Highway 37 revisited

Traveling north to Irons, back through memory.

By Steve Siciliano

Before the US-131 freeway ran all the way to Cadillac, north on M-37 was just about the only way to get to our family’s cabin in the woods near Irons. My dad built the cabin long before I could drive and as a young passenger I never got bored during the countless hours that we spent traveling up and down that road. I liked its rolling hills and wide sweeping curves. I never tired of looking at the old stone farm houses and decrepit barns, the moss covered dilapidated shacks and the ramshackle house trailers. I liked passing through the scattering of tiny rural communities with their ancient town halls and their solitary, yellow blinking traffic lights. I didn’t mind the slow going through the sequence of small towns—Grant, Newaygo, White Cloud and Baldwin—while driving through their M-37 stretches of shops, gas stations, hardware stores and bars.

As I grew older the affection I had for M-37 gradually turned into something closer to disdain. The roadside sights that I enjoyed looking at as a kid gradually grew ugly as the—and I—aged; the hills, curves and constantly changing speed limits, unperturbing to the young, wide-eyed passenger, became irritating impediments to the older, impatient driver. When it became possible to take the freeway all the way to Highway 10, I didn’t hesitate making traveling up and down M-37 a bittersweet memory.

Last weekend my son Chris and I took another trip to the cabin. If I had been driving I wouldn’t have taken 37. I would have instead taken the freeway north to the Reed City exit then west eighteen miles to where 10 and 37 intersect just north of Baldwin. But then I wouldn’t have had the chance to subdue the bitter and rekindle the sweet. I wouldn’t have again seen that old wooden train trestle that spans the White River just south of White Cloud. I wouldn’t have remembered the billboard that was once on the left—White Cloud, where the north begins and clear waters flow. I wouldn’t have recalled stopping at Jonses’ for ice cream cones or for huge cinnamon rolls at the Hilltop Bakery.

If I had been driving I wouldn’t have remembered and then told Chris about all of the times stopping in all of the bars—about how my dad, his grandfather, once locked the owner of Government Lake in the basement and about how tough a joint Kalley’s was. Still trapped in memory would be the chain-smoking barmaid who told me I couldn’t smoke my pipe in her Baldwin tavern; same too for the regulars at Diamond Lake where my brother Mark and I spent a snowy afternoon drinking and playing pool. If I had been driving we wouldn’t have stopped in that run-down White Cloud tavern, would not have seen the sad-eyed barmaid or talked with the one-armed, scraggly-bearded fellow who was sitting by himself at the bar.

That night I thought about that sad-eyed barmaid and the one-armed drunk while we were sitting around the camp fire. Above us the sliver of a crescent moon peeked through the barren branches of the late blooming oaks and to the west a bright planet dazzled like a diamond in a blue-black sky. When Chris handed me the bottle of Bulliet Rye I took a long swig, thought about the drive up 37, and added to my collection of memories.

Road Trip: Poe's Tavern

Another entry in the bossman's travelogue, this one on the topic of—you guessed it—bars. We're beginning to see a pattern here.

By Steve Siciliano

During our vacation in South Carolina’s Low Country we spent a few days investigating several of the Sea Islands that lie off the coast. The natural beauty of the salt marshes, dunes and shell-covered beaches was a nice counterbalance to our excursions into Charleston and Savannah. If we happened to stumble upon a good bar, a lighthouse, or a historical location it was a serendipitous bonus.

On Sullivan’s Island we un-expectantly found and then explored Fort Moultrie. Built in 1776 to protect the port of Charleston, it was the site of battles during the Revolutionary and Civil Wars. The fort also was where a young artillery sergeant and unknown writer named Edgar Allen Poe had been stationed in the early 1800’s. A few miles away from the fort in the beach town of Sullivan’s Island we stopped at a bar that is honoring Poe’s literary legacy.

I have a slight antipathy for bars that feed off the fame of dead writers. Sloppy Joe’s in Key West and the Floridita in Havana, both favorite Hemingway haunts, are nice enough places if you enjoy hanging out with like-minded tourists. I've been to both, have enjoyed perusing their framed Hemingway memorabilia and even had my picture taken with the life-size statue of Papa leaning against the bar in the Floridita. But because they have morphed from idiosyncratic watering holes into commercial shrines I have no desire to return to either. Nor, I suspect, would Hemingway.

Poe’s Tavern somehow succeeds at avoiding this. Despite the restroom walls that are plastered with pages from Poe’s works, despite an eerie portrait of the famous writer painted on the brick fireplace, despite the fact that menu items are named after his poems and short stories, the tavern seems to be a tribute to Poe’s genius more than an exploitation of his fame. And while I’m sure that a good percentage of the tavern‘s clientele is comprised of tourists, I have no doubt that its popularity is due more to the excellent food and solid beer list.

We liked the food and beer so much that we returned two days later. I don’t think Hemingway today would be comfortable having a drink at Sloppy Joe’s or the Floridita. But I can easily imagine an intense fellow with haunting eyes sitting alone at a table in Poe’s, having a pint, and penning a horrifying tale.

Road Trip: South Carolina Low Country

The boss' recent road trip down South confirms our suspicion—the best part of any vacation is the chance to drink in bars you've never been to.

One of the many beers
from the boss' recent road trip

By Steve Siciliano

I have to admit, as much sightseeing as we did during our recent visit to the South Carolina Low Country around Charleston, we probably spent an equal amount of time just hanging out in bars. That’s certainly not a bad thing. When I travel I enjoy exploring an area’s museums and historical locations and being awed by its natural and man-made wonders. But I also like getting glimpses into the lives of the people who live and work in the locales where I’m sojourning. What better way to do this than by rubbing elbows with them in the local watering holes.

Case in point. If we didn’t stop for a beer in a dilapidated bar on John’s Island we would not have heard the bartender’s frightening story about how she and her family failed to evacuate in time and had to ride out Hurricane Hugo. I would not have seen the terror in her eyes nor heard the fear in her voice, still there despite the fact that Hugo hit in 1989. Nor would we have heard from another bartender in a bar on Saint Helena about how the local shrimpers, themselves struggling to make a living, passed around the hat one night and sent a donation to the victims of Katrina.

