by Edward Lee
Collier smiled. He’s ducking the topic again. That’s really bizarre. He thought it best to drop it for now, but in all, he couldn’t have been more intrigued.
With the sun dipping behind the mountain now, the light was being sapped. Streetlights with carriage lamp tops were coming on; shop windows glowed bright. Now that they were downtown, Collier thought of a dollhouse community: spotless streets, storefronts and building walls shiny in new paint, picture-perfect flower displays. Even the people were immaculate, mostly married couples strolling the quaint streets, window shopping. No riffraff, Collier saw with some relief. Typically he’d see psychotic bums sullying Rodeo Drive and Crips and Bloods blemishing Redondo.
“And there it is.”
Collier saw the cursive sign—CUSHER’S—topping a slatshingled awning on the corner. CIVIL WAR CUISINE AND HANDCRAFTED BEER. The building itself stood three stories, ideal for a brewery, which processed beer from top floors to the bottom, exploiting gravity. Large windows showed a full dining room.
“Wow, not what I thought,” Collier admitted. “I pictured a small place, kind of a dive.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Jiff spoke up. “It’s fancy inside, and, well, big-city prices, if you wanna know the truth.”
“Makes sense, for tourists.”
More passersby shot funky looks at the car when he parked. Collier just shook his head. As night beckoned, the little town seemed to bloom in crisp yellow light and smiling strollers.
He grinned the instant he got out of the car. You can tell there’s a brewery here…He took in the familiar aroma: the mash of barley malt being heated.
Inside, waiters wore the Confederate equivalent to military dress blues; waitresses were adorned in white bonnets, billowy skirts, and frilled, low-cut white tops. A line formed at the hostess stand, and Jiff muttered, “We ain’t waitin’ for a table, not when I tell ’em we got a TV celebrity here.”
Collier grabbed his arm, afret—“No, please, Jiff. I’d rather sit up at the bar.”
“Cool.”
Jesus, Collier thought. Brick, brass, and dark veneered wood surrounded them, while framed Civil War regalia hung on the walls. A tourist trap, yes, but Collier liked it for its divergence from L.A. big-time, and its effort. “Great bar,” he enthused of the long mahogany top and traditional brass rail. Buried in the bar top’s crystal clear resin were bullets, buttons, and coins from the era. Another familiar—and pleasing—sight greeted him at once. Behind the bar, service tuns—beer’s final stage before consumption—shined with edges of gold light, cask-shaped brass vessels the size of compact cars. A chalkboard posted the specialties: GENERAL LEE RUBIN, STONEWALL JACKSON MAIBOCK, PICKETT’S PILS, and CUSHER’S CIVIL WAR LAGER. Collier started a tab with his credit card and ordered two lagers from a barmaid who would’ve been nondescript save for a bosom like the St. Pauli Girl.
“I guess them big things there are where they brew the beer.” Jiff gestured the brass vessels.
“They’re called service tuns,” Collier explained. “The beer’s actually brewed in bigger tuns upstairs called brewing vessels, but it all starts in the mash tun. There are about ten steps to making beer, and beers like these—lagers—take at least two months to ferment.”
Jiff clearly couldn’t have cared less; he was just looking for familiar faces.
He seemed to be searching the crowd for someone, to the point that Collier began to look around himself, hoping not to be missing something. He must be eyeballing girls… A moment later, an attractive diner in her twenties sailed by: tight stonewashed jeans and a tube top that satcheled prominent breasts. What a hottie… He got a crook in his neck watching her wend between tables. But then he saw that Jiff hadn’t so much as cast her a glance.
Before Collier could focus his newfound sexism on other diners, two pilsner glasses were placed before them. Collier immediately expected a Samuel Adams rip-off when he noted the sharp amber color, but when he raised the glass and sniffed…
“Oh, man. Great nose,” he said.
Jiff looked perplexed. “Who? The barmaid?”
Collier sighed. “No, Jiff. That’s how beer writers describe a beer’s aroma. A rich but tight aroma like this means the brewer uses good water without a lot of minerals. It’s also a sign of extensive filtering and refusal to cut corners with pasteurization.”
