Elba is part of Italy -- officially a Tuscan outpost -- though it's easy to get confused because its most famous occupant was (more or less) French and because it's pretty close to the Balearic Islands, which are Spanish.
The main city is Portoferraio. It, like the rest of Tuscany, was once ruled by the Medici family. The juxtaposition of Medici and Bonaparte is a fascinating element of Elba's culture. We had fun in Portoferraio -- once again getting off the boat with no real plan.
A block from the port entrance, we encountered Oscar, who had a cute three-wheeled jitney (sometimes called an auto rickshaw) and offered to drive us up the steep narrow streets to the big forts (one built by the Medici dynasty), then back down through town. For 24 Euros, and to avoid having to climb all the way, we took him up on his offer.
That was a very cool ride! Oscar, whose command of English was limited, zipped around the switchback turns and, whenever we came to a spot with a nice view, would screech to a stop, point, and say "picture!"
Here are a couple of those pictures -->
Oscar knew the staff at the old fort, so they let him take us into a few places not normally open to tourists, including a narrow corridor inside the walls where archers would fire arrows down onto invading armies. Oscar pointed to a set of wooden doors at the end of the hallway: "Five hundred years old!" he said proudly. Oscar also advised us to buy a day pass -- a ticket that would allow us into various buildings and galleries maintained by the historical society. We did, and it proved to be a good deal.
After poking around the fort/castle, Oscar took us to the house where Napoleon lived, past a theater that Napoleon built, and to a nearby chapel dedicated to Napoleon.
He pointed at the small dome above the altar and had me use the cell
phone camera to zoom in on the very top of the dome, where there is a
small pyramid with an eye looking out of it. "Just like US dollar bill!"
said Oscar. He couldn't explain the coincidence and neither can I.
Oscar took us back down through town to the waterfront, where we ended his tour and began the hunt for lunch. We had been advised by the nice ladies at the fort to go to the Piazza della Repubblica. Almost every Italian town has a Piazza della Repubblica, usually a lovely town square with monuments and churches and shops and restaurants and pigeons.
We found the square easily but it had been entirely given over to cars. The piazza was a damn parking lot! Well...
We knew of a restaurant next to the theater, having done a little research before our visit. It's called Teatro (check the web site here) and has a nice patio with a view over a small park, the sparkling sea in the distance. We found it easily (having zipped past with Oscar) and had a very nice lunch, including of course the local beer.
On the menu at Teatro, the owners are listed as Antonio and Fiona de Medici!
The day pass got us into the theater, which Napoleon ordered built
inside a church. Several tiers of luxury box seats were sold to rich
Elbans and Napoleon used the proceeds to finance his escape. The theater
is still in use.
The obligatory visit to an
archeological museum and shopping at a couple of nice pastry shops
rounded out our visit. Fun and educational day!
I'd heard of Cannes and Marseille and Toulon and San Tropez -- famous places on France's Mediterranean coast where rich people go to play in the summer. But I had never heard of Sete or Le Lavandou. When we decided to join Kathy's California cousins on this trip, these two places were intriguing precisely for this reason.
From Menorca, Spain, we sailed the short distance to Sete, France. Pronounced "set" (emphasis on the only syllable), it's a quiet port known for its fishing, its canals (billing itself the Venice of France is a bit of promotional hyperbole), and its oysters.
Our plan, after doing some superficial research, was to go the market (Les Halles de Sete), buy some fresh produce and bread and cheese and pastries and have ourselves a picnic. It almost worked!
Using a fairly detailed map, we walked to where the market should have been but found instead a clothing store fronted by a small plaza where some musicians were playing. That was nice. We figured we'd misread the map so walked around in ever-widening circles until we had given up.
During the stroll, when our heads weren't buried in the map, we saw some cool murals, which the guidebook failed to mention. This is Kathy in front of one mural, looking intently (again) at the map.
