Colorado is stuck between a hookah and a hard place on preventing welfare recipients from using their EBTs to buy legalized weed:
Despite mounting evidence that “welfare for weed” is more than an urban myth, Democratic legislators are balking at a bill that would add marijuana dispensaries and strip clubs to the list of places, along with casinos and liquor stores, where debit-style benefits cards cannot be used to withdraw cash from automatic teller machines, or ATMs.
Democrats killed a similar bill last year, but now the stakes are higher. States had two years to align their statutes with a 2012 federal law banning the use of electronic benefits transfer (EBT) cards at gambling and adult-entertainment venues.
As of this year, states that fail to take action risk having their federal grants under the Temporary Assistance for Needy Families program reduced by 5 percent.
While pot shops aren’t on the federal list, Colorado officials are concerned that failing to disable ATMs at marijuana dispensaries for EBT cards would violate the spirit of the law and provoke the ire of the Justice Department, which is keeping the legalized pot industry in states like Colorado and Washington on a short leash.
Democrats don’t want to offend the tender sensibilities of their most devoted voters — people on the dole. Republicans don’t want local businesses at the tender mercies of Washington’s jackbooted thugs.
But is removing ATM machines from poor neighborhoods — where pot stores are mostly located — the answer? Before we get to that, maybe we need to look at the real problem, which in this case is not legalized marijuana.
When one has indoor plumbing some things are simply better purchased with a wingman. Not the proverbial “wingman,” but an oversized, fortified male accompanying the said female in procurement of goods, minimizing her mocking for sheer amusement of purveyor staff.
In my experience these purchases include fast cars, Cuban cigars in Paris (Churchills not cigarillos), and high-end spirits. Never have I been so unabashedly snickered at as when inquiring about whiskey.
It all started four years ago. My husband was having a major birthday and I desired a distinctive offering. I thought about a really ripe Cabernet Franc (his favorite) but we already had enough garnet-hued libations in the basement. Collecting red wine involved more babysitting and added expense than initially anticipated. It’s an indulgence requiring quick consumption after opening as it begins to decline soon after. And wine has obstinate storage needs. If you have something special waiting to peak, it can easily become soured in less than ideal conditions.
A good example was the much-anticipated 2004 Merryvale Profile finally opened on our anniversary last month–an utter disappointment. The bottle had been too close to the radiant heat floor and consequently the cork dried out, allowing air to filter through. We took a sip and puckered up, promptly committing the remaining tainted wine to the crock that houses my French Mother. What a waste.
My husband is incredibly difficult to buy for and rarely gets excited about anything—the only downside to his even keel. Before he was into wine, he really enjoyed whiskey, which was at the time absent from the liquor cabinet. I began my internet search for a spirit to parallel a major birthday for such a man and came across the annual “spirit” awards (as in alcohol, not cheerleaders).
The mentioned imported whiskeys (spelled “whiskies” in Scotland, Canada and Japan) were the Scotch and Irish bottlings, Canadian and, surprisingly, some Japanese. There were several standouts, but no solitary bottle that prompted a Hallelujah. So I headed to the American offerings in which one bourbon (we’ll get to a whiskey/bourbon comparison in a sec) won seven notable awards in 2010 and a score of 97 points by Wine Enthusiast. That bottle was the 20-year Pappy Van Winkle, referred to by loyal devotees as “Pappy.”
That solitary distilled spirit commandeered recommendations and reviews from every possible venue: lowly college kids that accidentally found a bottle hiding in the local liquor store to chefs in Manhattan to bourbon gurus in Kentucky. The 20-year Pappy seemed the overwhelmingly obvious choice, and I was relieved to find my husband’s soon-to-be birthday gift.
Then came the crushing reality. I was tremendously naïve regarding process acquisition of the illusive “Pappy.” There were thousands of folks (generally men) on wait lists across the country trying to land a bottle, and no respectable liquor store in Maryland was willing to sell to some girl wanna-be whiskey connoisseur sans wingman. The fact that shipping alcohol to Maryland was illegal at the time only upped the ante.
Three weeks later the exchange took place. Within arm’s reach was not one, but two bottles of Pappy Van Winkle in trademark velvet bottle sleeves. I had managed to talk an unnamed someone out of both a 15-year and a 20-year Pappy for the agreed price of $500. My blue-collar background objected via inner dialogue but was snuffed out the second I cradled that plain brown box in my arms. I had closed on a Hail Mary, securing honorary sainthood among future generations of American wives.
Finally the day came. He opened the box, at once astonished. After putting his jaw back into place, he snapped a photo with his iPhone and off it went to his brother in Dallas, who’d been trying to get his hands on any bottle (or even just an ounce) of Pappy Van Winkle for well over a year.
