Breckenridge Brewery - Off On a High Note.

I’m sorry to have begun the Colorado recap on a down note, posting a “Beer Jerk” entry about Golden City Brewery. I’ve had a positive bit of feedback from a patron of theirs and that’s heartwarming. Nevertheless, my sentiment remains the same: real beer folk offer a smile and a kind word to all who enter their establishment. (That’s the operative word here, folks. The door was open. An open door signifies something in this world. I’ll let you all do the math.) What part of "Publick House" is unclear?

Now, on a more positive note, I’m at that stage where I’m mentally summarizing the things, places and people I saw in a week of Rocky Mountain memories, returning to the high mountain town where my mom was born and raised in order to allow her brothers and citizens of the town she loved so much an opportunity to say goodbye one last time in a church from 1876.

1. Everything seems smaller each time I return.
2. The summer weather, no matter how hot, entices me to stay forever, but I always know what comes around in late October.
3. A minister with a southern drawl and three missing fingers on his right hand is a fellow I want to have as the leader of my church, any day.
4. There is never enough time to see all the family.
5. Sadly, I feel more and more like a tourist each time I go back there.

I hopped off a plane about 10:30 on a Monday morning, picked up a rental car and headed toward my sister’s place on the west side of town. I’d done a bit of preliminary reconnaissance to determine that the Breckenridge Brew Pub was along the same alignment of 6th Avenue as my sister’s place, so knowing that everyone else would be at work, I made a detour to a little place on Klamath Street just south of the 6th Street alignment.

I pulled into a small side parking lot and snapped a few pictures of the outside of the building - wondering if perhaps I was too early to find them open. (Given later events in the trip, the colossal irony of this now nearly knocks me out of my chair.) The door was indeed open and I entered to find the place empty save a barman and a fellow working in the kitchen (Initially I didn’t see the back of the plant where the bottling line was chugging away mightily.) I hopped onto a stool at the bar and over the usual pleasantries the barman supplied me with a beer list and a menu. I pondered the options, perhaps too long, and settled on a pint of their Ball Park Brown and I ordered bowl of a meat soup that really turned out to be more of a stew that might easily have crossed the table in your mom’s kitchen. The Ball Park Brown presented a dark brown with a thin beige head and a thin mouth feel. It tasted a tad sour, not unlike some manifestations of Old World’s Dark Knight Porter (ah, I love the unpredictability of microbrews, don’t you?)

My host, the barman, was Stuart and, perhaps seeing my interest in the operation, he offered to walk me into the back of the building to see the tanks and the bottling line. Sweet! I gazed upon the tanks and had a peek at the bottling line, where they were just then in the process of bottling up their Vanilla Porter. Stuart stepped around to the line and, plucking a fresh bottle off the line, presented it to me as a memento of the visit. That was nice.

We returned to the bar where I had my lunch and a pint of their Oatmeal Stout. As a lead up to the pint, Stuart explained that they’ve got their stout in a nitrogen “fortified” version and a non-nitrogen version. He poured me a side-by-side sampling and the fortified version is altogether more appealing to the eye for sure and frankly the taste difference is amazing as well. The nitrogen infused stout is a good deal smoother than its non-nitrogen cousin. Stuart told me that they no longer offer growlers of the nitroginated stout because it just doesn’t pour the same once people get it home and they get a lot of wastage trying to pour it from the tap into a growler. To which I offered my theory that a growler beer requires an aggressive pour if a cash and carry customer hopes to come close to replicating a pub pour at home. Stuart seemed to agree.

As Stuart diligently went about the tasks of the typical barman (counting bottles, jotting notes, interacting with the bottling crew and trying to field the inane questions of a visitor) I finished my lunch and beers.

It was altogether a terrific first stop on the Colorado trip and a personal exchange for which I’m grateful. I mentioned the purpose of my visit and we commiserated briefly on the vagaries of life and Stuart offered condolences; all the things one would expect from any public house worth its salt. Made me wish I lived just up the street.

I just wish I’d gotten a chance to go back before catching the flight home a week later. Next time.