Back to the square (square one?). The market really should be right here! On a hunch (and driven by hunger) we walked through the clothing store and, sure enough, the huge indoor market was there, filled with fish and bread and cheese and pastries and a couple of tiny bars and meats and lots of people. I mean LOTS of people. We abandoned the picnic plan, a decision I now regret (especially after having visited the web site of Les Halles de Sete) but at the time we were intimidated by the crowds and the noise.
Instead, we sat at a nice bakery next to a park and had some pastries, which would hold us until we could track down a real lunch.
Our second idea was a canal boat tour. Some of our traveling companions had booked one through the cruise line, but we are stubbornly independent and cheap, so we figured we'd find one ourselves. And...we did!
A local company called Sete Croisiers runs three canal tours. BUT..the ticket offices were closed for siesta, so we had to wait, which was fine, so long as we could get some FOOD. Across the street from the shuttered ticket booth was a restaurant called, incongruously, the Hippie Bar, with its own bizarre mural (see below).
I ordered oysters (the famed local delicacy) and tried to order beer, but somehow the server and I failed to communicate, so I ordered a glass of white wine instead. The oysters were very good, with a kind of raspberry vinaigrette for dipping. The wine never came. Hey, we're in France, for heaven's sake! No wine? Merde...
Anyway, after lunch we got on the canal boat. The tour was inexpensive and interesting. We saw a bunch of oyster beds in the bay, some cleverly engineered drawbridges, lift bridges, and bridges that pivoted.
The narrator, who looked like Jean-Paul Belmondo, spoke only French, but we followed along with an English illustrated brochure, and that worked OK. Each time we went under a low bridge (so low we really did have to duck), Jean-Paul would lean into the microphone and genially use the only English phrase he was sure of: "Oh my God!"
Despite the lack of wine at lunch and the market that was strangely hidden from view, we liked Sete because it was kind of funky and unpretentious and accessible.
The medium-sized cruise ship took us overnight from Mallorca to the neighbor island of Menorca. Menorca, as its name implies, is the smaller of the two. When it comes to islands in the Mediterranean, small is good!
From the port of Mahon (sometimes spelled Mao) we took a drive around the island. First stop, the tiny resort town of Fornell (pronounced FourNAY).
It's the last week of October. The weather is fine -- sunny and warm. But the resorts around Fornell are almost all closed for the season. The town is quite pretty; the bay reminded me of La Jolla (except no seals or whales). We sat at an outdoor bistro (S'Algret) on the small town square (Placa S'Algret), had a snack, and enjoyed the view.
From Fornell, we drove into the hills to the center of the island, dubbed Monte Toro (in Catalan, "toro" is derived from a word that means "high"[and that's no bull]) where centuries ago the Crusaders built a fort and a chapel, which later became a nunnery. I think the large gift shop is a fairly recent addition. From the top, you can see the entire island and, on a clear day, the peaks of Mallorca in the distance. It's pretty.
At the top of the hill, the Catholics built a big statue of Jesus, arms outstretched. The founders didn't count on cell towers spoiling the view.
Back down the mountain to Mahon, where we wandered the streets. Many shops were selling sandals made of cork and recycled automobile tires. Apparently this is a thing on Menorca. We resisted the urge to buy sandals.
There were lots of stores selling gin distilled on the island. The locals are proud of their gin. We didn't buy any, but...there was a very neat little toy store, so the grand-kids benefited from this visit!
Pursuing our goal of dining al fresco at local restaurants whenever possible, we found a bistro -- Ristorante Santa Rita -- on a small square across from a church (of course).
A leisurely lunch of tapas and the local beer (Cerveca Alhambra) and a sunny mid-day -- nice combo. We had the albondigas (which was nothing like the Mexican soup of the same name) and something else. The restaurant was near the top of these steps, which we walked down on the way back to the port. Someone said there are 150 steps -- I counted 115.
After the unexpectedly busy port city of Palma, the size and pace of Mahon was very pleasant indeed.
From Barcelona, we went to two islands in the Mediterranean (or in these parts often called the Balearic Sea): Majorca (sometimes spelled Mallorca) and Menorca (sometimes spelled Minorca). I think the names mean Big and Little (sometimes spelled Major and Minor).