That first Pappy procurement swiftly launched me into the “Wifee Hall of Fame” (his words, not mine). I’ve never seen a tough guy act so dorky. He texted photos of himself posing with his Pappy to nearly every drinking buddy he’s ever had. But my victorious endowment also created a problem… He was hooked. The limited supply of Pappy merely tickled the scratch of increasing consumer demand in the following years.
I again called all the liquor stores who might obtain an allocation, usually one case or less, in late November. After booking my parents’ babysitting services for Pappy allocation day, the hubby and I hit every liquor store (like Bonnie and Clyde) that was expecting at least six bottles. We went in each location separately as there was a one-bottle limit per person. At the end of the day we had four new bottles. The following year we obtained another four bottles to add to our modest collection (see exhibit B below). Pappy allocation day had become a standing date between us… like a treasure hunt for grown-ups with OCD.
This past November, we were down to eight bottles and hoped to pick up two or three more. But the UPS trucks had all arrived at liquor stores with lines forming outside and the few bottles sent to each location sold immediately upon arrival. Didn’t even make it to the shelves. Other stores that were expecting a modest delivery got the big goose egg and were consequently pretty pissed off. Despite five well-managed attempts, we went home empty handed (sigh).
A few hours after returning home defeated, one of my husband’s employees called with intel regarding someone who might sell us a bottle of the Van Winkle Family Reserve Rye. When my dedicated spouse arrived at the nondescript liquor store, the 80-something owner looked him up and down, asked him a few questions and made small talk. After all, the guy wasn’t about to sell Van Winkle to a jerk (or worse, an unworthy palate). Luckily, my husband passed the interview. They had bonded over a mutual interest, hockey.
The older fellow then discreetly disclosed that he had rye in the back. My husband followed him to a room of what seemed to be boxes full of easily attainable American whiskeys. But the contents of the boxes did not correspond with their entry-level housing.
Not only did my husband secure a Van Winkle Family Reserve Rye, he also came home with a unique bottling of Colonel E.H. Taylor, and the humdinger… the 18-year Sazarac Rye that I’d been trying to get a hold of for two years (see exhibit A). The Sazarac Rye had been the second most absurd request I made at local liquor stores. And it is absolutely delicious! Not nearly as angry as the Van Winkle Family Reserve Rye because the smooth toffee-like Sazarac had another five years to mellow into an uber-refined gentleman.
So, here’s a quick education on American whiskey and bourbon. There are actually laws that specify what they can be made of, what they are aged in, the temp of the fluid when entering the barrels, and how high the alcohol content must be for each. It’s a lot of info, but Maker’s Mark generated a great visual that presents the basics in a rather unconfusing manner. I wish I would have found this back in 2010:
An unforeseen bonus to our rather tantric Pappy fixation is that it has only increased in value, nearly three-hundred percent. And, it keeps for ages, unlike the red wine stewing on our heated floors.
The Pappy purchased and opened several years ago is just as enjoyable, if not more so. And the best part? I get between twenty and twenty-five servings per bottle, under $15 for a 1oz. pour of 23-year Pappy, the brand’s flagship. In contrast, our big reds cost more per pour, offering only six servings per bottle. Buck for buck, our whiskey is by far a superior value for initial investment.
We’ve still got four ounces left of that first 20-year bottle I bought back in 2010. Those last well-loved milliliters will be finishing a long distinguished life in form of a bourbon cake in the next few weeks. I realize this is spiritual heresy, so feel free to protest should you feel led.
Icelandic brewery Stedji, which is producing the beer in time for the country’s mid-winter festival, Thorri, said the Hvalur 2 beer was made with the testicles of fin whales – which are classified as endangered on the conservation Red List – smoked in a “traditional way” with dried sheep dung.
Stedji may very well be redefining “on tap.”
If you really want to upset white people at brunch, water down the Bloody Marys.
— Stephen Green (@VodkaPundit) January 6, 2015
In my youth the government encouraged people to eat more eggs and butter and drink more milk for the sake of their health. Perhaps it was the right advice after a prolonged period of war-induced shortage, but no one would offer, or take, the same advice today. Nutritional advice is like the weather and public opinion, which is to say highly changeable.
How quickly things go from being the elixir of life to deadly poison! A recent paper from Sweden in the British Medical Journal suggests that, at least for people aged between 49 and 75, milk now falls into the latter category, especially for women.
Milk was once thought to protect against osteoporosis, the demineralization of bone that often results in fractures. It stood (partially) to reason that it should, for milk contains many of the nutrients necessary for bone growth.