“Uh-huh.”
Collier reexamined the beer’s color, as if the glass were a scryer’s ball, then, Here goes, and he took the first sip, holding it in his mouth.
The emergence of the grain was immediate. The astringency of the hops—six-row, he was sure—rounded off after the initial sensation that experts called mouthfeel. After the first swallow, Collier’s palate delighted in the complex, if not perfect, finish. “This is outstanding,” he said.
Jiff had chugged half of his already. “Yeah, good stuff.”
Good stuff. This guy wouldn’t know the difference between Schlitz and Schutzenberger Jubilator. But what did he expect? Two sips later, the beer continued to retain all of its character. “Oh, how about ordering us something to eat, Jiff. Have whatever you like; I’ll just take a burger.” But food couldn’t have interested him less right now. Further sips drew the lace down low; then he let the last inch sit for a few minutes to see what characteristics appeared or vanished as the lager’s open temperature rose.
“So you like it, huh?”
“Indeed, I do, Jiff.” Collier sat calm and sedate, the awe of any beer snob who’d come across a surprise. “This might be one of the best American lagers I’ve ever tasted.”
“Didn’t you say somethin’ earlier ’bout how you’d heard of Cusher’s from someone else?”
“Actually, yes. A few friends in the field had tried it—but they couldn’t remember the name of the town. So I did some Web searches to try to pin the place down. In fact—” Collier extracted a folded printout. “Maybe you could help me with something.”
“Help ya anyway I can, Mr. Collier. Say, can we order two more?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Collier opened the sheet of paper. “Like I said, I was Web-searching—”
Jiff’s eyed scrunched up. “Web—You mean, like, spiderwebs? Thought you were beer searching.”
How could Collier not appreciate that? “No, Jiff. The World Wide Web—”
“Oh, that ‘puter stuff, information highway’n all,” Jiff assented.
“Yes.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The sheet he’d printed out off the “dining out” section of an obscure Southern-tourist Web site. The passage he’d flagged read:
…some of the most extensive collections of authentic Civil War regalia in the South, not to mention Cusher’s, the only restaurant in the South that features a menu of genuine Civil War cuisine and beers brewed from actual recipes dating back to 1860.
The address was found at the bottom along with the name of the article’s author: J.G. SUTE, AUTHOR OF FIVE BOOKS AND THE AREA’S HISTORICAL SCHOLAR.
“See, right here.” Collier pointed to the bottom. “This man, J.G. Sute. It says he’s a local scholar. Have you ever heard of him?”
For whatever reason, Jiff stalled. Then he blinked and answered, “Oh, sure, ole J.G. we call him. He’s a townie, all right.”
“Sounds like he’s a successful author.”
Another weird stall. “Oh, sure, Mr. Collier. He’s written some books.”
“About local breweries, by chance?”
Jiff still seemed off guard but was trying not to show it. “No, sir, not that I know of. He writes history books, mainly books about this town.”
“Books about Gast?”
“Yeah, sure, and how the town worked into the war’n all. And also local history and such.”
Damn. Collier was hoping for an area culinary writer who might point him in the right direction of any similar breweries. “I’d really like to talk to him but he’s not in the phone book. Where might I find him?”
What’s wrong with this guy now? Col
lier wondered after asking the question. Was it his imagination, or was Jiff uneasy about this man Sute?
“Well, he usually eats here every day for lunch, sometimes hangs out at the bar down the corner at night.” Jiff wiped his brow with a napkin. “Uh, and he spends a lot of time at the bookstore durin’ the day, hawkin’ his books. The owner don’t mind ’cos he’s a talkative kind’a guy and he gets tourists to buy stuff.”
Collier had to ask. “Jiff, you really seem bothered that I asked about this guy.”
The younger man sighed, clearly ill at ease. “Aw, no, it’s just—”
“He’s a local gossip? You don’t want him bad-mouthing the town?”
“No, no—”
“Then you don’t want to bad-mouth him? This guy’s like—what? The local jackass? Some old cracker-barrel kind of guy, mostly full of crap? The town dick?”