On Majorca, the port city of Palma was larger and busier than we anticipated (yes, we probably should have studied it a bit more in advance). We wanted to see the interior of the cathedral in Palma because Mr. Gaudi had redesigned it.
Turns out there's a fairly stiff admission fee and we balked at that, plus the line seemed long at the gate. Also, we had pretty much decided to take a vintage narrow-gauge train from Palma to a smaller artsy village called Soller, a side trip that would take most of the day.
Across from the cathedral was a tourist information office, where we got a map and directions to the train station. We aren't very good at following maps or directions, I guess, because it took us a while to find the train station.
According to some guidebooks and travel web sites, the ride to Soller is spectacular, up mountains and through valleys with lovely views. The train schedule even included a stop about half way just for pictures. Once we passed the industrial outskirts of Palma, it was a very pleasant ride. Not spectacular, but that's OK.
Soller had several surprises. The train station had two art galleries, one featuring a bunch of Picasso's ceramic work (including this scary vase shown bekow); the other with Miro prints. Spectacular!
The center of Soller was, of course, a busy public square (Plaza Constitucion) with, of course, a big church. We found an excellent restaurant on the square (Cafe Central) and had lunch, accompanied by White Rose, a fine local lager.
Soller is charming -- narrow winding cobbled lanes always seem charming -- even though it's mostly dedicated to shopping. Some touristy junk, but also some cute local shops. We looked at the Estudio de Grabados Llunatic Creusa, a one-man printmaking operation run by Ricardo Fontales. Sadly, the shop was closed. Happily, Ricardo is a blogger, too: http://ricardofontales.blogspot.com.
One of the highlights: We got back to Palma kind of late, so instead of wandering through town back to the cruise terminal, we hailed a taxi from the train station. The driver asked us where we were from and when we said Minnesota, he immediately responded, "Oh! Bob Dylan!" So we sang some of the Dylan tune that includes references to boots of Spanish leather. Smiles all around, and we just made it back to the ship in time.
We really should have taken the afternoon to rest and
recover from jet lag. But we instead went with our rag-tag traveling party of
10 to one of the many markets in Barcelona (the Mercat de Galvany, built in
1868). There we met our guide/cook and her daughter, who bought wine and the
makings of paella, apparently the national dish of Cataluña. We watched a
fishmonger cut up an octopus; bought fresh tomatoes and crusty bread to make
the Catalan version of bruschetta, and looked longingly at some pastries.
From the market, we walked a block to a third-floor
apartment (apparently belonging to a friend of our guide). There we were
treated to a fine home-cooked meal. The guide and her daughter explained each
dish, with a particular focus on paella – each ingredient and each step of the
cooking process. We had homemade tapenade on toast and the guide showed us how
to use the sliced fresh tomatoes by scraping the cut side across a piece of
toast and then pouring a bit of olive oil on it.She claimed that the olive oils in Spain are superior to any
other olive oil and accused Italians of buying Spanish olive oil and
repackaging it as Italian oil. We indulged this heresy because we didn’t want
to be rude and we were soooooo tired and, heck, maybe she was right!
Our guide and her daughter regaled us with their take on the
recent demonstrations in Barcelona over the independence of Cataluña. They
stressed that the language, cultures, and history of the region are so distinct
that it really never should have been a part of Spain, and that the Spanish
government is corrupt and takes far more from Cataluña than it gives back. They
also said the Western press had been unfair to the independence movement –
indeed, she used the phrase “fake news” to describe the reports in US news
outlets.
During this discussion, our guides strongly hinted that they
thought our president a buffoon and maybe even a dangerous one. We were quick
to tell them that we held the same dim view of the man.
Those of us who had arrived that morning began to nod off,
so we adjourned with hugs. The paella was good, the wine (Vina Esmeralda) was
good. We had learned that the paella is ready when the pot bubbles slowly,
making a “choop choop’ sound (which they spell xup xup.) Our guide led us in a
chorus of “xup xups” as we left.