If we weren’t at a bar on Folly Beach one evening I could not have listened to the transplanted retiree who had been walking his dog tell me how he was having a hard time selling his home in New York and then his complaints about the taxes and leash laws on Folly Island. If we weren’t at a dive bar one afternoon I wouldn’t have watched two local women chain smoke while playing the video poker machine nor would have I heard their loud argument about which bar in town served the best burgers.

And finally, if we didn’t go to a touristy pub on Sullivan’s Island I wouldn’t have gotten a bit of wisdom from the laid-back bartender: “Us folks here in the South start the morning off slow,” he said. “And then we taper off the rest of the day.”

Road Trip: Savannah, Georgia

Moon River Brewing Coast IPA

Steve and Barb are currently vacationing with their friends Pat and Marcie MacAulay in Georgia and South Carolina.

By Steve Siciliano

It is said that Savannah, Georgia is the most haunted city in America. I don’t know about that but I do know it’s a must-see for anyone with a penchant for American history and an affinity for 18th- and 19th-century architecture. A solid brewpub , impeccably fresh seafood, massive live oaks draped with flowing, hoary strands of Spanish moss and a famous, hauntingly beautiful cemetery made our visit to this intriguing Southern city all the more enjoyable.

After checking into the Bohemian Hotel, a recently renovated property located in the heart of Savannah’s river district, we walked across the street to the Moon River Brewing Company. Moon River’s taproom and brewing facility are located in one of the historical downtown buildings that allegedly have frequent ghost sightings. If Moon River’s location is indeed haunted the resident ghosts are not negatively impacting the quality of the beer. I had the Wild Whacky Wit, a traditional Belgian wheat spiced with orange peel and coriander, and the Apparition Ale, the brewery’s interpretation of the classic English pale. Both were excellent.

The beer whetted our appetites but before looking for a seafood restaurant we decided to have a drink at the Bohemian’s rooftop bar. I’m quite sure that Savannah native Johnny Mercer had the Savannah River in mind when he wrote the lyrics for Moon River (hear Sinatra's version here). While we gazed down at the wider-than-a-mile river and at the majestic span of the Talmadge Memorial Bridge rising high in the distance, a huge cargo ship slowly made its way upriver.

The next morning we explored the Savannah Historic District. Roughly corresponding to what the city’s boundaries were before the Civil War, the district contains twenty-two park-like squares that were planted back in the 19th century with the now massive, wide-branching live oaks. The squares are dotted with statues, monuments and historical markers and are surrounded by stately old churches and Victorian homes—an incredible experience for someone who loves eclectic architecture and American history.

On the way out of the city we stopped at the Bonaventure Cemetery which was made famous by the John Berendt book and the Clint Eastwood directed movie Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. A steady rain had begun falling which further enhanced the eerie, melancholic atmosphere. It was probably just the breeze moving low-hanging strands of Spanish moss, but while we were driving out the cemetery gates I could have sworn I saw somebody waving goodbye to us from behind a mausoleum.

A Carolina roadtrip

John Barecki's first contribution to the Buzz just might land him a job with the North Carolina tourism board.

John (left) with the owner of Sam's Quick Shop,
a craft-beer destination in Durham, NC

By John Barecki

During the 1st through the 6th of November, 2011, I was lucky enough to travel down to North Carolina with my girlfriend to visit my sister and her family in Raleigh and our beer brothers in the South. The trip down through Ohio and the Virginia’s was full of fall beauty, with mountains appearing as warm blankets of red and yellow, eventually turning back to green the closer we came to the Atlantic coast. While there, we decided to head to downtown Wilmington, NC, where David Lynch filmed most of Blue Velvet. After perusing the little shops we came to Front Street Brewery, a cozy wood-laden seating and bar area similar to most of the Ionia Avenue bars here in Grand Rapids.

Operating on a 600-bbl capacity system Front Street puts out four flagship ales and three to four special releases, all of which are very drinkable. We were able to try the newest special release, a black-as-night coffee stout with superb smoothness and amazing notes of java. It was definitely one of the best I have had in that style. After a nice flight-sampling of everything else on tap we enjoyed fresh-from-the-coast crab cakes and grilled fish tacos that were both top notch.

Front Street, Wilmington, NC

The following day I decided to see who else provides the community with life-giving liquids (aka beer)—call it my obligation as a Siciliano's employee. We drove to Sam's Quik Shop in Durham, only 25 minutes northeast of Raleigh and not far from Duke University's campus. Arriving at what looked like an old supermarket from the 1970's I wondered what treasures I might find within. Inside there were several shelves stacked floor to ceiling with beers from all over the place. There were also cold beverages in the coolers, a selection of glass wear, and North Carolina wines and meads.

Looking at Sam's was like looking into a mirror version of Siciliano's, minus the brewing equipment. As I chatted with the owner I found out that they have been selling so much Bell's and Founder's that they can't get it fast enough. (It's always good to see our hometown suds doing so well in other places.) I was able to pick up most of the well-known Carolina craft brews such as Duck-Rabbit, Mother Earth Brewing, and Carolina Brewing Co. They also have several non-Carolina breweries which are still unavailable to us in the North, some prized Belgian's, for example, and a nice bomber selection. In general, Sam's Quick Shop is one of those rare finds you wouldn't think would hold such a nice selection. We were pleasantly surprised by the friendly staff and great prices, and I recommend stopping by if you're ever near Durham.

Another shot of Sam's Quick Shop
(notice what the customer is carrying)

Coming to the close of our journey we decided to hit the local farmer's market. We found a lot of local goodies: pecans, beans, and peanuts, all in season, and fresh made bread and local honey. We then headed into downtown Raleigh to a well-known taphouse called The Flying Saucer Draught Emporium. This franchise runs from Texas to North Carolina, all with a large selection of draft-handles and bottles to choose from. We enjoyed a couple pints of Sweet Water 420 Extra Pale Ale, some Carolina Brewing Co. and had some lunch from their small but satisfying menu. I had a tasty sandwich consisting of salmon lox, capers, jalapeno-pesto cream cheese and red onion. It was exceptional. We capped off the night with a round of disc golf at a local park, some great food and good company.

Overall, this trip is in my top ten places to see and experience. We met some really cool people, saw the beauty of the mid-Atlantic coast and experienced some high-quality "liquid" Southern hospitality. I highly recommend taking a trip down South, first for the scenery and second for the variety of places that will entice all of your senses.

