Third order of business during my visit to Beer Thirty was to buy my standard vacation souvenir - a…read morebrewpub or taphouse hat. I'm not sad to bench the Pizza Port hat I've kept alive since a San Diego visit in 2022, but it's been in the fight one round too long. I washed it once in the dishwasher, as it claimed it could handle, and the logo is barely legible anymore. I love it, and will keep it, but this Beer Thirty hat is clean. Barely touched. Except by the cat? Some feline fuzz up on that shelf clings to the bill. I don't see a cat anywhere. Nocturnal, perhaps. This lid is bright and optimistic. Gotta don the cap before the sando arrives, lest I prematurely age it with grease spots. For now, it's a pristine, high-contrast, six-color surge atop my ridiculous hair. After lunch, it will probably attract local canines, who love a salted pork perfume with subtle notes of meow.
Working backward, the second order of business was to order from the adjacent restaurant, Carpo's. Hard to go wrong with a BLT. Order of business number one, obviously, was to choose my brunch beer. I'm an aging West Coast IPA enthusiast who in recent years has moderated my dwindling prime by embracing West Coast Pilsners as an alternative, and for good reason. After a couple West Coast IPA's I sometimes lose all sense of space, time, propriety. Beers three and four become a forgone conclusion, and then I'll find myself at the Over The Hill Gang Saloon singing Eddie Rabbit to beers number six and seven. The pils, with it's 1.5% reduction in ABV, sets me up for a sustainable buzz and helps reduce the likelihood of my needing bail money later. Today is the first day of vacation, however, so 7% IPA it is! I get most of it down with the appearance of control, without seeming like too much of a day drunk, but I slug back the rest real quick in order to procure the second beer before the BLT arrives. IPA number two and I resettle at the picnic table. And just as I take a fresh swig and exhale the last two weeks of stress, I think to myself. I could sit here all fucking day. Outdoor, shaded patio, about the size of an NBA court. One half allows kids. The other, the one with cornhole, does not. I used to love having a place to take my kids when they were younger, so they could run around and watch me and others drink. Now that the babies are all grown up, I do not want to drink with children. Is that strange? Bully for the owners to consider both approaches. A little after midday on a Monday, there are no kids. Just me, some dude on his phone, and three old hippies, scattered about the place. We, the five of us, are each flying solo. Yet each is more content than the next. No male loneliness epidemic here. Just some dudes zenning out instead of carrying day jobs.
"Dennis!?" Carpo's window suddenly is calling my name. Good timing. I was trending toward beers three and four without food in my belly, so this will help slow my roll. Two West coast brews in, it's only 1:30pm. Here, they arm you with a sandwich if you need one and throw you into the ring. One half of the BLT got tabasco, an old fave. The other half got a sriracha I've never seen before. They spar for top masculine condiment. Nobody sticks around to see who wins. Each is its own pre-bout steroidal flex, and like most fights, the interest is in the hype, the build up. When they finally go toes, it fizzles. Indeed by the time I wolfed the first half, I barely tasted the Tabasco. I got some light notes of spice in the sriracha side, but the referee was the story tonight. Mr. Bacon, he ran a steady ship, put a kibosh on all the nonsense, moderated the entire battle with an able, yummy, smoky hand. Casinos and books are usually the real winners in these fights. Their role was today played by toasted sourdough. OMG was the bread good! I have one more swazzle remaining of my beer. Strike that. Two swazzles. Time enough for just a few more words. I will save them for texting my Oakland pals to let them know how much I love this place.
