Greenwood Red: “I have a picture for your blog.”
Me: “That's nice. Send it to me.”
So here it is: Red's dispatch from Hawaii.
I think it's rather lovely.
You can follow @GreenwoodRed on Twitter. He's funny. A lot of sports and music…and a fair bit of charm.
So, by the wanton threads of fate, it is another (sadly, another) in a long interminable string of vacation-less summers. There are worse problems to have, of course, and I am pleased that so few of these are plaguing my existence (though if the total could be zero I would be the greater pleased). Nevertheless, I can seem to find nothing—literally nothing, my dear Internets—to assuage the desire to be Anywhere Else.
Alas.
And so, because my mind is wandering in spite of the bound and restricted body, I present Some of the Places I Would Rather Be (also known as “Some of the Places My Head Is While the Rest of Me Is Most Emphatically and Grudgingly Not”):
She’s got the Basin Street Blues.
1. New Orleans: Because I know what it means to miss New Orleans…
2. The Beach: A Beach. Approximately any Beach will do.
How Blue is Your Geyser?
3. Yellowstone National Park: Because I once spent a summer working there pumping gas and it’s beautiful and amazing and seriously, you should go if you haven’t yet.
Digression on Yellowstone National Park and what it is to pump gas when you’re also female and an incomplete list of why that’s a spectacular way to spend one’s summer: (a.) because it’s beautiful and amazing. (b.) because at the very tippy-top of Mt. Washburn, if you time it right, you can watch the sun slide its way down below the horizon in a way it just doesn’t do in the flatness of Indiana. Also, if you time it right, the guy in the observatory tower will invite you in to look at his house/observatory where you will covet his solitude, his view, and his peace for the rest of your born days. (c.) because if you are female and you’re pumping gas because, by law, consumers cannot pump their own (or at least, couldn’t, back in the day) you will invariably get the better end of the argument that ensues when Mr. Women-Should-Be-Barefoot-and-Pregnant pulls up to the pump and throws a right old hellfit because a girl shouldn’t and couldn’t be doing that sort of thing. And when you pop the rebellious sod’s hood and check the oil, the ensuing purple-faced apoplexy is highly enjoyable to watch. (d.) because you haven’t lived until someone’s asked you “When do they feed the animals?” or “Where are the cages for the bears?” or “What time do they let the animals out for the day?” or “How come Old Faithful is late?”/”What’s the schedule for Old Faithful?”/”Do they turn Old Faithful off at night?” and (e.) because walking the geyser boardwalks in the moonlight will restore your faith in Something (even an amorphous something) in a way that little else could ever do. And (f.) you don’t know how big the sky is until you’ve looked at it from the mountains.
I spent my vacation at the gas station.
4. The Lake House: (Yes, she’s still on about that.) Because there’s simply nothing for it; the soul wants what the soul wants and what it wants most of all is still—always—to sit on the dock for weeks on end and stare at the water until the world rights itself. Best of all, to have friends and family, with infinite amounts of time in quiet and lake-scented air on the sun porch with laptop and books and space…You’ve got to hand it to lake houses—they haven’t the space for anything that really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, or at least the good ones don’t, and the good one is the only one I need.
Just one of the very many charming images adorning the walls of the eminently attractive Oaken Barrel. Also, you, floating happily on the wings of fairy dust and Gnaw Bone Pale Ale.
What: Oaken Barrel Brewing Company, Greenwood, Indiana
The author will have to confess: this is the happiest place on earth.
Secondly, the author will have to confess: she is a regular at the happiest place on earth. She has a mug and everything.
This review will not, could not possibly, be objective.
The Oaken Barrel brews the finest beer in the world (next to my beloved Bell’s Two-Hearted). That beer is called Gnaw Bone Pale Ale. It will melt your heart, make you weep, and then it will make you its slave. Forever. And you will not only not care about these things, you will be grateful.
They brew other beers, also: a raspberry wheat beer (Razz-Wheat, often suggested to women who like wine), Alabaster (a white ale akin to Blue Moon, but better, also served with an orange), Indiana Amber (a red ale), Snake Pit (porter), Super Fly (an India Pale Ale with 7.5% alcohol and a smooth, deceptive finish). There are also excellent seasonal brews in rotation (the Apple Buzz in fall and Epiphany in winter are practically world-famous). These are all very well, but what you want is the Gnaw Bone Pale Ale. That’s the beer for you (if you like hops. And all that is good and pure and true in the world.)
As a further bonus, besides truly excellent craft beers, they have food. Solidly, reliably, magnificently good food. (If it’s cold, try the Shepherd’s Pie; bonus points if you come on a day when either pierogies or Korean spare ribs are on special; triple bonus points if you come on the Fourth of July when they roast an entire pig and serve it up with fantastic side dishes.)
The bar is wood, the chairs and table are wood. There is no formica to be found in the Oaken Barrel. The atmosphere is warm and inviting. I said it was the happiest place on earth and I meant it. To linger in summer in the beer garden (out back, with a fountain) is paradise such as few men deserve but all can experience.