Gone to grape

Several varieties of wine grapes are still available for purchase from Taylor Ridge Vineyards. Trust us, it's worth the trip.

Chardonnay*

By Steve Siciliano

Yesterday afternoon Barb and I made a quick trip to Taylor Ridge Vineyards in Allegan to pick up a load of grapes. I always enjoy our annual September visits down to the heart of southwest Michigan’s wine country. The leaves on the trees lining the two-lane roads are on the cusp of their fall foliage and the expanses of brown-turning corn fields surrounding the faded red barns and old farm houses are still pretty to look at. Yesterday’s sky added another dimension to the experience. It was an interesting sky—low banks of purple clouds moving fast under their high-billowing cumulus counterparts. There were occasional bursts of sunlight and brief glimpses of the blue sky. Every so often a brief downpour necessitated turning the windshield wipers on high. A minute and mile later the pavement would be dry.

One of those rain showers hit while we were loading up the grapes. Brian Taylor, the seventy-three-year-old farmer who owns the vineyard with his wife, Carol, looked up at the sky and grimaced. Rain is never good during the harvest—it can water down the juice and lower acidity. But many years of harvesting have taught Brian that since the weather can’t be controlled, it's best to go with the flow.

Brian told me that he still has some Foch, Dechaunac, Frontenac, Seyval and Lacrosse available for purchase and that he will offer a discount to anyone who mentions that they are a Siciliano’s customer. I picked up ninety pounds each of hybrids that grow well in Michigan—Noiret and Leon Millot. The ninety pounds of each will translate into six gallons of wine, twelve gallons total. I have no experience with the latter but according to Brian it will produce a wine with a distinct berry aroma.

On the way home I thought briefly about stopping at a couple of bars in Allegan’s quaint and historic downtown. But there was pressing business waiting for me at the store and Barb had to get to her stained glass class. Maybe we’ll come back during one of Allegan’s infamous lake-effect snow storms. I’m sure wine country is also beautiful in the winter.

*Unfortunately Taylor Ridge is sold out of Chardonnay for the year. The grapes pictured belong to Buzz contributor Wes Eaton, a talented winemaker in his own right, who had the boss pick them up on his recent trip to Allegan.

Bortell's: West Michigan's roadside fish fry

Need an excuse to get out of town for the afternoon? Buzz contributor Tim Chilcote has a good one for you. It involves Vernors and fried fish, which are, as everyone knows, hallmarks of any successful road trip.

If you like seafood, search for the fish-shaped sign on South Lakeshore Drive. From the Oceana Drive exit off US 31 in Pentwater, turn right on Lakeshore Drive and follow the winding lakeside road toward Ludington. Drive past the vacation cabins and beach mansions. When the road comes around a final wooded curve—just before the tree canopy lifts and the asphalt flattens—there, across from a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, is the sign. It reads simply, "Fish."

Thirty yards north of the sign you'll find Bortell’s Fisheries, a square cinder block building that’s home to some of west Michigan’s best seafood. Bortell’s has been in business for six generations, since 1898 when Uriah Bortell first put fish to fryer. Six generations of Germans later, the Bortell family continues to run a tidy, utilitarian ship.

The outside of the building is brightly painted in a modern fish décor, but the inside retains the old-world, rustic feel you might expect from a rural fishmonger. The room is crowded by a glass cooler that takes up half the space. Behind the cooler, a deep fryer and a bare-bones menu on the wall. To the left is a small glass refrigerator for pop, and on the front wall, wood slat paneling adorned with historic photos of the building and its family.

Fish are available fresh or prepared, à la carte or dinners with French fries and coleslaw. Menu items include walleye, whitefish, and a variety of local and imported seafood. I recommend the perch dinner for $13.60: half pound of lake perch, half pound of fries, and a half cup of slaw, plus a Vernors ginger ale for good measure. The perch is some of the finest I’ve ever tasted—lightly breaded and übber fresh. Forget tartar sauce, forget lemon, forget salt; the fish is it—crisp on the outside, buttery and flaky on the inside.

Two dining options: To-go, or at outdoor picnic tables. For cooked food, the tables work just fine, and even in rain they’re covered with sizeable umbrellas. For hours of operation, an approximation of lunch to dusk seems about right. Open through Labor Day. 5528 S. Lakeshore Dr., Ludington, Michigan, 231-843-3337. *A version of this post originally appeared on Tim's blog, Great Lakes Guru, on July 13, 2010.

Tim Chilcote is a writer, editor, teacher, and Michigan enthusiast. Though he lives with his wife and bulldog in Ann Arbor, he is a Muskegon native and frequent visitor to Michigan's more western climes. You can often find him standing near signs and billboards fashioned to resemble his favorite state's tastiest native species.

Swig & Chug at the Crystal Mt. Beer & Brat Fest, 2011

One fine brat

By Greg 'Swig' Johnson

This is not the first nor will it be the last adventure of Swig and Chug, the two self-proclaimed beer-seeking adventurers of Siciliano's Market. Just in case you may not be familiar with us, we are Greg “Swig” Johnson and Doug “the Chug” Dorda -- we love good beer and everything it stands for, and we love beer-themed events just as much, the Crystal Mountain Beer and Brat Festival being one good example.

After its sixth year, the Crystal Mountain Beer and Brat festival has become a red-letter day for people who love the marriage of beer and food. While beer can be paired with just any food dish, it's at its best it seems when paired with the tastiest specialty brats north of the Mason-Dixon Line (courtesy of several Michigan meat markets). Both food and beer require equal amounts of ingenuity and persistence, and with a full understanding of ingredients, even the simplest (brews or brats) can be an astounding experience.

Cheers, boys. Cheers.

Now, I am lucky that my family has held onto a sizable chuck of land that was once my great-grandparents farm some twenty miles away from the Crystal Mountain Resort that allows us not only easy access to the fest, but also a great isolated area to enjoy ourselves afterwards. We get to camp, burn wood, eat food, and also drink beer with little to no consequence.