On the other hand, it also stood (partially) to reason that it should do more harm than good, for consumption of milk increases the level of galactose in the blood and galactose has been found to promote ageing in many animals, up to and including mice. If you want an old mouse quickly, inject a young one with galactose.
In other words, there is reason to believe both that the consumption of milk does good and that it does harm. Which is it? This is the question that the Swedish researchers set out to answer.
That’s what happened to college student James Finan:
James Finan, 21, was spotted “jogging alongside Rte. 378 without any light” around 1:30 Sunday morning, according to a Lower Saucon Township Police Department report. Finan attends nearby DeSales University, where he is a business major.
According to cops, “vehicles were observed to take defensive measures to avoid Finan” as he ran alongside the roadway.
More seriously, did the cops have to arrest the guy? Yes, he was running alongside the road like an idiot, and could have gotten himself hurt or killed. But back in the day a friendly cop would have delivered him back to his dorm to sleep it off. Now Finan has an arrest record.
Editor’s Note: Since March, PJ Lifestyle has been highlighting some of the most innovative fiction writers at the recently-launched new media publishing platform Liberty Island, featuring interviews and story excerpts. Click here to see our collection of 24 so far. To learn more check out this interview Sarah Hoyt conducted with CEO Adam Bellow: “It also has a unique mission: to serve as the platform and gathering-place for the new right-of-center counterculture.” Also see COO David S. Bernstein’s recent essay here in which he defines Liberty Island as, “an imaginative playground where brilliant and creative people can test their ideas without being harassed or threatened by the new breed of ‘community activists’ who police thought and speech in the media.” Also see Bellow’s recent cover story at National Review: “Let Your Right Brain Run Free.”
This is the second of several new stories that PJ Lifestyle will be excerpting. Check out this excerpt from Pierre Comtois’s yesterday: The Future That Used To Be. More author interviews will be coming soon too. Also check out some of Michael’s great articles on wine and culture at PJ Lifestyle:World’s First High 5 Discovered in Obscure French Film, 6 Things We Love and Hate about The New California Wine.
Here’s the beginning of his new story for your consideration:
They walked into my bar like they owned the place, the Major and this gangly female friend of his he calls “the Loon.”
The Major says to me, “According to the Internet, you make the best tropical drinks in the state. Do you make your Dark’n'Stormies with the proper Bermudian ingredients?”
He’s a bit formal, this guy. I didn’t know his name yet, but I already had him pegged as retired military. Too young for Vietnam, too old for Gulf War II. Hint of a southern accent, more Kentucky than Texas.
So I said to him, “Absolutely proper. Everything at Coco Rico’s is authentic. You want Mai Tais–mine are just like the Royal Hawaiian. Singapore Sling? You don’t have to go to Raffles. Dark’n'Stormy? I’m pouring Gosling’s Rum and their spicy ginger beer. Lime optional.”
“Sounds perfect.” He pulled out a stool for his friend and politely held her coat and bag while she climbed up. “We’ll have two Dark’n'Stormies,” he said. “No, make that three. Mix one up for yourself. I have a pretty good story to tell and you may want to listen in if you’re not too busy.”
I asked, “Are you one of those book clubs?” I was thinking those clubs fill a lot of seats, but with light drinkers.
Then I heard this sound, like: “Ahhhhhh-ha-ha-haa, aaahhh-ha-ha-ha, ak-ak, ak-akh, ahhhhh.” It was his lady friend laughing like she thinks my question is the funniest thing she ever heard. “We’re just here for conversation. But because he tends to do most of the talking, well, that makes it a story doesn’t it?”
I guess I must’ve looked at her funny, because he said to me, “You heard her laugh. She sounds like a lunatic. That’s why all her friends call her “the Loon,” and you should too.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, serving their drinks.
The Major said his name was Brayden Collins but I should call him the Major. I told them both they could call me Coco.
Then we lifted our glasses and toasted, “To new friends!” We’d barely had time to swallow when the Loon said to the Major, “Now for that story. You’ve been out of touch for nearly nine months, and–ahhhhhh-ha-ha-haa, aaahhh-ha-ha-ha, ak-ak, ak-akh, ahhhhh–I’m bursting with curiosity.”
The Major, always the gentleman, got right to it. “As the Loon knows, but you, Coco, certainly do not, I’ve been working on a desalination project in Bermuda for the last couple of years. That’s where I acquired my taste for Dark’n'Stormies, specifically, on the patio of the Coral Beach Club. It’s a beautiful old place. Clay tennis courts and a salt-water pool, set on a cliff above the pink sand beach and transparent water. Magical spot. The restaurant on the terrace is wonderful. Waiters in Bermuda shorts and knee socks, cheeky parrots in enormous brass cages.
