the way to visit Steve after his hip surgery, I admired the impressive cluster of medical buildings that in recent years have become part of the city’s downtown skyline. But after I parked my car and was walking down the street in the shadow of those gleaming high-rises, I felt a twinge of nostalgia as I recalled that at one time about a half-dozen or so watering holes had been tucked into the stretch of Michigan Street that is now known as the Medical Mile. I’m not opposed to change, especially when the departure of the old translates into so much beneficial new. But I still felt kind of bad about the disappearance of those taverns.

A lot of the old bars are disappearing all over the city and for some reason I find that a little disturbing. Some have been bought by new owners who have done a fine job of cleaning them up, renovating them, and making them attractive to a much younger clientele. But whenever that happens it seems something gets lost in transition. Steve [the boss] and I used to love going to those old bars in our younger days. We drank a lot of beer from long neck bottles. We played countless games of pool, got in a fight or two, and enjoyed taking to the older, world-weary waitresses. Maybe the wisp of nostalgia surfaced that day because I was already in a melancholy mood. My old friend and bar-hopping buddy, a man my age, was in the hospital because his hip joint had worn out, and if it could happened to Steve it could happen to me. Maybe my sometimes throbbing right knee is arthritic too. Maybe the inability to sometimes remember my own phone number is the first stages of Alzheimer’s. As you age you begin considering those things. “Every discoloration of the stone/Every accidental crack or dent/Seems a water-course or an avalanche." Yeats wrote in Lapis Lazuli.

When I got up to Steve’s room he was in a sour mood because a nurse had just removed his catheter.

“How did that go?” I asked him.

“You don’t want to know.”

“How’s the food in this joint?”

“Wonderful.”

“How’s your roommate?”

“I’m ready to kill him.”

I tried to cheer him up by talking about the fact that it was August and the Tigers were in first place, that the nurses were calling him a rockstar because he was already moving around so well, that the store was running smoothly without him. I finally got a wisp of a smile when I mentioned the old bars on Michigan Street.

“Those were some great joints,” he said. “Too bad that there’s not many like them around anymore.”

“There are plenty of bars in the city, my friend.”

“You know what I mean.”

I did. And I promised him that when he was ready and able, we would go out and find a few of them.

Buzz Contributor Harry Winston lives and writes in Grand Rapids, MI, where, in days of yore, he and Steve were regulars at the best dives around. 

The Return of Harry Winston

After an extended absence, Steve's close friend and confidant Harry Winston is back, this time with an enigmatic, Bourbon-fueled post. We've come to expect nothing less from old Harry. He's quite the character. Enjoy!

Been laying low lately. I have this little place, a hut really, on a lake up north and it’s there where I go whenever I need to be alone. No telephones, no television, no radios. No electricity, no running water. I never bring anything to read and there’s nobody to talk to but the squirrels and birds, chipmunks and loons, hawks, beavers and the occasional eagle. One day I drifted for hours in my old wooden boat watching a high drifting eagle. The eagle and I had a nice long-distance conversation. I go there whenever I need to not think. The Crazy Hippie made a sign that I put above the door that says “No Thinking Allowed”. But I’m back now. I’m back, I’m thinking again, and I’m thinking I’m going to be okay. The other day when I stopped in Siciliano’s, the Perch joked that he’d been checking the obits to see if I was dead. Well, I’m not dead but I should be. I came close, I came real close.

I’m not going to get into details. Maybe someday I will. Jimmy told me that I should put it all down, that I should write a book. He’s a big fan of Chandler and Hammett, Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade. He loves watching old Bogart movies. Jimmy thinks it would make a good story and it probably would. The story of a hard-boiled private eye who wasn’t as tough as he thought he was, who had a weakness he didn’t know he had, who got mixed up with a very smart, very evil woman.

Tonight I’m getting drunk. I have a wound that has to be closed and to close it I’m going to need a little anesthesia. I’m finishing my fourth Knob Creek on the rocks and I’ve just motioned to Jimmy for another. When he brought the last one over he wouldn’t put it down until I gave up my keys which means tonight I’ll be sleeping in his office on an ugly couch that he bought at some antique store on Bridge Street between his third and fourth marriage. When I told him once how ugly that couch is he laughed and said the only reason he keeps it is because his fourth wife hated it. Here he comes now with the Bourbon. That a boy Jimmy. Put it on the table then go back to your Bogart movie. But keep keeping an eye on me. And keep that sawed-off pool cue ready in case there are any sharks out there who smell blood and want to even a score.