We took a taxi to our hotel, a few blocks from the Placa de Cataluña
and just a block off the famous Las Ramblas (or La Rambla) pedestrian mall. We
crashed, sleeping a few hours, waking up in the dark, not really knowing what
time it was. We finally stumbled from bed and walked to a very nice little
tapas bar – Taberna Mil Gritos (“a thousand cheers” or “a thousand screams” –
probably the former). The excellent local IPA was a nice surprise.
Our tiny hotel served a generous breakfast,
after which we walked to Placa de Cataluña and got on the Hop on/Hop off bus.
We rode around for a while, getting off at the justly famous Sagrada Familia
church, Gaudi’s architectural masterpiece. We’d been advised to buy tickets in
advance for this popular attraction but of course we hadn’t. Turns out we could
get tickets for that afternoon, so we did.
Back on the bus, we rode around through the city, not really
sure where we wanted to hop off. I wanted to see another Gaudi creation, the
Parc Guell, but we couldn’t find it even though the bus supposedly stopped
there. Turns out the park is a few blocks from the bus stop, which we would
have learned had we but asked the attendant. Missed opportunity for sure!
We walked to the Sagrada Familia after lunch, found the
entrance for ticketed guests, and got in line. A minute before entering, a
nasty storm – wind and rain and lightning – descended. We had brought an
umbrella, so, unlike many hundreds of other visitors, we stayed more or less
dry.The church is spectacular!
The self-guided audio tour, using a very clever little wireless device, was a
bit hard to follow, but it was very informative nonetheless. We learned many
things one would not learn just by wandering around gawking, although the place
is definitely gawk-worthy. The esteemed Mr. Gaudi is buried there and the
construction crews are still at work.
I was struck by the attention to detail in every aspect of
the design. Gaudi was obsessive, sketching every piece of furniture and every
pane in the soaring stained glass windows. The massive tapered columns that
hold up the roof are just one example: Each pair is a slightly different color
of stone and each column gets lighter as it rises; each pair is fluted in a
slightly different way. These subtleties are almost lost in the grandeur of the
whole – we had to look carefully at things right in front of us at the same
time trying to take in the sheer scale of the place.
By the time our visit was over, the storm had passed and the
sun was out!
We decided to get on a different Hop on/Hop off bus route,
but got lost trying to find it. This is one of the downsides of do-it-yourself
travel planning: sometimes you miss stuff, you take a wrong turn, you think
you’re wasting time. But we definitely enjoyed our first day and a half in
Barcelona.
The next day we used up our Hop on/Hop off tickets,
intending to stop and take the cable car from the port up to Montserrat (or was
in Montjuic?). But… cable car not running, too windy. We intended to stop at
the Miro museum (Fundacio Joan Miro), but….too late, not open. We made a long
loop around the city and decided to hop off near the waterfront and walk part
way back to the hotel via La Rambla. This worked except for the fact that
the route was blocked by demonstrators, meaning we couldn’t hop back on where
we wanted to.
But the walk, though longer than planned, was quite
pleasant. We found another pedestrian street just a block or two from La Rambla
that was delightful and took us past the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, where there was a classical music group
giving a concert on the steps.
I do enjoy these serendipitous happenings! And we still made
it back to the hotel in time to pack up, check out, and get a taxi to meet our
traveling companions for the next leg of the trip.
From Barcelona to Pisa, our goal was to have lunch at open-air cafes, preferably a seaside cafe, to sample the local cuisine and the local beverages. The coasts of Spain, France, and Italy are not known for beer, but I figured we'd have plenty of wine at dinner, so lunches were usually accompanied by beer. Some of it was pretty good. Herewith is a travelogue of sorts. There was some spectacular scenery and some quaint old cities and fortresses and castles and palaces and cathedrals. These will be featured another day, perhaps.
For now....the beer!
Portoferraio is the main city on the Italian island of Elba. We visited lots of historic places, including the theater that Napoleon built during his brief stay on Elba. Next to the theater is a nice little bistro called, naturally, Teatro. They bill it as a wine bar, but I had the local ale. It was unexceptional, but the setting is lovely and the food was very good. We enjoyed Portoferraio.