“In any case, about six months ago I lunched there and then went down to the beach to relax. It’s a private beach and there are rows of turquoise chaises and yellow-and-white striped beach umbrellas, carefully lined up like an Army tent camp–except for the bright colors. It was crowded that day, hard to find a seat, and a lot of conversations going on. Children playing noisily and their parents not paying much mind as they were trying to relax themselves.
“In front of me was a nice group. Tall Indian fellow with his wife, clean-shaven and obviously brainy, talking quietly with a friend about their dinner plans. Seems they’d come to this part of the island on their yacht, over from Tucker’s Town, and were looking forward to some special event. I got the impression they were long-time members of the club.
“I was trying to nap, not successfully, when suddenly I heard this fellow–I might as well tell you his name even though I didn’t know it at the time. It’s Singh, Vinod Singh. And this Mr. Singh is looking back toward the club and saying, ‘Oh, oh, what’s going on over there? Oh-oh, this looks like trouble.’
“His wife and friend began looking too and Mr. Singh said, ‘Look at those children climbing up the cliffs. The sand is not stable and they should not be there.’
“They watched some more and talked it over. ‘Where are the parents?’ continued Mr. Singh. ‘Someone has to do something.’
“He walked across the beach and told the children to get down off the cliff.
“He might as well have assassinated an archduke, considering what happened next. The children’s mother–I assumed it was the mother because of her behavior, and of course I confirmed it later–the children’s mother was after him like a swarm of hornets. ‘How dare you talk to my children. You’ve got no right… Who do you think you are?’
“Of course it was all laced with profanity and a level of physical aggression that was surprising. This woman, Maude Rafferty-Fehr is her name, as I found out later, was young and trim. And she was wearing quite elaborate beach clothing with built-in sun and insect protection. And of course there was the Roger Federer hat…”
“The what? asked the Loon.
“The Roger Federer hat. The tennis player. Has his own logo. RF. It was pink, by the way. I found out later…’
“Ahhhhhh-ha-ha-haa, aaahhh-ha-ha-ha, ak-ak, ak-akh, ahhhhh. Ahhhhhh-ha-ha-haa,” the Loon hooted. “Nobody wears a Roger Federer hat except, ahhhhhh-ha-ha-haa, aaahhh-ha-ha-ha, his wife and, ak-ak, ak-akh, his mother.”
“Hmf. I suppose not. I’d never seen one before.” The Major continued, “I found out later she’s Swiss, or at least married to one. And they play tennis. So I suppose it’s possible she’d wear something like that. Anyway she kept after him in this manner–like a terrier or a mosquito–without letting up for quite some time. I decided to go in for a bit of snorkeling and I followed a school of angelfish around for a half-hour at least.
“I came back to my chaise and thought the stratagem had worked. Peace and quiet. Wonderful. Mr. Singh was relaxing, trying to read. I was pleased to see it was the latest Brad Thor thriller.
“Imagine my disappointment, then, as I noticed a man with his teeth and his fists clenched like worn-out disk brakes, looking down at Mr. Singh through thick lenses and struggling to breathe through a scraggly blondish moustache.
“‘I don’t like the way you were talking to my wife,’ he said, clearly trying to start a fight.
“Mr. Singh did not take the bait: ‘It isn’t safe to climb on the cliffs. It’s against the rules of the club and all I did was to ask the boys to come down. It was for their own safety.’
“Well, if Roger Federer was bad, her husband was worse by far. He was a jackal-piranha to her terrier-mosquito. ‘Damn the rules,’ he screamed. ‘You have no right to talk to my children or my wife.”
“Julius Fehr, that’s his name: Doctor Fehr was trembling with anger and still standing over Mr. Singh who remained seated and spoke in a calm and logical tone that was infuriating in its own way.
“The two went at it back and forth, until somehow Mr. Singh managed to escape. He gained a standing position without making physical contact with Dr. Fehr. And this small triumph must have somehow clouded his judgment because, at this point, he opened a new line of argument.”
“Always a mistake,” agreed the Loon. “Unless you can strike a lethal blow, the defense should always stay on defense. Otherwise you open yourself up to a new line of attack.”
image via shutterstock / DeliriumTrigger
They’re coming to Minnesota, natch:
Self-serve beer stations are up and running in Target Field, so Minnesota Twins fans and those who attend the Major League Baseball All-Star festivities next week can decide what they want and even how much they want of it.
The machines, called DraftServ, are a partnership between concessionaire Delaware North and Anheuser-Busch.
