In my Pennsylvania radio days in the early 1990′s, my wife and I befriended and remain good friends with a husband and wife morning team. To this day, their show tops the ratings. We really get along. We share many of the same passions. One is beer.
I consider myself an active beer drinker. By that I mean, I don’t drink copious amounts, I merely enjoy sampling brews from around the globe. On my trip to Greece this month I enjoyed a cold bottle of ZEOS, brewed in Argos, Greece. It was a robust, full-bodied pilsner. Loved it.
If I’m an active beer drinker, my radio buddy is a professional. And I don’t mean he drinks a lot. He doesn’t. He makes beer. Or at least he did. He got a home brewing kit and began experimenting. The first couple of batches tasted like…well, homemade beer.
By about batch six, he was on to something. A magic started happening. A unique flavor was brewing – literally. A bottle or two with a nice New York Strip and a baked potato made for a pleasant Saturday evening at their rooftop apartment.
By the time he made his fifteenth batch, a sublime, exquisite blend was born. He just experimented, like the great brewmasters experimented. The only difference was, he was doing this in his apartment and had achieved greatness is a two months. Eat your heart out Sam Adams and Mr. Busch. He had hit upon a recipe for the ages. And I was one of the only fans. I told him to market his brew. But he really only wanted to keep it a hobby, which sadly he has abandoned.
I’ve tasted plenty of great beers in my lifetime. But something about this homemade brew made in a rooftop apartment in Pennsylvania satisfied my taste buds like no other.
It really was that good. And it never even had a name.
Did he write down the recipe? Can it be duplicated? Was it the water? Like the old commercial asking how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop — the world may never know.