I’ve known Jimmy a long time, seen him drunk plenty of times, but not once because of a woman. He’s got the right attitude when it comes to women. Hell, when you get right down to it I guess he’s got the right attitude about everything. “Shit happens,” he always says. “Shit happens, Harry,” he said that day fifteen years ago. Not “I’m sorry, Harry”, or “Hang in there, Harry,” or “You’re better off without her, Harry”. I guess that’s what I get for having a god damn Taoist as a friend. Don’t commiserate with someone’s pain just tell them that shit happens and to go with the goddamn flow. He pissed me off so much I stopped coming around the bar for six months. All I wanted was a little sympathy but I got nothing but “shit happens.” All four of his wives left him and not one time did it bother him. He told me the first one left because he worked too much, the second because he smoked too much, the third because he snores. Yeah, whatever, Jimmy. He gave me some other bullshit reason why the fourth one left but right now I can’t remember it. Maybe it was because of the couch. Maybe it was because he’s a Taoist. Maybe that’s why they all left him. Maybe they got sick of him telling them to go with the flow. Tonight I’m getting drunk because of a woman. Actually I’m getting drunk because of two women. The one who wounded me fifteen years ago and the other who recognized that the wound created a chink in my armor, that it became my Achilles heel, my kryptonite, or whatever other goddamn thing you want to call it.

Samantha Lowe was smart and she was evil. I say "was" because she’s dead. She’s dead and Charles Brewster is headed for prison. I should be the one who’s dead. The only reason I’m not is just pure luck. Samantha Lowe wanted me dead and she came real close to getting her wish. I’ve said before that you have to be smart in my business but I never saw it coming, never saw how they set me up. I’m getting drunk because it’s time to finally examine a fifteen year-old wound and stitch it up and if it takes a little anesthesia to do it well so be it. For fifteen years I’ve been afraid to look. Maybe you know how it is. Maybe you had once been cut and you knew it was such a bad cut that you were afraid to look. Well it’s time now that I look.

There, I did it. Doing it was Jimmy’s idea. He told me that when you discover a weakness you have to examine it before you can eliminate it. Well I examined it and I’m quite sure that I eliminated it. I guess time will tell. The next time he looks over at me I’m going to give him the A-OK, the old thumbs up. Thanks for the tip, my friend. I’m going to finish this drink and then I’m off to bed. Or off to the couch. That big, over-stuffed, lovely old couch.

Harry Winston, Part VI

Our old friend Harry is back at it and only a day after his last post, which you can read here. Join him now as he attempts to explain what it is about Samantha Lowe that makes him so uneasy.  

After taking care of some rather nasty business in Chicago recently I unwound with a few pints of Alpha King at The Map Room then went to Gene & Giorgetti’s where I had a bottle of a second growth Bordeaux with a thick, dry-aged porterhouse. I went to the Art Institute the next morning and spent about an hour looking at a painting that I particularly like. What I find most striking about this portraiture is the way that Rembrandt used elements of light and dark, a technique called chiaroscuro. I’m going to employ this technique while painting the following portrait of Samantha Lowe.

The black background in the portrait contrasts sharply with the brightly illuminated face. It’s an extraordinarily beautiful, well-proportioned face, one side of which is bathed in light, the other faintly dimmed by shadow. The face has high cheekbones, a delicate, slightly upturned nose, and full lips that, when seen from differing perspectives, may present the barest hint of a frown, an indifferent pout, or a vaguely enchanting, somewhat mischievous smile. There are perfectly formed dark eyebrows underneath a snow white, flawlessly smooth forehead onto which drops a single curving wisp of coal-black hair. But ultimately it’s the eyes that you are drawn to. The eyes are dark and are surrounded by shadow. They seem dangerous, and if you look directly into them they in turn bore into you; if you merely glance at them the way you would glance at the sun, they appear to be focused inward, as if they were reflecting upon privileged, esoteric knowledge or, perhaps, some secret, unspeakable sorrow.