My first (and only) experience with beer vending machines was as a 15-year-old on a monthlong summer tour of West Germany, where I and a gang of fellow 15-year-old boys spotted one in a train station in Köln. Dropped a 1DM coin in the slot, pushed a button, and out popped a can of staggeringly bad beer — and that was by the standards of a (relatively) inexperienced drinker.
Let’s hope Twins fans get a better selection.
When Lena Dunham can mock you effectively, you’ve hit rock bottom.
Time to sober up, bud.
-Your Friendly Neighborhood VodkaPundit
thumbnail photo via shutterstock / PAN Photo Agency
With so many things to worry about—millions of chronically unemployed Americans, the Iranian bomb, veterans going untreated, unparalleled government snooping—you’d think you could relax from time to time with, say, a nice California cabernet that helps you conjure up a feeling of temporary well-being as you savor a meal with family or friends.
Sorry to inform you, but that pleasure may no longer be available to you. According to a new book, The New California Wine (TNCW) by Jon Bonné, the California wines you’ve been enjoying are actually “a ubiquity of oaky, uninspired bottles,” that have fallen into “a stupor,” and those who make them and like them are “stuck in a self-satisfied funk.”
Who knew? I felt particularly humiliated because I had come to California wines relatively late in my drinking career. To my euro-centric palate, California wine always seemed too young and brash and fruity. Until, that is, I actually visited Napa Valley about 15 years ago.
My wife Ellie and I were having lunch outside at Tra Vigne, and we ordered a half-bottle of Shafer Firebreak. That’s a Super Tuscan blend of cabernet sauvignon and sangiovese—but California style, which means that the fruit is amplified. In the sunshine, with my beautiful wife, amidst the vines, eating short ribs… it felt like a seduction. From that moment forward, California started to make a lot of sense.
Now I’m thinking: Why, oh why, does Jon Bonné want to take that away from me? And it was my friend Pat, of all people, who’d suggested I read his book.
Learning how to drink responsibly is a basic lesson in growing up — as it is in wine-drinking France or in Germany, with its family-oriented beer gardens and festivals. Wine was built into my own Italian-American upbringing, where children were given sips of my grandfather’s home-made wine. This civilized practice descends from antiquity. Beer was a nourishing food in Egypt and Mesopotamia, and wine was identified with the life force in Greece and Rome: In vino veritas (in wine, truth). Wine as a sacred symbol of unity and regeneration remains in the Christian Communion service. Virginia Woolf wrote that wine with a fine meal lights a “subtle and subterranean glow, which is the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse.”
What this cruel 1984 law did is deprive young people of safe spaces where they could happily drink cheap beer, socialize, chat, and flirt in a free but controlled public environment. Hence in the 1980s we immediately got the scourge of crude binge drinking at campus fraternity keg parties, cut off from the adult world. Women in that boorish free-for-all were suddenly fighting off date rape. Club drugs — Ecstasy, methamphetamine, ketamine (a veterinary tranquilizer) — surged at raves for teenagers and on the gay male circuit scene.
Alcohol relaxes, facilitates interaction, inspires ideas, and promotes humor and hilarity.
image via shutterstock / Pressmaster
Saint Patrick’s Day is an outrageous celebration of my Irish heritage. On that day adult Americans of all ethnic backgrounds feel free to wear green derby hats and shamrock necklaces, pack into bars and pubs to drink green beer and, if they’re really serious about celebrating the Irish way, end the day by vomiting and passing out in the gutter.
I’m offended by this, and it has to stop! Okay, just kidding. I don’t care a bit. The Irish are a fully integrated ethnic minority in America and St. Patrick’s Day is proof. You know your heritage is not an issue when you can poke fun at yourself.
I don’t know how to make the Martin Luther King holiday as genuinely warm, funny, and celebratory as St. Patrick’s Day, but I’d like to try. Just last month a school system had to apologize for serving a lunch of fried chicken, cornbread and watermelon on Martin Luther King Day. How sad that the African-American holiday commemorating such a great man is about grievances and not praise. Why shouldn’t we all celebrate Martin Luther King day with soul food, vibrant African designs and colors in our decorations and celebrations, and a sense of fun and gratitude?
I fear that instead of moving towards celebrating Martin Luther King Day as a positive affirmation of African-American heritage, we’re moving in the other direction. Columbus Day has come under such attack that this brave Italian hero and explorer is accused of genocide and celebrations in his honor are protested. The very word “Christmas” has been banned in some schools. How long before someone wants to ban St. Patrick’s Day?
