Figure Eight Brewing, Valparaiso, IN

From the outside looking in, Valparaiso looks the town college town that Corvallis, Oregon, or Pullman, Washington would love to be. Downtown looks like it has a little bit of life to it when you pop through during the day. Chipotle, Five Guys, and Buffalo Wild Wings announce to everyone coming through, that there will soon be college kids on the street looking for a trendy way to be anti-establishment. And since Valpo really is a college town--whether it wants to be or not--it is bound to have some of the best-kept-secrets in the whole Midwest brew scene. After all, craft brewing is the anti-establishment establishment.

After a basketball game, I cruised on up to the Figure Eight, pleased that I had beat the after-crowd. The joint was slow, but the area around the bar was busy. A lot of solos and pairs were holding spots for their friends by placing a jacket on the chair next to them.

Traveling by myself, I would have been happier to sit at the bar, but oh well. I approached anyway so that I could order a beer and start drinking. I wasn't sure how long I was going to stay if I had to ride the rail. As I waited, my Mariners hat caught the attention of some hipster that was reading a book at the bar.

"How is it working for you being a Mariners fan?" he asked.

"A hell of a lot better than it is being a Cubs fan," I came back with. I had no reason to think that he was a Cubs fan other than he was in a bar, about an hour and a half from Chicago.

His feelings looked hurt when I said that, and he began to back pedal.

"Are you from the Northwest?" he asked.

We ended up in a conversation about the Mariners and Seahawks, and it came out that he was originally from Seattle. His old man was a philosophy professor at Seattle Pacific--and in fact, after a little more bullshitting--I discovered that he was a philosophy professor at Valpo.

When my beer arrived, he went back to reading and I got on to drinking at the rail. The rest of the place was doing its own thing. There was a group of people in one corner playing Cards Against Humanity quietly, at another end two couples were playing a board game. An NFL playoff game was on TV but I was the only one watching.

As I sat and nursed my beer, it occurred to me that the crowd was getting thinner, rather than picking up. That should not have been the case after a basketball game at a joint right off campus. That place should have been packed and celebrating a win.

I also noticed that the people that had been saving seats at the bar were beginning to leave. They hadn't been saving seats, they were creating a buffer so they didn't have to sit by people.

What a bunch of dicks. I understand being anti-social, but sitting at the bar is not where to be anti-social! Fuck those people.

I grabbed an empty seat at the bar and made a grand announcement that I was joining the varsity team. Nobody cared though. I looked around, every person in this whole place was in their own little world. The guy to my right was trying to flirt with the bar maid. Somehow he had figured out that her name was Sarah, and made it a point to call her by name like they were old friends to the point where I could tell that they weren't old friends because he called her by name so much.

I turned to my left and looked at the philosophy professor. He was still reading, and was underlining things in his book. This made him look interesting to anybody who might have been looking for someone that looked interesting. I decided to amuse myself.

"Hey, Philosophy," I said. The philosophy professor answered to it, so that meant that Philosophy must have been his name. "Do you think God is a sports fan?"

He methodically marked his book and presented the body language of someone who was pondering the question with deep regard.

"That's a theology question. I am a philosophy guy," he said.

"This is true," I said. "But we are drinking beer, so that makes it philosophy."

"Well I can't argue with that," he said as he took a sip of his beer to gather his thoughts. Then like a true professor of bullshit, he had to answer the question. He got into some long winded stuff about how God would likely value whatever we value, so wouldn't necessarily interfere, but blah, blah, blah...

"I think God is a sports fan," I couldn't stand it anymore so I cut him off. "I think he roots for the underdogs and that is why they are the underdog. I think God is a Cubs fan and a Cleveland Browns fan. The teams that win all the time--those are Satan's teams--like the New England Patriots."

Philosophy liked my position and got spirited.

"Yes," he said, as he swallowed his beer with enthusiasm. "Satan is a Patriots fan. And a fan of the New York Fucking Yankees!"

There was nothing else to talk about after that. We eased into our seats and relaxed for having solved one of the world's problems. He went back to reading and I paid my tab. We lifted our glasses to each other as we parted to signal a mutual respect.