After Samantha Lowe walked into darkened bar from the late afternoon light she stood just inside the door and those eyes slowly surveyed the room. Jimmie was standing behind the bar and when he saw her he looked over at me, frowned, then went back to his crossword. The Crazy Hippie was asleep at a table and when he felt those eyes pass over him he suddenly snapped awake and blinked a couple of times before looking down at the floor. Two regulars who were playing pool stood with their mouths slightly open and I thought they were going to genuflect. But it was Charles Brewster’s reaction that was most puzzling. He had moved to the bar, and when Samantha looked at him he coolly returned her gaze and gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

The Adventures of Harry Winston, Part V

Ladies and gentlemen, allow us to present the fifth installment in the continuing saga of one Mr. Harry Winston. Today we learn more about Harry's favorite barkeep, Jimmie O'Doyle. (Please click here to read last week's installment).

Jimmie O’Doyle has owned Beason’s for over thirty years. To survive that long in the bar business, especially a bar on the lower west side, you have to be tough and sometimes you have to be mean. Jimmie’s tough, sometimes mean, but he also has a soft side. I’ve seen him throw guys twice his size out of the bar, watched him kick the shit out of two drunken bikers, observed him in action with the sawed off pool cue and stopped him one night from killing some dude who came after him with a switchblade. But I also watched him pick up a dying butterfly off the sidewalk and gently place it in a patch of weeds beside the curb. I saw him wipe a tear from his eye one night while he was sitting at the bar watching a movie, and I’ve seen him fry up free burgers for the neighborhood bums. He used to run drink tabs for customers who were short on cash but stopped doing that after his ex-wife blew the whistle and the MLCC busted him.

His office has the ying/yang symbol painted on one of the cinder block walls. It took a week for The Crazy Hippie to paint it and Jimmie was so impressed that he gave The Crazy Hippie five hundred bucks. The Crazy Hippie lives upstairs in one of the apartments and Jimmie lets him live there for free in exchange for doing odd jobs around the bar. He does a good job fixing whatever breaks despite the fact that he has one eye, one leg, and three fingers missing from one of his hands. He was working as an upholsterer in the furniture factory across the street when he got drafted and after basic training he came home and married his high school sweetheart. He was in a jeep when it hit an anti-tank mine in Saigon during the Tet offensive. When he first came home he was just a little strange. It was after he couldn’t find a job and his wife divorced him that he went crazy. He’s drunk every day by noon but he’s not a mean drunk and there’s nothing about him that’s evil. The things that happened to him made him crazy but they didn’t make him evil. We all have the capacity for doing good and the potential for being evil. Like the ying/yang symbol on the wall in Jimmie’s office, we all have a light side and a dark side.

The second I saw Samantha Lowe get out of her car I should have gone into Jimmie’s office. I should have sat in Jimmie’s office for five minutes looking at the ying/ yang symbol and then my mind would have cleared. I knew when I first heard her voice that Samantha had a strong dark side but I didn’t realize how strong it was until I saw her. I try not to judge people but I found myself judging Samantha Lowe because she was evil. If you know someone has a strong dark side you should just deal with it accordingly. You shouldn’t judge them because you might have turned out the same way they did if the things that happened to them had happened to you. If you start judging people your rational mind prevents you from listening to your intuitions and then you might make wrong decisions. And when you’re in my business, making wrong decisions can get you in a lot of trouble.

The Adventures of Harry Wintson - Part 4

Today yet another offering from local private eye, Harry Winston. First-time readers might want to have a look at Mr. Winston's previous installments, found here, here, and here. Long-time readers rest assured, there's more from Harry on the way.  

I told Charles Brewster, the young man I had met at Founder’s and whose case I took because I felt sorry for him, that I would meet him that evening at Beason’s. I had told Samantha Lowe to meet me at seven so I told Brewster to come by about six. I don’t have an office so I conduct a lot of business at Beason’s. It’s a tired bar in the middle of dying factories and boarded up warehouses just north of Bridge Street. It’s rarely busy there and the rough clientele, mostly a shot and a beer crowd, have learned to leave me alone. According to Jimmie it was busy once. That was when the factories were running three shifts. Up front by the door there’s one of those old teller windows where Jimmie used to cash paychecks. He likes telling the story about the time someone tried to rob him and he blew the guy away with a shotgun.

I meet with clients in a U-shaped booth with ripped leather seats that is tucked into an alcove next to the front windows. Jimmie doesn’t let anybody sit there but me and if somebody does sit there, whether I’m in the bar or not, Jimmie tells them to move. If someone gives him shit about moving, Jimmie just walks away and comes back with a sawed off pool cue.

