But Vinted is different. It's actually good. Actually, that's not fair. It's great. There are veal cheeks on the menu and they are perfectly cooked. And the wine, well, the place isn't called Vinted because it's ironic.
Every time I'm at Vinted, Gary is there and Gary is cool. Laid back. Wants to answer questions about the menu. Is quick to offer advice and he likes sports. I know this because he knows me from TV. And I like talking about great food, better bourbon and phenomenal beer. And Gary knows about all of that. So we are friends and friends help each other.
So one night, as Gary was introducing me to Widow Jane, a bourbon from New York (don't judge) that, and I may not remember this right because I don't remember which number drink this was, has it's barrels dragged down the Hudson River so the liquid splishes and splashes in the name of quality. I'm convinced this is a fable told by many distilleries but whatever, I believe it.
Whatever, it's good. Anyway, Gary then shares a bit of information that is transformational. It's not really, but in West Hartford Connecticut, you need to find adventure.
Gary tells me the number one rated craft brewery in the country resides about 40 minutes from here. In Massachusetts. Somewhere. He couldn't remember exactly where but he knows how to get there and he knows the rules.
Yes, the rules. Treehouse doesn't distribute. Creating multiple world class varieties lets you do that I guess. Gary emphasizes they were rated as 99 point beers. I don't know what that means but I was transfixed. It's like the quarterback rating: no one really knows what 98.5 means but it sounds good when said with impressive tone.
As for those rules: pretty simple really. 1) Show up early during weekdays. They open at noon otherwise you might have to wait in a long line and potentially get nothing. They run out, it's that popular. 2) You'll get what you get. Treehouse makes a number of different kinds of beer but you likely won't know which ones they are canning until you show up. So you'll get what they give you. And what they will give you is 12 cans. No more. Don't ask. 3) Don't even consider opening one on the premises. Drinking it there is strictly prohibited. 4) They don't sell food and don't want you eating anything on their property. Basically it's get the beer and fucking leave. Be thankful you were allowed to even have it.
Gary proceeds to tell me that my GPS might have issues where we are going so we should meet first for lunch. The place opens at noon and who knows how many people will be there so we should eat first just in case Treehouse has become Krzyzewskiville.
A week later, he invites me to meet him and his girlfriend Amber at a Portuguese restaurant in a nondescript town 10 miles away from Springfield Massachusetts. Amber is good company but she also doubles as our mule. With a third person, we can appeal to Treehouse to give us a third 12 pack of beer to which Gary explains that means I'll get to go home with 18 beers, not 12. He says this in such a sheepish way, you'd think we were planning a bank heist. I'm sitting there going, dude, it's a Wednesday at 11:30 in the middle of nowhere Massachusetts. It's February. It's raining. It's cold. We aren't going to Mecca. But Gary knows because Gary is always right.
The trip to Monson, Mass takes us through large hilly terrain. There are homes on farms, or what could be farms or could be just a bunch of open space. I don't know. I don't care. I just want the fucking beer already. I like Gary but this is turning into some kind of bizarro Willy Wonka fantasy. 20 minutes later, he slows down as we reach Treehouse. And there is a traffic control person there with an official orange baton waving cars in and out and pointing out open spots. It's a rainy cold Wednesday at Noon in February and it's lollapalooza at this joint.
Treehouse has a nice brewery, they just don't open much of it to the public so a long line snakes outside and people are ancy waiting for their allotment. I feel like I'm in rural Russia hoping to get a slice of bread. But I'm astonished. It's a rainy February Wednesday at noon and people are eagerly waiting outside to get 12 beers or in our case, 18, muh ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Muh ha ha ha ha ha.
Gary starts immediately apologizing. Not for the wait and not to his girlfriend who he's subjected to this (numerous times I learn soon thereafter) but because their signature beer, Julius, isn't one of the varieties available that day. He feels like he's let me down and I won't get the true reward I came for. But, the Green and Alter Ego (the one I'm taking forever to tell you about) were the options and they are both great. 99 pint great, whatever the fuck that means.
The wait was short after we discussed for 15 minutes the sheer audacity of a brewery who makes beer that is this good yet refuses to distribute it. Gary simplifies it for me. They are probably going to sell about 450 cases of beer and they charge $3.50 for a 16 ounce can. Do the math. That's their slow day. It's like they are selling gold bars.
Everything that happens next is exactly how Gary prepared us for. As we near the transaction zone, we witness the beer literally being canned in front of us. A cardboard box that could hold a case but only has a 12 pack, has six cans of each available variety and people swipe their credit cards, start grinning and leave. No questions. No discussion. Just get the beer and get the fuck out of the way. It's the soup nazi of beer lines. Gary then explains that Wednesday is the best day because this is the day Treehouse won't fill growlers which apparently causes people to wait in line for upwards of 3 hours for. That makes no sense but none of this does really so whatever.
We have now made it to the transaction zone. I let Gary speak. I don't want to fuck this up. I did get so excited I bought two Treehouse glasses, one of which my wife pointed out was slanted. I didn't care. I still don't. I was so caught up in the moment like I was seeing the Beatles or something. It was moment of truth time. We wanted 36 beers despite the fact that only two of us are paying for the beer. Gary points to Amber. The humorless beer tycoon nods that this is acceptable. We all start breathing again and it's over. We're done. The stern stares of the overwhelmed parking officiant makes us subconsciously rush from the premises. I'd text Gary later.
So is it THAT good? The short answer is yes, yes it is. I'll tell you about Green, the other beer we got in another post, but Alter Ego is a fantastic American IPA. It's color is a burnt orange and it's rich. The foam will never quite leave the top or the edges of the glass and remains like a clear white cloud cover. It's not a thick beer but it has the feel of a German Witbeer. It's 6.8% alochol by Volume so it's not weak but it's not going to hit you either. In the case of both of the beers I've sampled, the aroma is memorable. There is almost a hint of orange in it but the distinct smell is that of beer (wish there was another way to put it). It's smooth and earthy and for an IPA, it's aftertaste is smooth. Of the two varieties, it was the one I preferred but I think Gary and I differ on this point which probably makes me wrong. As for the taste: it's not overwhelming. It has that IPA bite, but it quickly dissipates. There are few fruity undertones to this one, which likens it more to a beer version of a deep scotch then an American whiskey. It's the type of beer I could see as versatile, a great compliment to a medium rare rib eye. It also stands alone as a great beer to enjoy, not down.
In the end, Gary was right. Again..
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