I think, next to the much beloved Gnaw Bone, it is the staff that makes the Barrel its superlative self. The Barrel is a magnet for bold, bright, funny, perspicacious people. It hires every single one of them and they make the Barrel, nay, the entire world, a better place. They are kind to all visitors; and to regulars, they are surpassingly so. To go to the Barrel once is to have a nice time; to go twice is to become family, in the best sense, minus the stuff of sitcoms and romcoms and dramas. (Become a regular and you get a mug, eventually a pewter mug, and after that, a chair with your name on it.) The Barrel appreciates its customers. Unlike many businesses, they can use the normally euphemistic “guest” of the hospitality industry and mean it. Without laughing.
So go. Go, go, go to the Oaken Barrel. If Greenwood, Indiana is out of your way, the Gnaw Bone alone is worth the trip. (Seriously, it is the best thing you will ever hope to quaff, if quaffing is something you enjoy, and the good lord help you if it’s not.)
Rating: 5 (of 4) Sláintes ♣♣♣♣♣
(and if they ever add a TV dedicated to C-Span just for me, this rating becomes 10 of 4 Sláintes.)
What: The Brass Ring Lounge, Indianapolis, Indiana
The Brass Ring Lounge is a little gem of a place, just off Shelby Street a block out of Fountain Square in Indianapolis. Fountain Square has always been a bit artsy: historic (read: old) buildings, antique shops, duckpin bowling, and ethnic food. It had gotten a little sad, frayed more completely than just the edges. But after a couple of years of new investment, including a new fountain, in the area, Fountain Square proper is rejuvenating in some wonderful ways. It’s still artsy. But now, seemingly, it’s artsy because it wants to be, not because it’s too poor to choose differently.
The Brass Ring is a lot like its Fountain Square home. Housed in a building that must once have been a Thirties-era filling station, it celebrates its garage doors by throwing them open when the weather’s nice. It celebrates the past in every corner—black and white photos from Vegas’ heyday, once-provocative pin-ups of Marlene Dietrich and Bettie Page, and TCM, exclusively, is showing on the two TV screens above the bar. Standards and big-band music play through the speakers, except on nights when there is live music. Oh, yes, there is a piano. They have live music. Not karaoke, not a band; when you’re lucky, there’s a pianist, a vocalist, and maybe a cool cat of a jazz drummer using those brushy things to provide rhythm on a snare. The place is artsy and hip and, not to anthropomorphize over much, very self-aware.
Just as an aside, there’s a goldfish, for life, and a plaster pink elephant, presumably mascot, oracle, muse, and occasional warning.
The Ring is staffed by attractive hipsters, happily of the welcoming kind and not the sneering variety. And this is all to the good. The clientele encompasses everyone: young, old, hipster, the emphatically and perpetually non-hip. The occasional professional has been sighted. Mostly it’s just normal folk. All of them are treated well.
The liquors are extensive, handsomely displayed and illuminated. The staff is knowledgeable about the selection, whether one is ordering a cocktail or a craft beer (also a good selection) or a soft drink. They have food, too, and what appears to be good food, (again, with the anthropomorphic language) as self-assured and aware as the place that hosts it (read for this: someone on staff is up on their foodie culture– sun-dried tomatoes, kalamata olives, specialty cheeses. It’s elevated bar food: all wraps and hummus, et cetera, et cetera). Prices are reasonable, and gourmet bar food and sandwiches aside, let’s be frank here: you aren’t going to the Ring for food, regardless of how presumably wonderful it is. Though you certainly could do so. And without fear of ridicule.
Fine drinks and fine staff, the Brass Ring is a fine place. Best of all, to this reviewer, it’s got that magical ability to be anything you need it to be. It has the personality that chains or the local dive bars lack. Its affection for the past lends it what could pleasantly be termed “character.” There is no pressure at the Ring to look a certain way or be a certain thing. You just go in. If you’re with friends, it’s conducive to all manner of convivial conversations. If you’re alone, that’s fine, too, and you don’t feel gritty when you leave. The soundtrack and the littleness of the place manage to provide just the right amount of sound and anonymity without coldness to suit whatever need you’ve got going, be it brooding, socializing, or just a draught to pull you through.
Rating: 4 Sláintes ♣♣♣♣
Isn't it pretty? And it has good food. I recommend it.
Where: The Irish Lion Restaurant and Pub, Bloomington, Indiana.
The Red One and I were out for the day, capering about southern Indiana, and we decided to stop in Bloomington for lunch. He, knowing me so well, suggested The Irish Lion. Well, upon hearing “Irish,” I was all in favor. I would like to write up a review, but that seems to call for a delicate palate (which I have not), a foodie’s view of the world (ditto), and perhaps a witty critique or two (ditto, ditto).
So, I will tell you what we had: The Red One had the chicken rollòg, a chicken-spinach-bacon sandwich wrap. It was utterly delightful. For me, it was the Celtic Stew, which I now refer to as comfort-heaven-in-a-white-china-bowl, or, alternatively, as lamb-carrots-and-potatoes-in-heavenly-dream-gravy.
It was damn good. You mayhaps ought to hie thyself down to Bloomington and get yourself a bowl of it. Pair it with the St. Peter’s India Pale Ale. (You can thank me for this tip later.)
The place is charming as all hell; the service is pleasant; the food is great. You should go. Possibly right this very minute.
And that concludes what, in all probability, is the least-incisive restaurant review ever, although it is a very enthusiastic and earnest one.
Rating: Four Sláintes ♣♣♣♣