After Charles Brewster sat down I pushed a manila envelope across the table and watched his face while he studied the photographs I had taken of his pretty wife and a handsome, well-dressed man. In one of the pictures his wife and that man were holding hands in a fancy restaurant. In another they were doing things in a parked car. In yet another they were leaving a motel room. When Brewster was done looking at the pictures he put his head in his hands and cried. That’s why I don’t like taking those cases.

I looked at the neon Stroh’s clock above the bar and thought about having a beer. Jimmie keeps Two Hearted in one of the coolers behind the bar just for me. I really wanted a Two Hearted but I also wanted to clear my mind so I told Jimmie to make a pot of tea. The tea too he keeps around just for me. While I sipped the tea I smoked my pipe and stared out the front window. I wondered what Brewster was going to do and I hoped that whatever it was wasn’t going to be stupid. “I’m going to kill the son-of-bitch,” he said after he stopped crying. “Don’t be stupid,” I told him. “I’m going to kill them both,” he said. “No you’re not,” I told him. While I knew that Brewster wasn’t the type of man who could kill someone I thought that he was quite capable of roughing up a woman. I also thought it was a distinct possibility that he might fire a bullet into his brain. Some men just do crazy things when a woman betrays them. I know that for a fact. While I was thinking about somebody finding Brewster with a bullet in his head I saw a black Lexus pull up and park and I knew the woman who got out of that car was Samantha Lowe. I told Brewster it was time for him to leave.

Ladies & Gentleman, Mr. Harry Winston - Part 3

Who knows how he does it, but for three weeks running Steve has talked the ever-reticent, enigmatic Harry Winston into revealing more about his life. This week's installment finds Harry at Founders Brewing Co., sharing a pint or two with an especially troubled young lad. Enjoy!

No matter where I am, who I’m with, or what time I get to bed, it never takes long for me to fall asleep. While I’m waiting for sleep I use my imagination. Sometimes I place myself in a sleeping bag on a thick cushion of pine needles and I’m looking up at huge flakes of snow slowly drifting down through a high-branching canopy. Or I might be on a towering bluff listening to distant crashing waves while a full moon shines a long ribbon of shimmering light on a wide expanse of water. Other times I’m in an ink-black desert underneath a coal-black sky that is studded with millions of sparkling, blue-white diamonds. I always fall asleep that way and mostly I have pleasant dreams.

But the night Samantha Lowe called I couldn’t get my imagination to work; it took a long time to fall asleep, and when I did, I had the disturbing, reoccurring dream about the house where I lived when I was married. It’s always a cold, stormy night in the dream and I’m always trying to lock the door. I keep shutting the door and turning the latch but the door doesn’t lock. Then, when my ex-wife appears wet and shivering on the porch, the door doesn’t open.

The next morning while driving to the city I drifted back and forth between that dream and Samantha Lowe’s voice. In the bright light of the summer morning the dream, while still disturbing, seemed a little less so and the voice, while still full of complications, sounded a little less dangerous. I had a workout and a shower at the gym, picked up my mail at the post office, stopped by the police department, flirted with the female detectives, had a cup of coffee with O’Doyle, stopped by Siciliano’s for a paper and tobacco, then had breakfast at a diner on Fulton. While I ate I read the sports then went through my mail. There was a check and a nice “Thank You” note from a client, a credit card statement, the latest issues of Food and Wine and Bon Apetit, a catalog from Crouching Tiger Karate and an invitation to join ARP. On the way back to my car I threw the catalog and the ARP invitation into a trash container.

I spent the rest of the morning browsing through a used book store in East Town and that afternoon I buttoned up a case. It was the type of case I always hated working on and had stopped taking when I no longer had to worry about paying the bills. The only reason I did take it was because I felt sorry for the client, a young man, who I had met one day at Founders. I was sitting alone at the far end of the bar when I saw him wandering around the mostly empty tap room. He seemed to be looking for someone and I saw that he was a little drunk. There were unoccupied seats everywhere but he sat down next to me, studied the chalkboard like a desperate man studies a race track tote board, and ordered a Curmudgeon. When the bartender placed the tulip glass on the bar he stared at it a long time before taking a drink.

“That’s good,” he said, turning his head a little towards me.

“It is a good beer,” I said. “Pretty high alcohol.”

He gave a short laugh. “That’s why I ordered it.”

“I see.”

“You see what, friend?” There was an odd mingling of anger and melancholy in his voice.

“Nothing,” I replied. I finished off my pale, placed my mug on the inside edge of the bar and motioned for the bartender. The young man noticed the etched sobriquet.

“Gumshoe. What the hell’s a gumshoe?”