The trip began with myself, Chug, and four other friends seeking adventure and beer enlightenment. Leaving Grand Rapids in the early morning we reached Manistee and north of it at a respectable time, enough to set up camp, come to terms with the not-so-great weather we were experiencing that day, and shoot off some pistols before we started drinking.

The scene

After running into town to pick up a new tree saw and mull, we made our way up to Crystal Mountain for the fest. Overestimating the time it would take us to arrive we actually ended up being the first people in line. This wasn't exactly our intention, but we were quite happy with the situation. The weather at that time was quite a let down, cold, windy, and cloudy. However, this didn't hamper our spirits. After helping the staff hold down the canopies and collecting will-call tickets that started to blow off into the wind, we were soon released into the world of craft beers and brats.

I won't lie, for the most part the beers offered at Beer & Brat fest are not anything you haven't had off the shelf or tap already; it seems this event is more oriented at getting the golf & newbie crowd to experience good beer, which in that respect is just fine by me. Where this fest really shines is it's brat offerings. The brats ranged all over the place in terms of originality. I had a brat made with morel mushrooms, for example, another with asparagus and white cheddar, and finally a brat made with venison, cheese, jalapeno, & onion (my favorite). Chug tried some other ones as well and, if you ask him, I'm sure he'll indulge your senses with how those brats tasted (they all sounded awesome).

This way to the port-a-potty

Brats aside and despite a beer selection that isn't exactly beer-geek exciting, there were many awesome beers on tap. To me, The Livery and Right Brain stood out, specifically the asparagus beer from Right Brain. To be honest, I was hesitant about tasting this beer -- I love asparagus, I love beer, and drinking beer while eating asparagus has happened many times in my life, but I was unsure how the two would meld together into a single beverage. Damn was I shocked. The asparagus beer was one of the best I tasted that day. It possessed none of the vegetal characteristics that I was expecting while being incredibly earthy and refreshing. Also, if I may be so bold, the asparagus quality transferred over to the urinary aspects.

The Crystal Mountain Beer & Brat Festival is definitely a worth-while venture for a Memorial Day weekend. It's a bit more relaxed than your normal beer fest, allowing children to enter (they also serve sodas) with plenty of seating area. We stayed for about four of the seven hours it was open before heading back down to our camping spot where we burned a lot of wood, drank a lot of Black Label, and ate hobo dinners. The next day we disced [disc golfed] in Whitehall and drifted around West Michigan before eventually heading home. All in all, it was a great beer weekend spent with with people who appreciate good beer and good (safe) times. I would recommend stopping in at this event to anyone who can make it during the Memorial Day weekend. Also, some friends rode the luge down at the end of day, which was entertaining.

The original TV

Siciliano's staffer Greg 'Swig' Johnson lives in Grand Rapids, MI, though if there's some kind of beer- or brat-related festival happening anywhere within a 500-mile radius, you will probably find him there instead.

Photo essay, road trip to SW Michigan

By Chris Siciliano

For weeks now this editor has done little else but carry on about Siciliano's forthcoming grain & flour department. Until recently I haven't had much in the way of tangible news to report. That all changed last Friday when the new flour mill arrived. Today I'm happy to relay even more good news -- we currently have sitting in the warehouse (though not yet for sale) several hundred pounds of whole grains, seeds, salt, sugar and flours.

The product arrived in-store Tuesday evening, not by UPS or FedEx delivery, but thanks instead to an intrepid crew of Siciliano associates who sacrificed their afternoon to secure the goods in person from a distributor in Southwest Michigan. And when I write "sacrificed the afternoon", I mean of course "barhopped all the way home". What can we say? At Siciliano's, even a bag of flour is just cause for celebration.

For photo highlights from the trip, please keep reading.

First stop: The Pullman Tavern (Pullman, MI). Here the fearless crew sampled this year's Oberon under the watchful gaze of (1) an actual Tyrannosaurus Rex; and (2) a misty temptress from times long-past.

Next time you're in Pullman, it's worth stopping in

An actual T-Rex eating an actual human hand

Oberon - the first sign of Spring...still waiting on Spring

Authentically Kraeusened - says so right on the label

The patriarch

The legendary temptress of Pullman

Second stop: Clementines (South Haven, MI). Wherein the crew enjoyed a mystery porter, admired a intricately-carved wooden eagle, sampled a previously unknown (to them) Michigan cider.

The intrepid crew

A pleasant discovery

Every bar should have one

Cheetah in the mirror

Mystery porter

So awesome it deserves a second look

Third Stop: The Thirsty Perch (South Haven, MI). Wherein the crew dined on many delectable fishes, and chicken wings.

Not to be confused with the Parched Perch, which is
a completely different restaurant

Circle of life, little perch, circle of life

Fourth stop: Saugatuck Brewing Co. (Saugatuck, MI). The crew was impressed by the quality of beer -- it's a brewery definitely worth the visit.

Great place for a pint

On-premise brewing

Brew kettles and such

Fifth & final stop: Siciliano's Market warehouse. Special thanks to the bossman Steve for getting everybody home safely (he's always the responsible one).

Product piled high in Siciliano's warehouse

Look for Siciliano's new flour/baking department to be up and running soon!

Memorable meals: aboard Amtrak 370, the Pere Marquette

By Chris Siciliano

At precisely 5:20pm on a Tuesday afternoon, Amtrack 370, the Pere Marquette, with service from Chicago to Grand Rapids, pulled away from Union Station. An hour later, as we rolled past the rusted-out, starkly beautiful landscape near Gary, Indiana, Gena and I unpacked the various foodstuffs collected that afternoon in downtown Chicago. The meal, arranged haphazardly on the fold-down trays in front of us, included these tasty tidbits:

• A small container of Tuscan bean salad in pesto dressing and a good chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano, both purchased at the small Italian eatery across from our hotel.
• A generous wedge of rustic bread, which the counter lady at a Belgian bakery sliced from what had been, earlier in the day, an enormous 4- or 5-lb loaf. By the time I got there, only a quarter of the loaf remained, and I took half of that.
• An olive medley from a gourmet shop in Old Town. This place had bread for sale as well -- good-looking baguettes with excellent caramel color -- but I resisted the bread here in order to visit as many different food shops as possible.

