Brooklyn: Ordinary Burough or Dream World of Magic?

I spent the past weekend in New York, primarily visiting one Liz Shearer and secondarily enjoying art and culture and stuff. And what better way to do the latter, we asked ourselves on Saturday morning (morning being 1pm NYT, which I have discovered is very different from EST), than by attending a barleywine festival in Brooklyn?

It was not our original plan to attend a barleywine festival in Brooklyn. However, Liz received some email correspondence late Friday evening that read something like this:

Drink as a Hobbit Drinks

Train for St. Patrick's Day at the eighth annual Split Thy Brooklyn Skull Barleywine Festival this weekend. On tap: 34 different brews, from winter wheats to chocolate stouts to the exceptionally strong namesake ales. Or as Eric Asimov writes: "Barley wines are not for chugging after a workout. They are not refreshing but thought-provoking, sip by contemplative sip ... I like to think of Bilbo Baggins, comfortable and secure in his paneled Hobbit hole, with a cupboard full of seedcakes and a mug of barley wine."

When one receives an invitation to a beer festival, the name of which appears to be written in pirate-speak and which someone named Eric Asimov* has likened to a cozy evening hearthside with Bilbo Baggins, one does not say no.

Or at least Liz and I do not.

Instead, we asked ourselves were we worthy of such an undertaking? We asked ourselves what we must do to properly prepare for said fest? We asked ourselves what would Bilbo do?

Now, I must pause my tale as it occurs to me that there may be a few of you out there who are not so familiar with the realms of fantasy literature and who I still deign to call ‘friend.’ (We won’t even go into whether those persons deign to call me friend or even acquaintance, nor whether they would deign to read this blog. Outlook not so good.)

But on the off chance there are some fantasy novel non-familiars in my reading audience, allow me to provide some background. When I speak of fantasy novels, I am talking Tolkien. I am talking Narnia. I am talking Lloyd Alexander. I am even talking Susan Cooper. Much as I love him, I am not talking Harry Potter.

Characters must include at least one hobbit, dwarf, gnome, or other such person of small stature. One character must have an animal friend and one must play a woodwind or stringed instrument (percussion and brass need not apply). Ideally one of the characters will be enchanted, although this requirement can also be filled by the animal friend. Once assembled, the cast of characters will form a band and proceed to rove.

For the most part this roving is through forests and in the best fantasy will involve a tree dwelling of some sort. While on the move, the travelers carry their worldly belongings and provisions strapped to their backs in rough burlap-style sacks. (When strapped to their belts, the sacks are made of leather and are called “pouches.”) Their food comes almost entirely in dense cake form, including oatcakes, wheatcakes, corncakes, seedcakes, and the aptly named “mealcakes.” Occasionally the forest will provide dietary supplements of wild berries or roots; perhaps even mythical beings would suffer ill effects from fiber deficiency in an entirely cake-based subsistence. Their drink is characterized only as “ale.” It is presumably dark, it is presumably strong, and it is most definitely carried in a pouch and enjoyed by all.

That said, the answer to our question WWBD? was all too clear. Faced with the prospect of a journey to far-off Brooklyn to imbibe of the fine barleywine, Bilbo would bake some oaten cakes and find a haversack in which to transport them.

Now, I am not sure that Bilbo would procure his oats at an organic grocery on 107th and Broadway, nor would he impulse purchase some pear and pecorino as a delightful hors d’oeuvre for his oatcake main dish, but sadly we were in Manhattan not Middle-earth and did I mention we like cheese?

So, with our haversacks (Liz’ was at least made of a canvassy material; mine was pathetically cotton) full of oatcakes and our hearts full of joy at the prospect of encountering other like-minded barley loving fellows, we set out to break our Brooklyn skulls.

Upon our arrival at Mug’s Ale House in the somewhat hipster neighborhood of Williamsburg, we were a bit surprised to find that our compatriots were not so much settled into large armchairs by the fire. Nor were they roving in the tiny wilderness of the back beer garden. There was ale all right, but it was served in miniature snifters rather than pouches or even earthenware mugs. No pipers piping, no lutists luting. There was not a cake in sight.

Nor was there a waiter in sight, for that matter. After consuming our first snifter of barleywine, we waited a solid 45 minutes to order our second, nibbling half-heartedly on an oatcake, only to be told by a very harassed looking waitress that they were just “really swamped” at the moment. Although our ears perked up momentarily at the mention of “swamp” (Gollum?), we decided perhaps it was time to rove onward.

We decided Bilbo would go to the delightful German beer haus up the way.


* Eric Asimov appears to be the chief wine critic for the NY Times. And a closet fantasy lover. I aspire to be Eric Asimov. Tragically, I know nothing of fine wines and my love of fantasy is no longer the well-kept secret it once was.