Rocky Point Artisan Brewers

In preparing for the Festival today, we spent some time at our brewery. Once the beer is made and put in the kegs, we like to serve it to people. Since we are artisans, craftsmen, we take pride in every aspect of the process. That’s why Mike built a portable bar for us to take along to festival (and on camping trips). We use a lot of handmade stuff in our brewery which is fitting since we artisans are all about making things with our hands, including the beer we drink.

The modern age, the last one hundred fifty years, has been defined by increasing industrialization, mass production, and transportation. Industrial society has gone through a few identifiable eras. It all began with the machine age and the production of “labor saving” equipment like tractors, cars, trains, etc. Sometime in the middle of the twentieth century industry and manufacturing added electronics to the mix, even combining machines with electrical systems. Now it appears that we (at least in the first world) have turned to the industrial production of information. All this should be fairly familiar. But it’s important to keep in mind this shift to industrialization because it’s left is mark on the business of making beer.

Before the industrial age, most humans were perforce living in what we could call the agrarian/artisan model. Just about everyone prior the mid-eighteenth century was involved in some kind of agricultural or artisanal activity. Some people farmed the land, others made stuff by hand like shoes, clothes, tools, furniture, and beer. A lot of times the farmer would also have to tend to artisan activities if there weren’t craftsman nearby.

I like to think of beer making, brewing, as an agrarian/artisan activity. For most of human history, beer was made by women and men who grew the barley and hops they used to make the beer. This wasn’t a lifestyle choice, making your own beer was just what you had to do if you wanted beer.

For people living with the realities of the fully agrarian/artisan model, the “progress” promised by “labor saving” industrial production appeared both frightening and seductive. Many people understood that the industrial production model meant the end of a way of life, but some liked the idea of letting machines do more of the work so that people could spend more time relaxing.

Fast forward to the twenty-first century and you’ll see that very few of the things we use each day are handmade. The idea of anything being handmade seems exotic, some how luxurious and expensive. We think that only the rich can afford handmade stuff. The rest of us have to make do with what comes out of the factory. Now, I don’t agree with this prejudice. Most might jump to the conclusion that handmade stuff is too expensive. If you are just looking at price tags when you are standing at the register, then sure, the handmade stuff will have a higher price. However, even though the industrially produced stuff is cheaper (and I do mean cheaper as in lower price and lower quality), the total cost to our communities is higher. Individuals benefit from the lower prices offered by the industrial model; communities do not. [See also my posts “Local versus the imports” from 6 August 2008 and “Good Work” in Donavan’s Brain.]

This is an important point that we should keep in mind as we think about how we want to live. There’s a movement afoot, and not just in the US, lots of people across the globe feel the same way — that the agrarian/artisan model shouldn’t be completely abandoned for the industrial model. Industry isn’t progress. It’s just a different way of doing things. And some things are done better in the industrial model: computers and televisions, for example. I like my laptop and I think it’s just fine to have electronic devices rolling off the assembly line; but I’m not so enamored with that model of production that I think it’s a good way to make beer.

The best beer is made in small quantities by artisans. And that’s why we felt it was essential to put the word “artisan” in the name of our company. The idea of the modern brewery is one that has been shaped by concepts of manufacturing. That is to say that breweries are viewed as factories for the mass production of beer. We could have decided to call ourselves Rocky Point Brewery, but that would miss the point. And the point is that human beings, with their hands, their muscles, and their brains, make beer, not the machines. We are Rocky Point Artisan Brewers. We use machines, they don’t use us.

Tomorrow, Mike, Yuri, and I will take the RPAB road show to Martha Clare Vineyards for the North Fork Craft Beer Fest. It’s our favorite festival of the year on Long Island. We’ve been attending the festival under the Long Island Beer and Malt Enthusiasts banner for the last couple of years, now it’s time to go as Rocky Point Artisan Brewers — the time has come for us to take the next step.

The next obvious step for us is to complete the licensing process for our brewery. That process has been in the works for a while now. It’s a formality that legitimizes our brewing activity with the powers that be. It really has nothing to do with the brewery or the quality of our beer. Filing paperwork is all about taxes and trade. It’s not the pretty side of brewing.

What I’d like to do is tell our story, the story of three guys and a nanobrewery. It’s a story worth telling because we think it’s a little different and it might help people to stop and think about what’s really important to them: family, community, simple living, and giving.

Mike, Yuri, and I are probably the most unlikely crew assembled to start a business. Well, in truth, we don’t even think of what we are trying to do as a business, but our society doesn’t really offer very many other models of sharing a good thing. In the US if you are going to make beer and put that beer out there for people to drink, you gotta play by the Man’s rules.

Mike’s the driving force behind RPAB. It was his idea, his dream, his vision. About three years ago, Mike asked me if I wanted to help out and be a part of making that idea a reality. I’m a bit of a dreamer myself, so it was an easy decision to make. “I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be, but sure! I’m in!” I said (enthusiastically). After a year or so, Mike and I invited our neighbor and brewing buddy, Yuri, to join officially. And since then the three of us have come up with some pretty good beers and we think it’s time to put those beers out there for folks in our community to try and enjoy.

