Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
— 25 —
Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier,
Lift your Stein and Drink Your Beer!
WHEN I WAS A
kid, growing up in Seldovia, beer meant one of two things: Oly or Ranier.
Usually Oly. My mother made home brew, too, but the closest I ever got to it was when she
stored it beneath my bed and occasionally one of the bottles would explode, usually in the
middle of the night. I couldn't stand the stuff, not that I was old enough to drink anyway,
which of course I didn't. Ever.
And yet somehow I managed to form the impression that beer tasted awful. This opinion
held until I went to Europe following college graduation in 1973, where I wandered into
the Hofbrau Haus in Munich. There beer spilled out of tall steins brought by servers with
their breasts spilling out of the tops of their dresses, and people stomped around to oom-
pah-pah music and linked arms and sang (in German, which I did and do not speak, but I
can hum in any language). The beer itself was a revelation, cold, crisp, malty, hoppy, I
didn't know what the right words were but by god, it was TASTY! I loved it! Why didn't
American beer taste like that?
This, of course, was before the proliferation of boutique and micro brewers all over the
nation. Now, give me a sunny day on the deck of the Millenium Hotel, with the float planes
flying into Lake Hood overhead, a plate deep-fried halibut on the table in front of me, and a
pint of Alaskan Amber in my hand, and I'm a happy woman.
Which was why, when I went to Juneau recently, the first thing I did in preparation for
the trip was call the Alaskan Brewing Company in Juneau and ask them if they did tours.
Tours of breweries, it should be noted, usually include beer tasting, so this action was not
necessarily inspired by a sense of devoted service to
Alaska Magazine.