May this never happen. Long may the green beer flow in the pubs of America on St. Patrick’s Day. May the green derby hats continue to be perched on the heads of all, may the Leprechaun decorations continue to be ridiculous and offensive, and may you always feel free to be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.
images courtesy Shutterstock: Patryk Kosmider
Yes, I know this has been making the rounds and, no, I’m not upset that the Washington Post is totally stealing my schtick. Although I have been getting a lot of questions along “as a vodka drinker, are you offended to be lumped in with all the lefties?”
It’s true that I am a vodka drinker. It’s also true that I’m no lefty. But I also enjoy scotch — a lot. And I’ve spent the last couple years really honing my appreciation for bourbon. Summer afternoons are most often filled with proper gin martinis or gin & tonics. I sip fine tequila on the beach and I make a mean margarita here at Casa Verde on Friday nights. Weekend mornings often involve mimosas. I drink (and cook with) lots of red wines, but most often zins, cabs, and pinots. Colorado is home to many fine beers, which I also drink. Although recently I’ve been on a pilsner kick and so I’ve been buying stuff from Germany and the Czech Republic — new suggestions welcome, please!
So to paraphrase George Thorogood, I really really really really really really like booze.
When I launched VodkaPundit twelve years ago next Friday, the first name I thought of for it was “ScotchPundit” because scotch is what I used to drink more than anything else. But the name sounded too stuffy (or perhaps focused on Scotland), when what I wanted to imply was a certain insouciance.
And to my mind there is no cocktail more insouciant than a vodka martini. It lacks bourbon and scotch’s haughtiness, it doesn’t have gin’s herbal complexities, it won’t leave you naked in a dumpster like tequila. A vodka martini is light and airy, and bright with a twist of lemon. Brighter still with a twist of lime. It goes down easy and might even make you feel a little smarter, if only for a little while.
So, yes, VodkaPundit.
Just don’t try to put it on any chart.
Ah, New Year’s Eve. A time to party, to celebrate the year that was, and a time to raise a toast for a better new year. Tradition calls for champagne, as this drink of royalty is associated with wealth, success, and other positive attributes.
Irony abounds in this, as the original goal for the wine makers of the Champagne region was to get rid of the bubbles that make modern champagne and sparkling wines the toast of the party. They wanted to be like Burgundy. Even the celebrated monk Dom Perignon spent his life trying to get rid of the bubbles that plagued his wine. Even as the French worked hard to eradicate them, the English developed a passion for the bubbly wine and it was because of that demand that the French royal courts came to embrace it.
The creation of the modern champagne industry is a study in materials and production science. The glass bottles used for traditional wines were not strong enough to withstand the pressures that built up inside. The idea of making the wine bubble, rather than trying to eliminate it, required a good deal of trial and error in the production process. Eventually, the modern “Methode Champenoise” was developed by Veuve Clicquot and adopted by all champagne producers.
On the surface, the Original OKRA Charity Saloon may look like a typical bar, with patrons eating, drinking, and enjoying each other’s company. But the Houston bar is remarkably different in that its owners donate all of its profits to charitable organizations. Every month, four charities compete for the funds, and customers choose the winner.
By the end of the year, Original OKRA Charity Saloon will have donated about $300,000 to a dozen different charities – three times the owners’ expectations.
“It was a good year. It’s pretty amazing,” said Mike Criss, the bar’s general manager. “It’s just the community coming together.”
The charity saloon is one of several bars around the country using that business model as a way to give back. There are similar bars or concepts in New Orleans, Washington, D.C., and Portland, Ore.
The Oregon Public House, a similar bar in Portland, has also had success — donating more than $15,000 to charities in its first six months of operation.
“I believe in this model, not just for us but for my city, for our state, for our country,” said Ryan Saari, director of The Oregon Public House’s board. “I think there is a lot of good that could be done, stepping outside of the box a little bit in terms of how we support and fund our nonprofits.”
Proceeds from Original OKRA have benefited organizations for the homeless, as well as a group that reaches out to veterans. Owners and customers alike get to see the good they achieve right in their own communities – an idea that may spread to other cities.
Criss and Saari said they believe charity bars will be embraced by other communities. They’ve already received calls from people in Canada, England, France and India interested in the concept.
“We never thought it would be this big, where it is right now,” Criss said. “I’m still amazed.”
Bars that do good for their community? I’m sure plenty of people would drink to that.
This post contains an image from ShutterStock.
Remember, remember, the fifth of December (1933) and that even a bad constitutional amendment could be repealed.
So might it happen with all bad laws.
