Set in the lush valley of the Swabian mountains, Stuttgart advertises itself as “the new heart of Europe,” proudly high tech and industrial. Tourist brochures promote mineral spring spas, the arts and that 500 vineyards cover the nearby hillsides. But look under the hood and, as in much of Germany, beer remains an integral part of everyday life.
When most people today think about New Zealand, beer is probably not the number one image conjured up. Instead, the Lord of the Rings film trilogy probably springs first to mind, and they did wonderfully showcase the island nation’s wide and varied landscapes and unique native flora and fauna. In the years following the release of the Tolkien films (2001-3), New Zealand tourism more than doubled, and it shows no signs of slowing down. More people visiting also means more demand for local beer, which in turn can only help New Zealand’s craft beer renaissance.
Americans who are told that Fosters is “Australian for beer” may scratch their heads with confusion when they land on our shores expecting to be greeted with barbequed shrimp and “Australia’s beer.” They would be hard-pressed to find the blue, white and gold label during their visit Downunder and they definitely won’t find the famous oil cans.
You have to hand it to Don Russell, although what you had to him might vary depending upon the city where you prefer to drink beer.
In Philadelphia, Russell is Joe Sixpack, a man who turned beer into a full time job: reason enough to admire him. He has also rather brazenly declared his hometown “America’s Best Beer Drinking City,” and slapped that tagline on a 10-day beer festival he helped organize called Philly Beer Week.
The panel above the entrance says “Bier und Weinstube”—beer and wine lounge. Inside, in a neat antique setting, all the guests appear well off. Take the couple at the next table: the man in a tweed jacket with a small, straight-sided glass has already finished his white wine. The woman in a red vest and black blouse is sipping dark red wine from her balloon glass and nibbling cheese. At the corner table, two men and one woman have impressive glass mugs in front of them, filled with blond beer. The second woman at that table is drinking water—she is probably the driver.
Walk through The Front Door in Galway and the ear-splitting volume of the music and the size of the fashionable crowd spilling between the first and second floors might deceive you into thinking that you have stumbled into a nightclub in Manhattan.
