21 Oct 2014 @ 11:01 PM 

Today, I poured samples of beer at the North Carolina State Fair. This year is the first time that samples were being poured there, so it was a novel experience for everybody involved. The staff, the brewers, the patrons, etc.

Because I didn’t have much to eat today I found myself getting irritated by little things, like the fact that I had no idea how to get into where I was pouring beer. Like the fact that I was ridiculous and didn’t ask my distributor to bring beer over for me. Like the fact that the greeters in the complex we were in kept saying, “Yeah! The wine is this way!” but neglected to say anything about beer. It was fine. The whole thing turned out to be a great success, grumpiness notwithstanding.

It was actually an incredibly refreshing day. There’s nothing like having a 50-year old, grey-haired, Southern boy walk up to you wearing a John Deere t-shirt, dirty jeans, and a yellowing farm equipment hat, staring at the bottles you’re serving for a bit and then saying, “Whaddya got that’s dark?” to remind you why you’re in this business. Sometimes you get so mired in sales figures and brewery efficiency and you get so involved in the business around you that you forget that a lot of what this is about is giving people good beer that makes them happy.

But tonight I had a bit of an epiphany – at the very least an idea. I think I still need to think about it (and write about it), and I probably won’t even define it perfectly here today, but it’s a start. Here’s what happened:

A lady came up to my table. She was probably mid-50s to mid-60s, short cut, curly, dyed red hair with grey roots. She was wearing a zipper sweatshirt over a blouse and some mom jeans. She was staring down at the bottles that I had but not touching them, clearly not making eye contact with me.

I asked her, “Would you like a sample?” She nodded, so I continued, “Do you want just one or do you want to try all three?”

“Just one,” she said.

“Well, then, what kind of beer do you like?”

Pause. She looks up at me and says, “I like ales and.. uhh.. lagers. Ales and lagers.”

Normally, this is the kind of thing that I internally roll my eyes at. It’s the kind of thing you laugh about with other brewers at beer festivals. You want to snarkily respond to them, “Oh, you like BEER? GOT IT.” You know what they mean. I drink that fizzy, yellow stuff – those are lagers – and sometimes I drink stuff that isn’t fizzy and yellow. Those are ales.” Probably. Maybe.

So, I talked to her a little bit about flavor. Caramel and toffee, chocolate and smoke, oranges and pineapples. I kinda wanted to tell her, hey – it’s okay. I know you’re intimidated by this stuff, but “I don’t know” is a fine answer. Let me help you. And while I was talking to her it occurred to me in such a moment of clarity that it actually stopped me mid-sentence, and I paused in the middle of a tasting before I went on.

Of course she doesn’t know what she likes. Up until now, the people who were making the beer that she was drinking didn’t care what she likes, they care what she buys.

Now, look, I care that she buys. After all, I need to make money. I have employees to pay and beer to make, but follow me for a little while:

This, to me, might be the new definition of “craft”: People who care about YOUR beer.

Today, I was pouring an English Mild Ale (caramel/toffee), a Saison (pineapple/oranges), and a Smoked Rye Stout (chocolate/campfire). If she would have said to me, “I really love IPAs” I would have said, “Hey, sorry. I have nothing for you, but the three other breweries here all have great IPAs. They’re about 4 booths away from me. If you want to try something else, I’ve got your lineup.” because I am so much more interested in that lady having a good experience than I am in getting her $7.

Mass market beer doesn’t give a shit about what you like in a beer. They’re not even trying to sell you that anymore. They’re trying to sell you sex appeal, cool friends, and chug-friendly packaging. Like it? Of course you like it. You’re getting drunk, aren’t you? Ugh.

Craft: We care what you drink.

It’s why beer festivals are so damn frustrating. They’re full of jackasses that come up to your booth and order, “Whatever.” No, man. Not whatever. I spend a lot of time and effort making these beers taste great. I want YOU to LIKE them. Bud Light is whatever. PBR is whatever. If you want to get whatever, just spend your $7 on a plastic bottle of Popov Vodka and tuck in for the night. These beers are ideas. They’re concepts. They’re little glasses of art. I want them to speak to you in the same way they speak to me. You might not even like it, and I’m okay with that, but I want you to just try because I care about what you like.

“Whatever” means fun is drunk. In craft beer, fun is drinking.

So, I care. And I think that’s what sets us – collectively – apart. At Mystery the other night, we had a conversation about what the mission of our company really is. Why are we here? It’s difficult trying to convey the sense of, “We’re here because we feel there’s an underserved market of people who want seasonal-only beer.” or some sort of line like that. It feels too corporate and stodgy, but it’s important to give the company the right direction as you grow. We’ll have something like that (but better) once we finish the process, but the following underpinning idea is still there.

We care about what you like. We want to make great beer and we want you to like it and enjoy it because it’s delicious and that makes everyone happy. That’s what makes us craft.

Because I feel like I need to finish my story, she tried all three. Stout was the hit. She liked the Mild, the Saison was okay (“Too much like Blue Moon.” – which I DID internally cringe at, because it’s not ANYTHING like Blue Moon and also Blue Moon. Eh.), but the Stout!

“I ain’t never had a beer like that. It tastes like chocolate!”

What I wanted to capture in a glass – I told her – were those cold fall evenings, when you’re walking outside and there’s smoke coming out of someone’s chimney, and the smell of damp leaves is in the air. That quintessential fall evening.

“Well, you sure got it.” she said. And she handed me her $7 and left with a bottle.

Tags Categories: industry, op-ed Posted By: erik
Last Edit: 22 Oct 2014 @ 08 37 AM

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