(Included on this list should have been two cans of Wisconsin-brewed Simpler Times Pilsner, which, for the money, is a surprisingly fresh and flavorful beer. In my haste to check out on time, however, I left them in our hotel room's mini fridge. Hopefully the maid enjoyed the beer just as much as we would have.)

If it seems a simple meal, that's because it was, made memorable for precisely that reason: simplicity. Ripping chunks from the crusty bread to use in lieu of silverware; popping olives one by one into our mouths, not knowing exactly where to put the pits; breaking chunks from the hard, crystalline cheese with our fingers -- it doesn't get more basic. Nor does it get much better. I'd be lying to say the train itself did not add tremendously to the experience.

Why is it this relatively short ride from Chi-town to hometown filled me with such nostalgia? Considering how few times I've traveled by train in my life, and how long ago (ten years or more), you'd think the experience for me would be a novel one. Instead the ride felt oddly familiar and even comforting, as if the trip is one I often make, which, of course, is not the case at all. 

When my grandmother was a girl, she and her sisters and their father went to Detroit each year to watch the Tigers play. When they went, they went by train. She tells the story sometimes and I think my train-related deja vu exists as a direct result of it (her story) and others like it. Much has changed since my grandmother's day, and though the rate of change only accelerates, there remain certain important touchstones between then and now, the train being one of them. Unhurried yet unrelenting, it plods across the land with the same insistent, steady rhythm that it plods across both time and our imaginations.

A welcome answer to the frenetic pace of life today, traveling by train not only connects us to the past, it allows us to slow down and enjoy the simplest of things, a meal of good bread, cheese and olives most of all.

View from the train: pickle vats, Bangor, MI

Goose Island, Honker's ale, Chi-town's own

Our first stop

Don't care who you are, that's impressive

City at night

Chris Siciliano is a writer, teacher, and managing editor of the Buzz. He lives in Grand Rapids, MI, the last stop for the Pere Marquette departing from Chicago. All photos courtesy of Gena Max.

Man's Weekend

By Chris Siciliano

On a Friday in February, 2011, fifteen men traveled up US-131 and converged for a two-night stay in a cottage not far from the Croton Hardy dam. The occasion was the third annual “Man’s Weekend”, a late-winter retreat for the beard-growing members of our species only. Those familiar with the hallowed tradition of camp de la deer (deer camp) would undoubtedly recognize several overlaps between it and our group’s private holiday: whiskey, cards, food, and farting were all in abundance, interrupted only for a few short hours Saturday, when half the company strapped on snowshoes to venture out into the forest, blazing trails through the snow where previously there were none. Even then we had beer with us, and good one’s at that, two bottles of cellar-aged Kentucky Bourbon Stout, which we passed from man to man while gazing out at the frozen surface of Hardy Pond.

Man’s Weekend. Those who might be offended that such a thing exists, rest assured: misogyny this ain’t. Besides a beard and beer gut, all who attend have at least one trait in common, great love and respect for the women in our lives (go ahead, ask them). The fact is an event like Man’s Weekend is a deeply necessary thing, the kind of relief valve hardworking folks need this day and age. At its core, it’s nothing more than a chance to cut loose for a few short days, to drink beer and BS with the boys, to smoke cigars, to suck down bacon, to tell stories, to tromp around the woods, to stand around fires, to sit at poker tables, to curse and carry on in the exact way frowned upon—with good reason—by polite society. Without Man’s Weekend, without deer camp, without the man cave, without the fantasy football league, without whatever it is you and your friends do to stay sane (men and women both), who knows from where and how else that relief would come.

Highlighting specific incidents from man’s weekend is unnecessary—it’s just not that interesting to people who were not there. However, we can and should for reasons of posterity recount the food and drink, cataloging the tasty vittles and suds so that the bearded generations to come might know how to continue this tradition.

Kraut, meat, bread

Dinner Friday included six full pounds of kielbasa from Lewandowski’s Market, boiled first then roasted in the oven. We then sautéed 1.5 quarts of sauerkraut in olive oil, adding a pinch of sugar and maybe a little salt too. Though the sauerkraut was my contribution—I fermented it myself it over a period of months—my father, Steve (the boss), took control of its preparation. Whatever he did he did it well. The kraut was the best I ever had, with a touch of sweetness to take the edge off the otherwise pleasing sour tang.

Along with the kraut and kielbasa we ate thick slices of homemade sourdough wheat bread and washed it all down with many pints of beer, either Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale or Founders Endurance, both poured from icy-cold 1/6 barrel kegs (5.16 gallons) that we set outside in the snow. The beers were the perfect accompaniment for this kind of hearty meal. Though the Endurance was sharper and lighter than its maltier counterpart, each showed the necessary hop backbone to cut through the fatty richness of the kielbasa.

On Saturday, when we woke up hungry, former Siciliano’s employee Tommy Huizing took control of the kitchen, whipping up a classic breakfast of flapjacks, bacon, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes. I sliced and toasted a loaf of my cheddar-jalapeno sourdough, which normally receives high praise. This morning however my old standby was overshadowed by a new invention—the Man’s Weekend breakfast taco. Former Siciliano’s employee Wes Eaton caught the wind of divine inspiration when he wrapped one of Tommy’s famous flapjacks around a strip of bacon and some banana. Liberally doused with home-rendered maple syrup, this hand-held delight proved to be one of the more remarkable culinary moments of the weekend. The salty, crispy bacon both tempered the syrup's sweetness and  complemented the soft "give" of the banana. Trust me, this is something you'll want to try—the result is true perfection.

Proof of the divine

Before breakfast was on the table, Wes was already making dinner—a venison roast that would slow cook for hours with various root vegetables until all individual components melded into a singular, fantastically earthy taste. When it was finally time to eat, the meat and veggies were so tender you could cut them with a spoon. The natural juicy drippings were rich and satisfying, especially when sopped up with yet more slices of homemade whole wheat sourdough.

As if that wasn’t enough, there were two huge pots of soup simmering all day on the stove. The first was Grandpa Sam's exceptional take on minestrone, a beefy, big-bodied alternative to the all-veggie version that did not disappoint. The second was a smoky, fiery jambalaya with loads of chilpolte peppers. This dish had heat to it, and not a little, and it made for a great excuse to return often to the third and final beer on tap: Founders Harvest Ale.