The barmaid gave me my card and receipt to sign. I asked her if her name was Sarah. She blushed and said yes. As I left, I smiled at her and said, "You look like a Sarah."

Ironwood Brewing, Valparaiso, IN

The first time that I stumbled upon this place, I was driving through Valpo on a Sunday afternoon. It was winter break, the college kids were home, and jack-shit was going on in town. I figured that this would be the best time to grab a beer at a brewery right off of campus--the place would have to be at its most authentic.

And it was. It was closed.

I went back about six weeks later, as I was in town to go to a basketball game. I parked in a football field lot that was about half way in between the gym and the brewery. This time, a Saturday evening when school was in session was the setting, and I anticipated a rowdy pre-game college crowd. I crossed the street and could tell from about 75 yards out that the joint was alive. There were few to any cars in the lot, so this had to be an on-campus rowdy crowd.

Again, I was disappointed.

This time they were open, but when I opened the door, it was either filled with professors or old folks having a pre-funk before going to some sort of January high school graduation party. Shoulder to shoulder and nobody was rowdy. The ladies all had dates, and the guys wore ties. The ol' girl pouring was very overwhelmed, but very nice. After things cleared out, I bull shat with her for awhile. She explained that the bar operated in spite of the college--the two basically had no knowledge of the existence of the other one. Local politics dictate that the town and the school will always be at odds over what ever the fuck they want to be at odds over.

This was the first college town that I had ever been to that disliked its college.

She assured me that they make enough money off of the locals and tourists, and that they do nicely and don't need the college kid market. It's really a shame because you can actually see the football stadium from their building. Tailgating should be their niche. All they would have to do is barbecue in a 21 and over area outside and get some corn hole set up. If they didn't want to fuck around with the food license, get a hotdog cart or a taco van to come up.

Fuck, or just corn hole. Drunk college kids love their corn hole.

The other problem that this place had was it's prices. They were on the high end of normal, but their token beer was a Russian Imperial called Black Friday. It was going for $20 per 22 ounce bottle. A $20, 22 ounce bottle had better be straight panda semen or something expensive, not some fucking nothing special home brew. If you are Sam Adams or Rogue, you can do a $20 bottle--not some little-ass local joint.

Three Floyd's Brewing Co., Munster, IN

About damn time that I got here. 

I rolled in one Sunday in December while on my way to pick up my parents at O'Hare. I was hoping to post up and catch some football and drink at one of the premier joints in the Midwest. 

I was happy to roll up and find that they shared a parking lot in an industrial area with their Three Floyd's Distillery. The distillery looked like it was still under construction, but fuck it. 

Besides beer, liquor is one of my favorite things to drink. 

The inside of this joint was an accidental tribute to Northwest Hipster scene. No football on the television, just a Star Wars movie with no sound. Sound would have distracted from the iPod that was plugged in playing the Amos Lee or Ray LaMontagne greatest hits that was keeping it mellow. 

I was not disappointed with this because it was such an authentic breath of fresh air to be in a joint that smelled like the Cascade Mountains. 

Do the Cascade Mountains smell like pine? No. They smell like fish hippy and marijuana. 

I ponied up to the bar and began to drink. The bar tender looked to be a good 6'3", 250, and had a beard that acted as its own bouncer. When he spoke he sounded gay. 

I hope he was gay. If he wasn't, it would totally have ruined the Northwest vibe. 

The drunk next to me should have been drinking for free because he was the greatest hype man in the history of brew house hype men. 

"Yeah, that's a great one," he said every time I looked at the beer list.

Or, "Do you like IPAs? A lot of people don't like IPAs, but I like IPAs because the hops are what make the beer."

Thank you for the wisdom Fucker. 

I will give him credit though, he talked me into ordering the bacon and duck fat popcorn. And it tasted like bacon and duck fat popcorn. 

The best part of the experience, however was the authenticity of the joint. It's easy to be a brewery in Washington or Oregon. The scene is doing it in the Midwest but it isn't there yet. I don't know if it is the proximity to Chicago, the proximity to a D1 university at Valparaiso, or what it is, but Three Floyds is everything that is good about drinking microbrew.