According to This Day In History:
…..Congress passed the Volstead Act on October 28, 1919, over President Woodrow Wilson‘s veto. The Volstead Act provided for the enforcement of Prohibition, including the creation of a special Prohibition unit of the Treasury Department. In its first six months, the unit destroyed thousands of illicit stills run by bootleggers. However, federal agents and police did little more than slow the flow of booze, and organized crime flourished in America. Large-scale bootleggers like Al Capone of Chicago built criminal empires out of illegal distribution efforts, and federal and state governments lost billions in tax revenue. In most urban areas, the individual consumption of alcohol was largely tolerated and drinkers gathered at “speakeasies,” the Prohibition-era term for saloons.
Prohibition, failing fully to enforce sobriety and costing billions, rapidly lost popular support in the early 1930s. In 1933, the 21st Amendment to the Constitution was passed and ratified, ending national Prohibition. After the repeal of the 18th Amendment, some states continued Prohibition by maintaining statewide temperance laws. Mississippi, the last dry state in the Union, ended Prohibition in 1966.
Do you like beer? Are you excited for the release of the next part of The Hobbit? Do you like spending evenings in cozy bars? If you said yes to any of these questions, then I suggest you head to Middle Earth-incarnate in Alexandria, VA.
Bilbo Baggins and the Green Dragon Pub. Yes, that is the name of the restaurant and its in-house bar.
Located in Old Town Alexandria, Bilbo Baggins Restaurant is the perfect mix of small-town charm and big city beer selection.
Bilbo Baggins prides itself on its tasty food and unique atmosphere, but its claim to fame is its extensive drink menu in its main-floor bar, the Green Dragon Pub. (The drink menu is 4 pages long in tiny, single-spaced font.) With over 150 bottles of wine (32 offered by the glass), and 90 or so labels of beer available, The Green Dragon Pub holds up to its beer-soaked, fantasy namesake. Bottom line, Pippin would feel very comfortable here.
After you settle on a beer, peruse the menu. There’s enough meat to satisfy Gimli, salads for Legolas, and a pizza named after Gandalf. In more food-specific jargon, choices range from pasta to salmon and yellow-fin tuna, to salads and steak. I also recommend the pizzas–Smaug’s Delight is a personal favorite. (Yes, several of the menu items are named after characters from The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.) Very “Hobbity,” I’d say!
Progressive politics are the combination of amorality, arrogance and plain old theft. Some Colorado progressives are running this ad, along with many similar ones, to promote Obamacare to young Colorado residents. Click to enlarge.
The ad seems too idiotic to be real. But it’s real and it’s the product of Progress Now Colorado. PNCO says its mission is “to build and empower a permanent progressive majority, challenge and correct right-wing misinformation, and hold public leaders accountable.”
Apparently it’s “right-wing misinformation” that adult men should take care of their own lives.
In its ads, PNCO is promoting stupidity and thievery. “Be as irresponsible as you want,” the ad’s subtext tells young men. “Obamacare is there to bail you out with other people’s money.”
The ads promote high-risk behavior.
Yes, Phil Powers is a real guy and he actually climbs mountains. He’s happy that you and I are subsidizing his high-risk lifestyle. Progress Colorado is happy about that, too.
PNCO’s message should embarrass serious people, but it follows directly from then Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s Obamacare boosterism, which boiled down to “Quit your job, do whatever you want, Obamacare will pay for it!”
h/t Igor Volsky
My travels around the world for and with things military are not all C-130s and MREs. In fact, quite a bit of it involves commercial travel and, since I do indeed have a passion for the good life, I make sure to make the most of the opportunities that come my way. Why eat the same old at a chain when you can eat and drink new things?While Normandy brings to mind D-Day to most Americans, in France Normandy is known for its food. The dairy products are legendary, and the butter eagerly sought by top restaurants in Paris and even here in the United States. It is also known for its apples, and the many products that come from them.
None may be more misunderstood in the U.S. than calvados, the apple brandy of Normandy. Before international trade became what it is today, it was not well known. Indeed, what I remember of it from my childhood was not very good, and in fact I have likened some of what I had to paint thinner.
There is indeed calvados that qualifies as paint thinner. It generally is only about a year old and is mostly used for cooking. As with traditional brandy, the more it ages the more rich and flavorful it becomes. While in Normandy this year, I had the occasion to tour two different distilleries and learn a good deal about this wonderful product.
For now, I would like to share with you this video tour of Chateau Breuil. There are a couple of missed cues at the start, but nothing important was lost. What you get is a better understanding of the process, and a tour that takes you back in time in terms of structures and storage. Enjoy!
Ahh Tequila… both a curse and a blessing to stomaches everywhere. This infamous liquor has a history as colorful as the stories that accompany nights of drinking it. Ha! Whether you’re new to tequila, or have a terrible history with it, I suggest that you give it another chance.