The bartender walked up. “Going to have another, Harry?”

“No, I’ve got to go.”

“What the hell’s a gumshoe?” the young man asked again.

“A private detective,” the bartender said. “Harry’s a private detective.”

“A private detective,” the young man said to himself. “A private detective,” he repeated softly. “A private detective,” he whispered a third time. “Mr. private detective, can I buy you a beer?”

I said no at first but when he said he wanted to hire me we moved to a table. While I nursed another pale he had two more Curmudgeons and I listened to his story.

Expansion Update, Volume 5.1

In lieu of a conventional update, we have for you this week a "To-Do list", which, in the chaos of construction, must have somehow slipped off the boss man's desk and into the hands of the Buzz editorial staff.

Siciliano's Expansion (West Wing Renovation) -- To Do List

1. Tear out the old kitchen ✓
2. Get rid of restaurant equipment ✓ 
3. Install new storefront ✓
4. Redo ceiling ✓
5. Learn to juggle
6. Install new tile floor ✓
7. Put up and paint new dry wall ✓
8. Rewire electric for retail needs ✓
9. Install new lighting ✓
10. Eat less fiber ✓
11. Rewire walk-in freezer for hops/yeast ✓
12. Paint new customer bathroom ✓ 
13. Forbid (male) employees from using new customer bathroom ✓
14. Order second Monster mill ✓
15. Order flour mill ✓
16. Locate whole grain & flour distributor ✓
17. Place orders for flour & grain 
18. Order new book shelves ✓
19. Order new hardware racks (for kegging equipment) ✓
20. Nap ✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓
21. Commission new counters from Grain-mill Greg ✓
22. Order honey pots for bulk liquid malt extract ✓
23. Quell employee revolt ("Let them drink beer!") ✓
24. Assemble shelves and racks ✓
25. Knock hole in wall ✓
26. Make hole in wall look nice 
27. Shake head in bewilderment at growing size of to-do list ✓
28. Feel good about progress already made ✓
29. Refuse to rest on laurels ✓ 
30. Schedule move-in date
31. Announce grand re-opening
32. Announce equipment/supply sale in conjunction with grand re-opening
33. Order German wieners and root beer keg for customers at grand re-opening
34. Book clown for grand re-opening
35. Come to senses
36. Cancel clown
37. Move homebrew operations to new west wing
38. Hold grand re-opening
39. Relax for exactly nine minutes
40. Shift focus to homebrew party, competition, and awards ceremony

Bear with us, folks, we're almost there!

The Adventures of Harry Winston - Part 2

At Steve's behest, longtime friend and Siciliano's customer Harry Winston is again today's Buzz contributor. In this week's offering, Harry recounts his first conversation with Samantha Lowe, a women it seems composed completely of contradictions.

It was two in the morning when I first heard Samantha Lowe’s voice. I had just gotten home, had just gone to bed, and had just fallen asleep when the phone rang. While I listened to the ringing I thought about another woman -- the sad, red-haired woman I had met that night at Beason’s. I thought about the wisp of hair that kept dropping down her forehead. I thought about the woman's eyes -- those emerald-green, shining pools of sadness. I thought about her full, down-turning lips and how her diamond earrings sparkled in the dim light coming from the bar. She had smiled a little when she slipped my card under the cellophane of her cigarette pack: I thought about that too, and I hoped it was her, the redhead, on the other end of the line. When I answered the phone I was disappointed to find it wasn't.

“This is Winston,” I said.

“Is this Harry Wilson?”

You may think I'm nuts but I can tell a lot about a woman from her voice. It’s a survival skill I've learned. Some survival skills have to be learned; others are just common sense. Sitting with your back to the wall is common sense. It’s common sense to be aware of someone walking behind you and watching someone’s hands when he’s walking toward you. But you have to learn how to read a woman’s voice. It’s a skill you develop. When you’re in my business knowing how to do things like that keep you alive. “Is this Harry Wilson?’” Let me tell you what I read in Samantha Lowe’s voice -- I knew that she was an angel, and a demon. That she could be the promise of heaven, or the threat of hell. That she could be kind, or she could be ruthless. Samantha Lowe’s voice told me that she was a woman who could kill.

“It’s Winston,” I said. “Harry Winston.”

“Oh. I’m looking for Harry Wilson. You’re not Harry Wilson?”

I was disappointed that the voice wasn’t the redhead’s. There were no complications in the redhead’s voice. There was sadness but no complications.