By Sunday we had all had our fill and it was time to put the wraps on another successful Man’s Weekend. We cleaned the cottage, collected our things, and said our goodbyes, slightly sad to be leaving, but ready too for real life again. Man’s weekend is long enough.

Cheers!

Special Thanks

To Kyle Dood for the Founders sixtels and maple syrup, to host Steve Siciliano for the Celebration Ale, to Greg 'Swig' Johnson for the kielbasa, to Doug, John, and Zack for the Jambalaya, to Jason 'the vet' Chudy for the roasted corn, to Wes for the venison, to Larry for teaching Wes to hunt, to Tommy and Brandon for breakfast, to Alex for the KBS, to Mark for the Stella Artois (Stella!), to Grandpa Sam for the soup and for refilling all our beers.

Chris "The Perch" Siciliano is a writer, teacher, and the managing editor of The Buzz. Recently he relocated to Grand Rapids with his fiance, Gena. Chris would like to apologize to all attendees of Man's Weekend he did not mention here by name. Likewise, he would like to apologize to all attendees of Man's Weekend mentioned here by name. He can be reached at cjsiciliano@gmail.com.

The old man's day out, Part III

In the third and final installment, Steve & company eat fried chicken gizzards, they run into friends at Brewery Vivant, they eventually make it home in one piece...almost. (To read the first and second installments go here and here, respectively.)

I think the Road House is the name of the next bar we hit, and I think the road on which it sits is M43. I’m not really sure of either. The beautiful thing about road trips is that, while you might not know where you are at the moment, rarely are you ever completely and hopelessly lost. I knew we were heading west and I knew that anytime I wanted I could take a right at some crossroads and eventually find the freeway. But sometimes it feels good to be a little lost. Too often our lives are overly regimented—we always seem to be dragging the past with one step and entering the future with the next. Too often we forget about living in the present. Sometimes it’s good to have no clear destination. That’s why I like road trips.

Whatever its name, that bar was a good one. We drank PBRs out of cans. We ate salted peanuts out of cellophane bags. We sat suspended in time, not worrying about the past, not looking toward the future, enjoying for a while the peace-filled present.

Sam Up North, in his element

Sam had a long conversation with the fellow sitting at the bar next to him. I think this fellow was a farmer but I really don’t know what they talked about. I think Sam bought him a drink or two. It felt good to be sitting in an unfamiliar place, my wife at my side, my eighty-year-old dad enjoying himself, my future nothing more than the cold can of PBR sitting on the bar in front of me.

I don’t know how long we were there. It might have been an hour, it might have been two. When we were back in the car heading west again Sam got a little edgy.

“Where in the hell are we?”

“Don’t know, pop,”

“Are we lost?”

“Maybe a little.”

At the next crossroads there was a sign indicating that a place called Sunfield was somewhere to the right. “All right,” I said aloud. “Next stop Sunfield”

We drove north for a few minutes then saw another sign. I turned right again and saw huge grain silos rising over a small cluster of store fronts. In that cluster was a bar.

It was another good bar but I can’t tell you much about it. When you're existing in the present moment it's easy to ignore your senses. I know that I drank High Life out of long neck bottles. I can't tell you what Barb and Sam drank. I know we spent a good amount of time there but I can't tell you how long. I know that we talked to the friendly bartender, that we ordered and ate deep fried pickles and jalapenos, that they tasted wonderful and that just as we were leaving the bartender told us we should come back sometime for dinner. I decided to look at the menu again and another appetizer caught my eye—deep fired chicken gizzards.

“Hey pop, they have gizzards.

“Boy that sounds good.”

We ordered another beer and ten minutes later a huge plate of gizzards was sitting before us. They too tasted wonderful.

When we were back in the car I headed north, found the freeway, and parked on the side of the road. My fellow travelers looked at me. “I need a nap,” I said.

One of the things I love about Barb is that she always has my back. She wouldn't be much help in a bar fight but she's always willing to drive when I get sleepy. She got in the driver's seat and both Sam and I fell asleep.

When I woke I saw the bright lights of the freeway. “Get off at Fuller,” I said.

“Why?”

“Let's take the old man to Vivant.

Sam hadn't been to Brewery Vivant even though his grandson, Jacob Derylo, is the head brewer. He woke up just as Barb was parking.

“Where are we?”

“Brewery Vivant,” I said.

“Where Jacob works?”

“Yup.”

“I'll be damned.”

Barb helped Sam out of the car and held his arm so he wouldn't slip on the icy sidewalk. Inside it was packed. There were no empty tables and there was no place to sit at the bar. We stood for a few minutes and just as I was ready to suggest that we leave the bartender got my attention.

“Dude down there wants to buy you guys a drink.”

I looked to where he was pointing and saw a young man wave at me. I had no idea who he was. I ordered the IPA for myself and Barb and a Farmhand for Sam. A few minutes later a man and a woman got up to leave and the man came over to Sam. “Sit down,” the man said.

Barb said she would stand so I sat next to my dad at the bar. A woman walked over and began talking to Barb. It was Kim, one of the Brewers On The Lake, a local homebrew club. She was with Brian, her husband, and Scott, another BOTL member. While Kim and Barb talked I walked over to their table.

“We just left your store,” Brian said. “I spent a lot of money.”

"God bless you," I said, jokingly.

“This is my wife,” said Scott.

“Pleased to meet you.”

When I made my way back to the bar Barb was sitting next to Sam. “Steve, I like this beer,” Sam said.

“Good for you, pop.”

I looked around the packed pub. It felt good to know all the people were enjoying my nephew Jacob's beer. I was proud of Jake. He had worked at the store during the lean years and was there when we first started selling beer- and wine-making supplies. I like telling people that I taught Jake everything he knows about brewing. It's a lie, of course, but I figure it's not really a lie when the person knows you are bullshitting. While I was feeling proud of Jake I heard a loud shout coming from my dad. “Heeyyy!”

I turned and saw my brother, Mark, his wife Barb, and Jeff and Robin Boorsma.

We left after a few more beers. I carefully made my way from the East side of Grand Rapids to the West. When I parked in front of Sam's house I helped him out of the car. I took hold of his arm but as we were walking on the sidewalk he slipped and fell face first into a snowbank.

“Are you okay, pop?”

“Hell yes,” he answered.