At least Jiff cracked a smile now. “He’s a nice enough guy, but yeah, pretty much everything you just said. Ain’t that old—late fifties, early sixties, I think. Drives around in his brand-new Caddy talkin’ his malarkey. Nice set of wheels, though. one’a them fancy Caddy SUVs. Enchilada it’s called.”
Enchil—oh, the rube means Escalade. “So he is successful from his books. A brand-new one of those will set you back fifty grand minimum.”
Jiff shrugged and kind of nodded.
“Do you know him well? Are you friends?”
Jiff sprang a gaze at Collier that was nearly one of fright. “Aw, no, er, I mean, I know him, sure, but—” He gulped. “But only ’cos I do odd jobs for him, handymantype stuff. I do a lot’a work on the side for folks, includin’ him. Trimmin’ hedges, fixin’ doors’n windows and such.”
But it seemed like an excuse. Jiff probably owes the guy money or something, doesn’t want me talking to him and winding up with the scoop. Again, Collier dropped the mysteriously sensitive issue after saying, “I’ll try to find him at the bookstore, like you said. I just want to ask about local beers.”
Next, Collier winced when the barmaid’s low-cut bosom descended to serve them their burgers. Do I have to lust after EVERY GIRL WHO WALKS BY? he scorned himself. He tried to refocus.
The burger was fine, but he couldn’t stop enthusing over the beer. By the time he finished his second glass of lager, Jiff looked sheepish at him. “Is it all right if—”
“Jiff, order as many as you want. I told you, tonight’s my treat.”
“Thanks, Mr. Collier.”
Collier tried to cheer him out of his mope. “And I really appreciate you bringing me here.” Collier pointed to his glass. “I’m sure that this is the beer I need to finish my book and make my deadline…”
Eventually, Jiff did cheer up, as drunkenness impinged. Collier’s rule was generally to never drink more than three beers in a day, so that he could write down his impressions with a clear head. However, when his third glass was done—Oh, to hell with it. I’m on vacation—he ordered another.
“Careful there, Mr. Collier,” Jiff warned. “This brew’s got a kick that sneaks up on ya.”
You’re telling ME? “Five percent alcohol, I’ll bet.”
“Five point three,” a crisp but feminine voice cut in. It wasn’t the barmaid but instead a woman Collier thought must be a cook, for she wore a plain full-length apron.
“Specific gravity or volume?” Collier asked pedantically.
“Volume,” she replied.
“Wow, that is strong. But it doesn’t taste that strong.”
“That’s because of the six-row Bohemian hops, the same hops that were brought here by Czech immigrants in the early 1840s.”
The specific remarks reached through Collier’s rising buzz. She knows her beer. And then he took a closer look. Hair black as India ink hung just a bit past her shoulders. She seemed small-framed but something in her eyes showed him a large-framed sense of confidence. Collier’s sexism ranged his eyes over her bosom but the baggy apron wouldn’t hint at her size. An ornate silver cross sparkled just below the hollow of her throat.
When he tried to say something, though, he caught her staring at him.
“I don’t believe it. Justin Collier is in my bar.”
“Dang straight!” Jiff announced a bit too loudly. “A bonner-fide TV star he is!”
Collier winced.
“Hey, Jiff,” the woman leaned to whisper. “Mr. Collier probably doesn’t want a lot of attention.”
“No, actually I don’t,” Collier said, relieved.
“Oh, sure, sure.” Jiff got it. “Say, how about a couple more?”
The woman poured two more glasses and set them down. Then she extended a small but somewhat roughened hand. Probably from dishwashing, Collier presumed.
“I’m Dominique Cusher, Mr. Collier,” she introduced. “It’s a real pleasure to have you here. If you want to know the truth, your show is about the only thing I watch on television these days. I really love it.”
“Thanks,” Collier said. “Pleased to meet you.”
She held up a finger. “But, I remember a couple episodes ago, you were touting that new Rauchbier from Oregon. Whew! You actually like that codswallop? They cut their barley with corn, and I could swear I tasted Liquid Smoke in it.”
Collier laughed at the surprising, bold remark. He didn’t really care for the product, either, but the question nagged, What the hell is a dishwasher doing drinking an obscure smoked beer? “Well, sometimes business has its demands. Every now and then I have to give a nod to a beer that’s not all that great.”
