WebbAbroad

While I’m not yet in Belgium, that doesn’t mean exploration is impossible. It just might be a little less… enticing.

Lately, I’ve had my fair share of invites to bars, breweries, etc. It makes sense — I’m freshly 21, and that typically implies an interest in developing an alcohol palette. I’ve had a few opportunities for broad taste tests while drinking around the world at Epcot and touring the Anheuser-Busch facilities in St. Louis. Most recently, I was invited out to a local restaurant and brewery here in West Seneca, NY: The Ridge.

For a brewery, the place was rather haunting. We arrived about an hour before the brewery closed, the sky an inky black mass weighing down on the parking lot. The parking lot itself was silent, the only sound the shuffle of our feet through slush, the remnants of the most recent snowpiles. The main building, the restaurant, had large glass panes that lacked the homey illumination one would expect from a place of hospitality. Much like moths, our group sought out the dingy lamps stationed outside a side door, and made our way in. 

Mirroring its external appearance, it was a ghost town indoors. The lights were shut off around the edges, and what did remain shined down on mostly empty seats in a rather grand room. The space was filled with metal stools, chairs, and glossy wooden table tops, some organic and some rigidly geometric. A few scattered circular tables held small groups, 2-3 people hunched over, intent on what appeared to be a belatedly-made Christmas ornament, or maybe an early Valentine’s Day craft. Two large barrels loomed over the room from a corner, silver industrial pipes protruding from them and disappearing into the darkness behind. Words were quietly whispered amongst the tables, and the televisions softly murmured above. Our entrance seemed to be of no interest to anyone. 

Once we’d paid for some bar cards, we headed for the back. The magnum opus of the event lay ahead in all its glory. Shiny, metallic, and spanning the length of almost the entire wall was a self-serve tap center. With a simple press of a card to a choice scanner, a tap would activate, and we could pour some freshly opened alcohol. Under the taps, a weathered grate covered a trough collection system (for if someone foolishly spilled freshly tapped beer). My personal favorite piece of hardware, however, flanked both sides: a high-pressure water spigot placed above a pressure plate. My dad, one member of our group, mentioned something about this supposedly European style of bar-glass cleaning, which I admittedly should’ve been paying attention to, but I was already fully focused on forcefully pushing down my upside-down glass until water spurted upwards beneath it, rushing from the nozzle to the base of the glass and shooting down into the trough. It was glorious.

Unfortunately, despite the tap wall’s grandeur, the bountiful brews turned out rather disappointing. I began with the brewery’s own makes, specifically with their house-made Oastmobile Stout, which I thought may be similar to something I had tried at Epcot. It poured out dark, a glassy appearance matching the color of freshly made espresso, and it had an oaty nose to it that sparked immediate intrigue. When I tasted it, however, I was overwhelmed with a rich coffee-like bitterness and odd chocolate notes, common and enjoyable for some stouts, but rather off-putting in this one. The oaty flavor disappeared into a beer that left my mouth with an unpleasant charcoal smokiness. 

I found a similar disappointment in many of the other selections. The amber ale promised a lighter, malt and hop balanced flavor, and had a — you guessed it — amber, citrusy appearance. , and instead turned to their Belgian style beer, a brew I expected to encounter in the near future. With a nice weightiness and a high alcohol content, this one left me somewhat satisfied — it was wheaty, strong, and had a classic ale aroma. Certainly something to look forward to in Leuven.

The night continued to improve. My two male cousins, fellow brewery-goers, bantered and bickered with me throughout the tasting process. We lounged on the steep metal stools, elbows resting on the limited space of the chrome countertop across from the tap wall, our backs to the empty atmosphere of the main seating area. I watched the lankier of the two test out an Orange Chocolate beer, one my father had recommended, and saw his eyes widen as he attempted to process its complex profile. The results seemed positive.

I myself, after a whit of wheat beer (a slight improvement on the other offerings) and sips of my dad’s other samples, turned my attention towards the non-carbonated ciders on tap. The cherry cider offered a wonderfully fruity and delicate flavor, and it sipped smoothly. I found myself pouring a little extra to enjoy its aroma. I particularly enjoyed its follow-up, a Haunted Hayride spiced cider, which left a humble heat in my mouth much like a ginger beer, a personal favorite soft-drink. Its spices had an almost medicinal effect on my overworked stomach, and so I opted to end my sampling spree there.

While not the best brewery I’ve been to, with a lackluster nightlife and some disappointing drafts, I found it to be something slower and simpler than an average bar outing. I doubt I’ll be back, but for one night, sure — why not try something new?

I convinced my cousins to enjoy a final cider pour with me, which doubled as a last cheers before I headed off abroad. A bittersweet ending to a night of bitter beers and sweet ciders.