All three of us are brewers. We’ve been making our own beer at home for years. I started brewing in 1997, Mike started before that, and Yuri got hooked on the hobby after moving to the US a few years ago. Making beer has always been more of a hobby, a passion for us — something to do on the weekends for our own entertainment and that of our friends. When we decided to create RPAB we didn’t want to lose the passion for the beer and for the craft. That’s why we pledged to keep RPAB small and to self-distribute our beers only to places that are close to home.

“We aren’t in this to make money,” I said to a reporter recently who had dropped by our brewery to see the small but capable system we’ve put together.

“But you’ll want to get big right? Sell your beer nationwide someday?” The reporter was sure that we’d swallowed the American Dream hook, line, and sinker.

I shook my head. “Nope. We’re going to keep it small.”

We’re committed to the small. A few decades ago E.F. Schumacher showed the world that small is beautiful. We plan to carry on in that tradition of keeping it small and keeping it beautiful.

I’m changing things up a bit here on this craft beer blog. Now that our local, community supported brewery is “coming out” I’ll start writing about our brewery and the Long Island beer scene from the perspective of a brewer, a beer artisan. So from here on out, in this space, you’ll get to follow the adventures of Mike, Yuri, and Donavan (me) as we make beer for the thirsty folks in our neighborhood.

If you want to stay on top of what’s going on with our brewery, check back here, or you can subscribe to our mailing list.

“A Flemish Red is a style of beer,” I said.

“That explains it,” said Doug. “Is it on tap?”

“I wish! No, but Pete keeps bottles in the back.”

“I’ll be right back,” said Doug.

“Where you going?” asked the Preacher.

“To get that bottle of Flemish Red,” said Doug.

“I could use a vodka martini,” said the Preacher.

“Like I said, I don’t do cocktails,” said Doug.

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And then Doug walked in. “What are you’s guys doin’?” said Doug as he swaggered up to the bar.

“His beer glass is empty and Pete’s burning my cheeseburger,” said the Preacher.

“I heard that!” came Pete’s voice from the back.

“What do you want?” asked Doug.

“Something called a Rodenbach,” said the Preacher.

“I don’t do cocktails,” said Doug.

“It’s not a cocktail,” said the Preacher. “She’s a Flemish Red.”

“I was asking what he wanted to drink,” said Doug.

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“Done any brewing lately?” asked the Preacher.

“Not while I was down in Louisiana, but when I got back, Ray and I made a batch of Flemish Red.”

“Flemish Red, hunh?” said the Preacher. “What’s that?”

“You know, like Rodenbach.”

“No I don’t know,” said the Preacher.

“Pete’s got a few bottles in the back I think. I’ll order one, if you want to try it.”

“What do they taste like?”

“Rich, thick, fruity, slightly sour,” I said.

“Sounds like the liquid version of Pete.”

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I finished up my pint of Slight Smug Pale Ale and wondered when Pete was going to come back out with the Preacher’s cheeseburger. I listened to the rattling of pots and pans in the back.

“Your glass is broken, man,” said the Preacher. “It’s not doing what God intended it to do.”

“No beer in the glass, alas,” I said spinning the offending shaker pint on the wood-topped bar.

“Hey Pete!” bellowed the Preacher so loudly that I almost fell off my stool. “A man’s dry out here!”

A mighty crash came from the kitchen. It sounded like a whole shelf of plates hit the concrete floor. The inevitable stream of expletives started immediately.

“I think you’re going to have to get that beer yourself,” said the Preacher.

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I took a big long pull off my pint of Slightly Smug Pale Ale and said to the Preacher, “Don’t you just wonder what this is all about?”

The Preacher spun his martini glass on the bar top. “Wonder what what is all about?”

“You know. Life,” I said. “Where did it all come from? What are we doing here? Where are we going?”

“You’ve been watching Run Lola Run again haven’t you?”

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For the first time since he walked into Callahan’s the Preacher turned his head in my direction. He gave me a good long look, like he was sizing me up.

“Something’s up, man,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You. Something’s different.”

“Maybe it’s my gorgeous tan?”

The Preacher lowered his sun glasses and looked at me. “No it’s not the tan,” he said, then added. “Although, you look marvelous.”

“That’s just so eighties, man,” I said.

He pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “No, you seem… like down or something.”

“It’s nuthin’” I said. “Just middle-age.”

“Tell me about it,” said the Preacher.

“Well, okay. It’s all started when—”

“Stop,” said the Preacher. “It’s a figure of speech.”

Pete went in the back to assemble the Preacher’s cheeseburger leaving the Preacher and me alone at the bar.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” said the Preacher.

“Yeah, been a bit busy. Went on a trip to Louisiana to do some fishing.”

The Preacher nodded and swallowed some vodka martini. “Did you catch anything?”

“Nothing that isn’t curable,” I said.

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