I walked with him into the house. My mother was watching television. “Where have you guys been?” she asked. And then, “Oh, Sam.”

I looked at my dad. He was bleeding from a cut on his nose. It was a small cut, not more than a scratch. Yet in the days ahead, on the mornings he worked at Siciliano's, it often reminded me of our trip to Lansing, and I couldn't help but smile.

The old man's day out, Part II

In the second installment of a three-part series, Steve & company drink beer in Grand Ledge. Steve explains his love for dive bars; Sam makes a new friend. (To read the first installment, click here.)

I like dive bars. Don’t get me wrong. I like classy bars too—the ones with polished wood and gleaming tap towers and the appropriate glassware for a barrel-aged barlywine, or a German heffe or a Belgian triple. But there’s something about sitting in a dive drinking watered-down American pilsners. If the beer you drink is out of aluminum cans or long necks bottles it makes it even better. I like hearing the hard crack of pool balls and listening to country music playing on ancient juke boxes. I like the faded tile and wooden floors, the dusty wall signs and the bar tops worn smooth by years of resting elbows. I like the long, trough-like urinals in the rest rooms, the smell of greasy hamburgers frying on back-bar grills, the packages of Slim Jims, the hanging bags of salted peanuts, pretzels and pork rinds, and the huge jars of pickled pigs’ feet, hard-boiled eggs and ring baloney. I like meeting the people in these bars. I like listening to their stories.

The first bar we hit that day was not a dive. Sometimes you can tell that a bar is a dive from the outside. Sometimes you can’t. The bar we went into on the downtown main street in Grand Ledge is one that you can’t. It’s a good bar but it’s not a dive. I was disappointed by the varnished log walls, the carpeted floor and the classic rock songs piped through speakers in the ceiling. No one was sitting on the padded stools. An aloof bartender walked up and asked if we wanted menus.

“We’re just here to drink,” I said. What’s on tap?”

“Bud, Bud Light, Busch, Amber Bock and MBC Pale.”

“I’ll have the pale.”

“Make it two,” said Barb.

“Make it three,” said my dad.

Sam will drink a craft beer but it’s not what he prefers. He prefers the watery pilsners. All those watery American pilsners except for Bud anyway. I have heard him say more than once that he doesn’t like Bud. I have often wondered what it was about Budweiser that he doesn’t like. Someday I’ll have to ask him. Whenever he drinks a craft beer he always says the same thing. “It’s good, but it’s heavy,”

Sam at wedding

When he finished his beer our glasses were still half full. He took out his thick wallet. “Let’s have another,” he said.

“Put your money away, pop. We need to pace ourselves.”

“Bullshit. I want to buy you guys a beer.”

“Okay, pop.”

We drank the second beer and when we left the bartender didn’t say goodbye.

The second place was also on the town’s downtown main street. This one turned out to be a dive and I was pleased. Every stool was occupied. There was a wooden floor and heads of dead animals on the walls. We sat at a table and after a minute I walked up to the bar.

“Sorry,” the bartender said. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“It’s okay. What’s on tap?”

“Coors, Bells Best Brown and Blue Moon.”

I couldn’t pass up the Best Brown. “Two Best Browns and a blue Moon.”

“This is good,” Sam said after taking a sip of his beer. “What is it?”

“Blue Moon,” I said.

“I like this.”

“I’m glad, pop.”

An old timer got up and shuffled over to the juke box. A few moments later we heard Hank Williams wailing about someone’s cheating heart. “Good choice!” my old man shouted after the man had sat back down. The old timer smiled. Sam got up and for a few minutes stood talking with the man at the bar. “I bought him a drink,” he said after he sat back down. I smiled while listening to Patsy Cline’s silky voice floating through the air.

“I’m having a good time,” Sam said. “I feel like I’m up north.”

We finished our beer. On the way out Sam said goodbye to his new friend. We got back in the car and continued making our way back to Grand Rapids. Fifteen minutes later I spotted a low building surrounded on three sides by snow covered fields. A scattering of dried corn stalks poked up through the snow. I turned into the parking lot.

The old man's day out, Part I

On a cold Friday in February, Steve (the boss) set out for Lansing with his wife and old man. They left Grand Rapids at noon. Ten hours and five bars later they returned home, one of them bloodied, all three of them happy. Below is the story, the first of three installments. 

“Man I hate this weather.”

My father had turned off the vacuum and was looking through Siciliano’s plate glass windows at the falling snow. It’s a statement he makes often during the months when he can’t drive up north to his cabin. There was a time when the winter didn’t bother him so much—when he could still drive two hours on slippery roads, when he could walk a half mile through knee-deep snow dragging supplies on a toboggan, when he could shovel a path to the door, when he could haul logs in from the woodpile and when he could sit for hours watching a bobber on a frozen lake. But he has learned how to accept the limitations of age. My father, Sam Siciliano, is eighty.

Sam & Steve, father & son

He went back to his work and I watched while he vacuumed up the scattering of grain around the grinders. During the springs, summers and falls he carefully sweeps up the grain and dumps it into paper bag. ‘The deer and turkey like it,” he told me once after asking about it.

He had finished vacuuming and was wiping malt extract off the scales when I called out to him. “Hey pop. Barb and I are going to Lansing tomorrow. Why don’t you come with us?”

“What are you doing in Lansing?”

“We have to drop off some paperwork to the LCC,” I said. “We have to get their okay for the expansion.”

“Why do you want me to go?”

“It’ll get you out of the house,” I said. “It might do you good.”

“Why would I want to go to Lansing?”

“Come on, pop. It’ll be fun. On the way home we’ll stop at some bars.”

“Okay,” he said. “Pick me up.”

Sam Siciliano likes to drink. He likes drinking beer and his home-made wine but he doesn’t like drinking alone. He likes people around him when he drinks and the more people there are the better he likes it. When people visit him and my mother at their West side home or at the cabin in Irons he is always eager to get them a drink. If their beer is half full he’ll get them another and if their wine glass is half empty he’ll fill it up. That’s just the way my old man is.

There’s something a little mysterious about that home-made wine. Every year we get grapes from California. I know he doesn’t add more sugar to the must but somehow his wine always seems to be more potent. Our family has learned to stay away from it but there have been many unsuspecting guests that the wine has destroyed; and whenever that destruction occurs, Sam gets in trouble with my mother.

