*burp*
A week ago yesterday I suffered the horror of drinking a glass of incredibly over-priced Samuel Adams tap beer at Chelsea Piers in Manhattan. At least I sipped at it a little bit and abandoned the effort soon after; leaving it’s bitterness sitting on the counter.
Last Wednesday I had the occasion to be in the East Village and decided I needed to refresh my memory of good tap beer and headed for McSorely’s on East 7th which I’ve been to several times so I know they always have a nice variety of beer and ale on tap. On the way I happened to pass three small taverns on the same block and was intrigued to notice the middle one was named Burp Castle. “McSorley’s be gone,” thinks I; I had to see what lay beyond that name.
Burp Castle is a nice little place with lots of small tables, faux medieval décor and lavishly painted murals on the walls, mostly of drunken, robed monks cavorting about; sometimes with wanton bare-chested women. Since it was only about 3:45 the place was almost empty and I sat at the bar and consulted the menu of brews available…a VERY long list; I would guess 300 at least. The tap handles erupt along the bar and there must be 15 or 20 to choose from. A pleasant dilemma. The exceptionally cool bartender offered to help and asked me if I liked any special cocktail and when I told her I have recently reverted back to manhattans from a foray into cosmopolitans, she suggested a (a what?…oh, gawd, I’ve forgotten) and let me test this selection along with two others she thought I might like. How cool is that? I ordered a tall glass of her first suggestion, savoring its flavor and tartness and retired to the privacy of my NY Times for any tidbits of wisdom I could add to my half-vast storage area of useless information or, conversely, universal faults and schisms I might immediately resolve if I chose to do so. Whatever, I was feeling one with the world.
The only other people in the place were a group of five youngish (30’s) men sitting at tables in the back, obviously having a good time and also obviously playing hooky from their office which, from their chatter, I gleaned was nearby. At one point the bartender loudly shushed them and their decibel volume lowered at bit but, naturally, soon returned…it’s a bar for goodness sake…and people are drinking beer! But she shushed them again and then again. Since I was the only other customer I told her their talk didn’t bother me in the least and she said it’s part of the policy to try to keep things relatively quiet and that this “shushing” had become engrained in the ambience of the place. When Burp Castle opened in 1992 this behavior became a running joke, is now expected and it’s almost a point of pride with some customers to be told to shut up.
In the meantime other people wandered in (and out) and I noticed that she used a walkie talkie to order up some special beer/ale selections from the basement (dungeon?). A good-sized Igor would appear from below with the orders and I only wished he was wearing one of those brown monk robes that were hung in an alcove near the door. The bartender said that, yes, on busy nights the robes were indeed utilized by the staff. I guess she thought I looked sufficiently monkish tonsorial-wise and with the proper paunchiness because she offered to buy my beer if I would wear one. I was tempted because these special bubbles are not cheap, but I demurred since my dignity is such a precious thing ever since I became an adult (it's been at least five years now) and, besides, I didn’t want to be part of the entertainment. And I only wanted the one beer, anyway, good as it was.
They don’t serve food at Burp Castle but I did notice a stack of take-out menus on the counter and you can have anything you want delivered, probably a good thing if you plan on making a night of it there.
When I left I paid more attention to the bars on either side of Burp Castle. The three entrances are huddled together, sort-of, and it occurred to me that this could all be somewhat of a minor sham. I would bet dollars to an order of pomme frites they all share the brew basement, and maybe even the shambling Igor. Next time I’ll ask and maybe even remember the name of the beer I imbibed--it had a whisper and a whiff of raspberries that pleased the palate with no residual bitterness. And maybe I’ll just slip into one of those robes to get freebies. Well, probably not, it’s that dignity thing again.
Last Wednesday I had the occasion to be in the East Village and decided I needed to refresh my memory of good tap beer and headed for McSorely’s on East 7th which I’ve been to several times so I know they always have a nice variety of beer and ale on tap. On the way I happened to pass three small taverns on the same block and was intrigued to notice the middle one was named Burp Castle. “McSorley’s be gone,” thinks I; I had to see what lay beyond that name.
Burp Castle is a nice little place with lots of small tables, faux medieval décor and lavishly painted murals on the walls, mostly of drunken, robed monks cavorting about; sometimes with wanton bare-chested women. Since it was only about 3:45 the place was almost empty and I sat at the bar and consulted the menu of brews available…a VERY long list; I would guess 300 at least. The tap handles erupt along the bar and there must be 15 or 20 to choose from. A pleasant dilemma. The exceptionally cool bartender offered to help and asked me if I liked any special cocktail and when I told her I have recently reverted back to manhattans from a foray into cosmopolitans, she suggested a (a what?…oh, gawd, I’ve forgotten) and let me test this selection along with two others she thought I might like. How cool is that? I ordered a tall glass of her first suggestion, savoring its flavor and tartness and retired to the privacy of my NY Times for any tidbits of wisdom I could add to my half-vast storage area of useless information or, conversely, universal faults and schisms I might immediately resolve if I chose to do so. Whatever, I was feeling one with the world.The only other people in the place were a group of five youngish (30’s) men sitting at tables in the back, obviously having a good time and also obviously playing hooky from their office which, from their chatter, I gleaned was nearby. At one point the bartender loudly shushed them and their decibel volume lowered at bit but, naturally, soon returned…it’s a bar for goodness sake…and people are drinking beer! But she shushed them again and then again. Since I was the only other customer I told her their talk didn’t bother me in the least and she said it’s part of the policy to try to keep things relatively quiet and that this “shushing” had become engrained in the ambience of the place. When Burp Castle opened in 1992 this behavior became a running joke, is now expected and it’s almost a point of pride with some customers to be told to shut up.
In the meantime other people wandered in (and out) and I noticed that she used a walkie talkie to order up some special beer/ale selections from the basement (dungeon?). A good-sized Igor would appear from below with the orders and I only wished he was wearing one of those brown monk robes that were hung in an alcove near the door. The bartender said that, yes, on busy nights the robes were indeed utilized by the staff. I guess she thought I looked sufficiently monkish tonsorial-wise and with the proper paunchiness because she offered to buy my beer if I would wear one. I was tempted because these special bubbles are not cheap, but I demurred since my dignity is such a precious thing ever since I became an adult (it's been at least five years now) and, besides, I didn’t want to be part of the entertainment. And I only wanted the one beer, anyway, good as it was.
They don’t serve food at Burp Castle but I did notice a stack of take-out menus on the counter and you can have anything you want delivered, probably a good thing if you plan on making a night of it there.
When I left I paid more attention to the bars on either side of Burp Castle. The three entrances are huddled together, sort-of, and it occurred to me that this could all be somewhat of a minor sham. I would bet dollars to an order of pomme frites they all share the brew basement, and maybe even the shambling Igor. Next time I’ll ask and maybe even remember the name of the beer I imbibed--it had a whisper and a whiff of raspberries that pleased the palate with no residual bitterness. And maybe I’ll just slip into one of those robes to get freebies. Well, probably not, it’s that dignity thing again.
posted by peebstuff | Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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