Now she smiled. “Oh, I understand. Advertisers.”
“Bingo.”
“I have to do the same thing, too. It kills me to post a Bud happy hour…but if we run the special we get a discount. Don’t know how people can drink it.”
“But more people drink it than anything else,” Collier noted. “Business is business. One has to accommodate the market. But let me just say that this house lager is excellent. Could you please pass my compliments on to the brewer?”
“You just did,” she said.
Collier was stunned. “You—”
“That’s right, Mr. Collier,” she said with no arrogance. “I’ve got a master brewer degree from the Kulmbach School, and I took supplemental courses at Budvar in Budejovice and Tucher in Nuremberg.” She pointed between two of the service tuns. There hung the certificates in plain view.
“That’s incredible,” he said. In fifteen years of beer writing, he’d never met any American to graduate from Kulmbach, and perhaps only two or three women with master brewer certificates from anywhere. Suddenly, to Collier, she was the celebrity. At once, he felt invigorated. This fiery little woman with black hair and rough hands is the one responsible for what has to be one of the finest lagers in America…Dominique Cusher.
Jiff seemed content to be out of the conversation as he swigged more beer and shoveled in the rest of his burger. Dominique leaned over on her elbows, smiling. “I guess you’re on vacation, right? I can’t be arrogant enough to think you came all this way to try my Civil War Lager.”
“Actually, I did. A couple of fellow beer snobs told me about it.” He took another sip and found no trace of monotony. “It really is fantastic.”
“Mr. Collier here’s finishin’ up a book,” Jiff barged in.
Collier nodded. “I need one more entry for my Great American Lagers project. I don’t want to jump the gun, now, but I’m pretty sure this is going to be it.”
“That would be a true honor.” She tried to contain the thrill. But her eyes sparkled. “No palate fatigue yet, huh?”
“None,” Collier admitted. “I’m not finding any deficits. Let me buy you one. It’s known as good luck—”
“To buy the brewer a glass of their own beer,” she finished. “Goes all the way back to the Reinheitsgebot Purity Law.” Dominique poured herself one, then clinked glasses with Collier and Jiff (though Jiff’s slopped a bit out of his glass).
“Prost,” she and Collier said at the same t
ime. “Who’s he?” Jiff said.
“It’s German for ‘cheers,’ Jiff,” she informed.
“Aw, yeah, that’s right…”
Collier smiled at her. “I’d try some of your other selections, too, but I should wait. I don’t want anything to interfere with my initial impressions of the lager. Is there anything unique about the recipe that you could tell me?”
“It’s a family tweak,” she said. She seemed to nurse her glass in exact increments. “A variation of Saaz hops and some temperature jinks in the worting process. But please don’t tell anyone that. My ancestors would crawl out of their graves to come after me.”
“So you’re a family of brewers?”
“Yep. This tavern’s been here in various incarnations since the beginning of the 1800s, and the Cushers managed to hang on to it all that time, even through the war. When federal troops captured the town in 1864, they burned every single building downtown except this tavern. When the Yankees tried the beer, they didn’t dare put a torch to the place.”
“Good sense.”
“The only other structure they didn’t burn was the Gast House, now Mrs. Butler’s bed-and-breakfast.”
“I wonder why they didn’t burn that, too,” Collier questioned. “They were pretty torch-happy once they started to win.”
“Jiff can tell you that,” she said.
Again, that pained look on Jiff’s face. “Aw, come on, Dominique. I been tryin’ hard not to let any of that creepy B.S. get ta Mr. Collier.”
“I knew it,” Collier said. “Ghost stories. Haunted folklore.”
“The way it goes,” the woman began, “is that when the Union commander sent a team of men up to the Gast House, he had to wind up putting them in the stockade.”
“The stockade? What on earth for?”
“Because they refused to carry out their orders.”
“They refused to burn the house, you mean?”
Dominique nodded with a mischievous grin. “They said they were too afraid to go inside, said there was an ungodly presence.”
Jiff frowned, as expected, but Collier wasn’t impressed. “That’s all?”