The following day we picked him up at noon. He was waiting on the front porch.

On the way to Lansing I got him to talk about his brothers. My dad has five brothers that are still alive. Tony, the eldest brother, died about fifteen years ago. My dad claims that Tony was the toughest son-of-a-bitch in the neighborhood. I have heard the stories many times—about growing up on the Southeast side of Grand Rapids, about the street fights and bar fights, about stealing watermelons off the backs of trucks, how my grandmother would ignore complaining neighbors and then later beat the appropriate, mischievous son who elicited the complaint. But I never tire of hearing the stories, and while he talked I glanced over at Barb and would see her often smiling.

When we arrived at the Michigan Liquor Control Commission, we had to check in with security. Each of us had to present our drivers license. I watched my dad fumble through his thick wallet and wondered what the hell he was carrying. When we found the person we had to talk to she took the paperwork and looked at me incredulously.

“You came all this way for this? Why didn’t you just mail it?”

“I wanted to make sure you got it,” I replied. “Besides, it’s a nice day for a road trip. My dad hates the winter and we wanted to get him out. We’re going to hit some dive bars.”

I saw Barb give me a hard glance and I realized that telling the folks at the liquor control that we were going bar hopping was not very bright.

The lady looked over at my dad who was sitting and paging through a magazine. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time."

Stay tuned for the second of three installments, coming soon!

Michigan's Little Bavaria

"Chug" Dorda

In his first offering to the new blog, Siciliano's staffer Doug Dorda records events from a weekend spent with friends and family in the historic town of Frankenmuth. They drank beer, they ate cheese, they bought a puppy. From what we understand, it was a pretty typical weekend for the Dorda clan.

In the deepest doldrums of winter it can often be difficult to look outside and find a reason for joy. So it was with an adventurous heart that I sought to break the mold of the mundane and dive head-first into the most abundant annoyance the winter has to offer: snow. Though the quaint destination of Frankenmuth, Michigan may seem best frequented in the brilliant summer months, it's worth seeing in winter, too, especially during the annual snow fest, which is hosted by local chicken aficionados, Zehnders. The festival is centered around the art of ice and snow sculpting, and never ceases to amaze. The entirety of the historic village is adorned with ice- and snow-art of a breathtaking caliber that is sure to delight both families and art buffs alike. The town is also peppered with Bavarian nostalgia and filled with shops of all kinds, none so intriguing as the legendary Cheese Hause, which will make even the most discerning foodie salivate with culinary possibility. To be steeped in a universe of such undeniable cultural influence is truly a unique experience.

I stayed the weekend in Frakenmuth with my parents and several close friends at the enchanting Bavarian Inn, famous for it’s multiple pools and entertainment options that accommodate any age group. Within minutes of unpacking it was time for the first round of drinks (designed to stave off the chill during our outdoor romp), and then we were off to the town square. Just a few moments walk from the hotel and we were already glimpsing a wonderful display of snow sculptures ranging from a broken light bulb to an incredibly detailed shipwreck scene. The “warming” drinks seemed to have had a bit more "warming" effect on my father, for it was no more than ten minutes into our walk that he fell in love with and then decided to purchase a puppy. Rather impulsive I admit, but really, who can resist a puppy. With my new brother Max in my arms we set off again – this time to the ice sculptures. Between the constant requests of nearly every tourist to pet the puppy, I was able to discern that the ice and snow work was stunning in craftsmanship and detail.

"Max" Dorda

Although the puppy was unbelievably cute, I decided to hand him to my father so that my friends and I could “warm up” once again. With swift feet we sought out the Frankenmuth Brewing Company (a legendary establishment, with a tumultuous history, worthy of its own blog). It was quite possibly one of the most beautiful restaurant/breweries I have ever seen. Given the chance to go back again, I could more accurately depict its stunning décor and warming ("warming") atmosphere, but my friends and I were single-minded and thirsty so the details will have to wait. Enter the munich dunkel, heffeweizen, and baltic porter, each a fine beverage indicative of its style. They paired perfectly with the local ambiance, and the magic of drinking German beer while in that particular town cannot be truly explained or overstated. However, it's important to remember that when enjoyed too quickly, carbonated beverages often result in hiccups (Here's a tip for you: eating snow so that it becomes water is not an effective way to rid oneself of hiccups. Trust me, we tried.).

Feeling quite warm and sated, it was off to the Cheese Hause to fulfill the wishes of the gourmet in our hearts. Once we were able to tear our eyes away from the 7- to 12-year-old cheddars, we split from one another to ogle in peace and seclusion. Settling on some aged moldy cheeses and a dozen or so meat sticks, we again set forth, intent on one last destination: The Lager Mill.

The Mill is a remnant of the historic site of the Brewing Company. It has since been transformed into a wonderful bottle shop, and will eventually house a beer museum sure to pique the interests of beer geek and domestic drinker alike. The store is designed by beer lovers for beer lovers, offering everything from Michigan-made micros to German-, Belgian-, and domestically-produced micros in an impressive array. Finally leaving the store after what seemed a lifetime of contemplative thought, we made it back to the hotel. The doors swung open and we were greeted by a host of family and friends with libations in hand. It felt as though our room itself was a German beer hall. Food was in abundance, beer flowed like water, and there was no shortage of conversation and laughter. Fireworks blazed in the sky as the night wore on and our “warmth” grew into full inebriation. My father and mother led us in a chorus of oooohs and ahhhs as the finale of the fireworks lit the sky. The night ended with spirited--if not correctly played--games of scattegories and charades. All in all it was one of the better weekend trips I have had in some time, and I guarantee my friends and family in attendance will agree.

The winter is often viewed as a season to stay shut indoors and forget the inconvenience that so often coats the ground. Most of you are people who find grand luxury in the simple sip of a beer; I propose extending the same mindset toward the winter season. Frankenmuth is a wonderful place to brave the cold, enjoy a meal, drink a beer, travel through time, or simply enjoy the company of your family and friends. Only a short distance from Grand Rapids, or merely hours from most parts of the state, it is a must see in any season. Did I mention they also host the world expo of beer in the summer? Something to think about….

Cheers!