“It’s Harry Winston,” I said again.

“Harry Wilson? The private investigator?”

“All right,” I said. “What is it that I can do for you?”

“I got your name from a friend,” Samantha Lowe said.

“And you felt the need to call me at two in the morning.”

The voice was silent for a moment and I could hear the tinkling of ice cubes. “Oh, is it that late? I didn’t realize.”

“It’s that late.”

Another ice-tinkling pause and then, “Mr. Wilson, I want to hire you.”

My guts told me that whatever it was that Samantha Lowe wanted me for would be dangerous. “I’m very expensive,” I said.

“Money doesn’t matter.”

“I’m very busy right now.”

“I hear you’re very good.”

Usually I follow my instincts. I’m not afraid of danger but I don’t go looking for it. My instincts told me to tell Samantha Lowe that I wasn’t interested. Most of the time I follow those instincts. This was one of the times that I didn’t. I told Samantha Lowe that I would meet her at Beason’s the next evening.

Tune in next week to see what Samantha Lowe has in store for Harry Winston: official private eye of Siciliano's Market.

The Adventures of Harry Winston - Part 1 (Introducing Harry)

It took some doing, but Steve (the boss) finally talked longtime friend Harry Winston into recording for posterity a number of his most compelling tales. Not one to say much on any subject -- himself especially -- Winston here puts reticence aside, allowing loyal Buzz readers a rare, brief glimpse into his extraordinary life.

Before getting on to more interesting things I want to tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Winston, Harry Winston. I’m fifty-nine years old. There’s a spot toward the back of my head that my barber, DeMario, likes to show me with a hand-held mirror whenever I get a haircut. DeMario does this every time he cuts my hair and every time he does it I call him an asshole. Besides the slight balding there are other signs of age. My hair and beard are about ten years past being salt and pepper. There’s a sagging, puffy fold of skin below my right eye that used to bother the hell out of me but now whenever some asshole makes a comment about it I just say fuck it. I have a strong upper body and muscular legs but I’m carrying a little more weight than I like around the belly. Overall I’m in pretty good shape for my age and, I’m proud to say, I can still handle myself in bar fights. And that, my friend, is good, because I spend a lot of time in bars.

I like bars. I’ve always liked bars, but there are some bars I like more than others. Let me tell you what I like. I like bars with polished draught towers. I like the ones with tiered bottles of booze lined up in front of dimly lit mirrors, the ones with wooden cooler doors that make that nice hinge snapping sound when they are slammed shut. I like old bars. The ones with lots of wood -- intricately carved pillars and high shelves holding dust covered relics. The ones that have curving edges worn smooth by years of bent elbows and those that have brass foot railings and swiveling stools. And if these bars have good beer it just makes it even better. What I don’t like about bars is that sometimes I come across an asshole who wants to fight me.

I want you to know that I really don’t like fights and I don’t go around looking for them. In fact, I’ll do almost anything to stay out of one. But I will admit that the things I like doing in bars sometimes makes assholes want to fight me. I like playing pool and darts and I’m good. I’m good and I usually win because I don’t give a shit if I lose. It’s when you care about winning that you lose. I like playing for money and I usually win a lot of money because I don’t give a damn about losing. Some fights start over women. I like looking at women but sometimes the woman is with some asshole who doesn’t like me looking at her. I always try talking my way out a fight. I always tell the asshole that I don’t want to fight but if we do one of us is going to get hurt. I always look them in the eye and talk in a soft, low voice. That’s enough to get them thinking and when they start thinking they’re fucked. They’re fucked because they start thinking. I always hurt them but unless they’re trying to kill me I won’t hurt them too bad. Usually all it takes is a short, quick punch that breaks a nose and the fight’s over. Sometimes I’ll give him a snap kick to the groin. The fights you see in the movies, the ones that last for five minutes, are bullshit. When you know how to punch or hit someone he’s not getting up. I won’t hurt them bad unless they’re trying to kill me or if there is more than one coming at me. Then all bets are off. Then I might take out a knee with side thrust kick or I might break a jaw with a crescent punch or smash a wind pipe with a shuto. I’ve been in bar fights all over the world -- San Francisco, Berlin and Tokyo. In Paris and Key West. I haven’t lost one yet. I’ve been in bar fights all over the world because of my work. I’m a private detective.
 
Like what you read here? Expect more from Harry Winston on the Buzz in the weeks and months ahead.