The Louisville Independent Business Alliance (LIBA) Brewfest 2012 was billed as “A celebration of local, independent brewers, independent businesses, and independent thinkers will shelve uniformity and celebrate our uniqueness.” It was held at Slugger field Friday night.
My wife and I along with two other couples were in dire need of some TGIF therapy so we packed into a Japanese made mini-van still smelling of fresh naugahyde (aren't naugas extinct – don't worry just keep consuming) and dashed over to check it out. It was about 6:30 when we arrived and unlike many events, this one appeared to be well-attended right from the opening bell. Big crowds were on-hand to drink beer and eat food from some of the Metro area's independent brewers and restaurants. I nearly balked before even entering when I observed the throngs milling about the entrance. Standing in lines to get small quantities of beer holds little appeal for me. What the hell, throwing caution and several empty Bud-light cans into the winds we soldiered on into the breach. (kidding about the cans)
We proceeded to wait in line to prove we were old enough to drink and were each rewarded with a red paper bracelet strapped on by a kid who almost certainly was not – old enough. Then we waited in line to pay for a two dollar plastic mug for beer and to buy food tickets for a $1 each. Now sporting our paper authority and gripping our plastic receptacles in a white-knuckled grip we joined the stream of desperate lemmings to the main lobby where we could wait in line to fill those mugs with beer. By the time we reached the front of one of the lines, chosen mostly at random we had ceased to try to communicate with one another. At one point Donna had asked me if the beer I was about to get was one I'd had before. I shook my head. “How do you know you will like it?” she shouted. I pointed to the banner over-head and mouthed – I CAN READ. Brimming cups in hand, we waded upstream through dense crowds of thirsty drinkers until we finally passed into the concourse that cradles the beautiful diamond de baseball that Louisville is so lucky to have. My spirits soared as it always does when I first glimpsed the emerald green of the field. Then we proceeded to wait in line to get food.
Well I didn't. I had two mugs (mine and Donna's) of beer so I picked out a seat in a shady area near the food vendors and waited for the others. It was a pleasant evening with a light breeze and the crowd noise had diminished to a dull roar (hearing loss?). I relaxed a little wishing there was a game. With reluctance I noticed the hot evening sun was creeping towards my location and I knew we would have to shift soon or we would get baked - by the sun.
Wow, what a Charlie Foxtrot I thought. Crushing crowds, raucous noise levels, long lines; what's not to like here? The event had been moved to the stadium this year because it outgrew it's previous location I was told. I wondered if the event organizers where expecting this much turn-out and even though they had surely put much thought into the festival layout, there were not enough locations dispensing food and beverage. I have been to this park many times and continually I wished they would have craft beer available here. I got my wish – I guess.
In spite of the lines and crowds, there was much to appreciate. Prices were surprisingly reasonable, the beer was served in generous sized mugs, and the food quality was better than average. Oh, and the beer was top notch! My first two mugs got filled with West 6th Brewing's IPA. This turned out to be a stunningly refreshing beer that I can't wait to drink more of. As much as I wanted more though, I couldn't face that mob inside again so I stood in one of the much shorter lines outside for my third and fourth rounds. These turned out to be excellent offerings from Against the Grain.
I was enjoying these beers when my cohorts returned with their food booty which I noted consisted of a chicken lettuce wrap from BBC, tacos from Taco Punk (on flour tortillas), and Donna chose a slice of pepperoni pizza. I often congratulate myself on finding a girl with such plain tastes. Otherwise I wouldn’t have stood a chance.
It was my turn to get food. I wandered the concourse from one side to the other turning side-ways to slip through sudden openings with varying degrees of success – excuse me – pardon – sorry! I failed to spot some of the advertised vendors and wondered if there was an exclusive area hidden from the common masses where delicacies were handed out to the privileged on silvered trays. I imagined Robin and Mary were probably seated up in the air conditioned owner's booth at this moment being plied with endangered sea horse seviche dusted with precious metals , Kobe sliders (smuggled in during the tsunami distraction), and honeyed hummingbird tongues harvested from the tiny creatures as they slumbered in their Mexican retreat. Damn – not fair! I hope they were playing the music too loud. The problem was not that I could not find food I wanted or even that I couldn't make up my mind. The problem was that the lines had grown substantially in the short time that we had been there and I was just not that hungry.
By the time I returned empty handed, the others had finished their food and were preparing to chase the shade to the opposite side of the park. As they trooped up the isle in to the fray, I protested.... “but but not that way! We can descend and walk around the rows avoiding the mass of humanity.” Alas, they did not hear me and I hurried to follow them into the seething waves of the perfect storm. I had been groped, shouted at, and nearly run over by a baby carriage before I gave up my own search for a morsel and retreated back behind lines. I had little hope of reaching our destination “Section 86” without further personal violation.
We were all covered with sweat and several appeared to be out of breath as we settled into our new positions. I don't know about the others but I will never speak of some of the things I witnessed. It was like a painting of Dante's Inferno or at least act two of a “Wide Spread Panic” concert. No country for old men! Or apparently our young and beautiful women either. We had no sooner sat when they began discussing how many tickets they had left and how long it would take to use them all up.
And then it sprang full fledged into my mind – a plan. A way out of this madness that would not appear to be a humiliating retreat in the face of youthful exuberance. We did not have to endure this press of sweaty flesh, odor de beer burps, or reckless stroller derby in order to avoid wasting a few dollars. Donna had purchased a bottle of Rooibee Tea after I had appropriated her beer mug. We would simply cash in our tickets for tea and flee this mad house.
I won't describe traversing the mob to the tea booth other than to say, that witnessing Chris negotiating with the poor girl selling tea in the middle of a riot was the surreal cherry on this fruit cake adventure. I mean it was two tickets for a bottle of tea. What was there to negotiate about? Where there's a will there's a way. Chris' thirteen tickets somehow translated into seven bottles of tea. I don't want to know.
As we circled around the front of the building along Main Street back to the comfort of our marvel of modern conveyance complete with satellite radio, television screen back-up camera, and automatic doors, I breathed a sigh of relief. The world was returned to normal.
I paid no attention to the train car being peddled by drunken revelers chanting Gregorian beer songs that passed us by. I lowered my head and hurried on anticipating the fresh naugahyde smell of normalcy.
). I prefer my food warm and my beer cold and my personal space. 