This week I am going to highlight a secret in D.C.–it’s not a secret that people don’t know about this restaurant/bar–but that many don’t bother to walk down into their Tequila-heaven basement. If you like adventure, good Mexican food, or broadening your liquour knowledge, I have just the place for you: El Centro D.F. in Washington, D.C.
But, before we launch into the details of this jewel, here is a brief history lesson on tequila:
- Tequila was one of the first indigenous, distilled beverages in North America. After the Spanish conquistadors ran out of their own brandy they tried their hand at distilling the agave plant which grew plentifully in the blue volcanic soil of Mexico.
- The name “tequila” actually comes from a town in western Mexico–where most of the blue agave plants grow.
- By law, tequila is only allowed to be produced in certain parts of Mexico.
- What’s with that worm in the bottle? Actually, only a few tequila come with the worm–a marketing gimmick that started in the 1940s.
Now this just turns this small-l libertarian into a raging uppercase Libertarian.
The shutdown theater has blocked our veterans from their monuments, allowed thuggish park rangers to terrorize visitors to Yellowstone, and even caused park rangers to block lanes of a highway to stop people from pulling over to look at Mount Rushmore.
But enough is enough and this is going too far!
The government agency in charge of approving new breweries, recipes and labels is on furlough, leaving in limbo the ability of suds-makers to get their brews on store shelves.
And that means beer connoisseurs who like to constantly try out new samples may have to make do with the presently approved stocks.
“My dream, this is six years in the making, is to open this brewery,” said Mike Brenner, a beer maker who was hoping to open his brewery business in Milwaukee by December, The Washington Post reported. But that’s all on hold because of the government shutdown — and the delay may cost him big, to the tune of about $8,000 each month.
“I can’t get started because people are fighting over this or that in Washington,” he said. “This is something people don’t mess around with. Even in a bad economy, people drink beer.”
The agency in charge of processing his application is the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau.
In my more radical moments, I’ve been known to agitate for the abolition of the U.S. Food and Drug Administration. (You only think that no good arguments can be made for that. And you can only think that if you believe that only the government saves us from individual larceny and dishonesty. And, as my colleague, fellow Baen author Michael Z. Williamson, is fond of saying, that name should belong to a convenience store, not a federal bureau.)
It’s not something we normally make a big point of, though, because it takes too long to explain.
But now they’ve gone too far. They’re delaying the beer!
I have two observations: government involvement in beer regulation is a bridge too far, and if you believe that government regulation of beer is essential, you certainly cannot consider it a non-essential service.
Either way, it’s time to get the government out of our beer!
A new study from Iowa State and Cornell revealed that individuals who use a narrow glass and pour wine while keeping the glass on the table drank less, compared to those who used a wide glass and poured wine while holding the glass, Nature World News reported.
According to the researchers, it all has to do with the drinker’s perceptions of quantity.
“People have trouble assessing volumes,” said Laura Smarandescu, an assistant professor of marketing at Iowa State. “They tend to focus more on the vertical than the horizontal measures. That’s why people tend to drink less when they drink from a narrow glass, because they think they’re drinking more.”
In reality then, the glass is neither half empty nor half full. It’s simply time to refill your drink.
(The engineer will tell you the glass is exactly twice the size it needs to be, but who the hell do they think they’re kidding?)
Cross-posted from Vodkapundit
With her husband stymied on the world stage and pivoting (yet again) to the economy, the first lady is once again passionately concerned with what you eat and drink.
The pair is set to kick off the water-drinking push at a high school in the aptly named Watertown, Wisc., community on Thursday, The Hill reported. It’s the next step in Mrs. Obama’s “Let’s Move!” campaign to fight obesity rates around the nation and especially among America’s youth.
Image courtesy shutterstock.com, © Aivolie
Senator Rand Paul was overheard approving of a drone. This was a drone that delivered beer at an outdoor festival in South Africa.
The Washington Times notes that Senator Paul is noted for a 13 hour filibuster against the Nomination of John O. Brennan as CIA director while calling on the Obama administration to clarify whether it believed it had the right to use drones for killing US citizens.
Of course, Senator Paul is in the right, since there is no constitutional right to beer delivery by humans only — doubtless due to a tragic oversight of the founding fathers who failed to foresee the reign of our beer-delivering mechanical overlords — while there is a constitutional right to due process for US citizens and residents before being executed by the US government.
So go on and approve of beer-delivering drones, Senator Paul. While comely beer servers might be more pleasing, people are entitled to getting their beer any way they wish to.