The main city on the Spanish island of Majorca is Palma de Majorca. It is much bigger and busier than we anticipated. We didn't stay long in Palma, instead hopping an old narrow-guage train to the village of Soller. In Soller we were surprised to find an exhibit of Picasso's pottery and some very nice Joan Miro prints. Our lunch of tapas was accompanied by Rosa Blanca beer, described on the label as "hoppy lager." It was very good!
Here's a photo of the square with the restaurant and the big old church.
Menorca, a very small Spanish island, was a lot of fun. We learned that it is famous for its gin and for sandals made from old car tires and cork. We did not buy any gin or sandals, but we did enjoy tapas al fresco, along with a beer call Alhambra. I do not know why it is so named, but I liked it.
The restaurant was on the plaza at the top of these steps. Somebody said there are are 150 steps, but I only counted 115.
And in Nice, France, we had the best dinner of the trip at a place called Zorzetto, where the chef sat down at our table and described the appetizers he had prepared. There were a dozen and we had them all! The first course I had wine, but the second course I asked for beer and the waiter was excited because people in Nice prefer wine but this guy was a beer afficionado. The beer was "Biere du Compte" or The Count's Beer. The waiter's enthusiasm was justified.
In the bathroom at Zorzetto, patrons are greeted by the mascot of the house:
Barcelona is a great place for tapas (in case you hadn't guessed). At a bar across the street from our hotel, we had tapas and the local IPA, which was probably the best beer on the trip.
Rush River brewery in River Falls, WI was reportedly founded by some St. Olaf college grads. Wouldn’t it be nice if they’d stayed in Northfield so we’d have our very own craft brewery? I sampled some of their Bubblejack IPA this week. I don’t know how it got that name. Seems like they’re trying just a tad too hard.
It’s unfiltered, so it looks a little smoky in the glass, but the taste is very bright and crisp. Hoppy. I like it, which will surprise nobody.
But here’s a confession: I’m sure I could not distinguish Rush River Bubblejack from any other IPA. My taste buds might be getting tired. The whole craft beer thing has finally – for me – grown a little tedious. So trendy and faux-rebellious that I tend to shut down. What had been a niche is now the norm. I don’t want to be normal.
Maybe I’ll start drinking Budweiser or Miller High Life or Grain Belt Premium. Yeah. I kind of like the Grain Belt idea because, even though it’s just a bland straight-ahead simple American lager, it is a regional as opposed to multinational beer. And you can get it at Target Field, where for some reason the beer of choice seems to be Bud Light. I am not going to drink Bud Light. A guy has to have some standards.
Twenty-five years ago, I helped a friend remodel a house in the Linden Hills neighborhood of Minneapolis. It was August. Hot and muggy. My pay: some cold Schell's Deer Brand beer and some very good home-cooked food. He was a better cook than carpenter.
The friend later opened a restaurant which did pretty well. I was a silent partner (except for that one weekend cooking pizza). We both made a little money off that place.
I still like Schell's beer. I especially like the fact that the little brewery in New Ulm, MN has expanded its line to include several craft beers - ales and stouts and the like. Last year was the 150th anniversary of the brewery's founding and of course they produced a commemorative beer. Actually, they produced five different limited editions, then had customers vote on which one should be the official sesquicentennial beer. The Hopfenmaltz won. I had some tonight and I concur.
The Ranchero Supper Club is an institution in Webster, MN; by which I mean that it's been there forever. Webster is a very small town on the border between Rice and Scott counties, southwest of the Twin Cities. There isn't much in Webster except the Ranchero. I'd guess you could easily fit half the population of Webster into the Ranchero. People come, as they say, from miles around.
We've been there a few times and enjoyed it. Tried it again last Friday evening. The place celebrates its German heritage* by serving German beers and a few German dishes like schnitzel and kraut. The dining room is decorated with elaborate Bavarian steins.
My advice: stick with the beer. I had the Paulaner Oktoberfest** and it was excellent. The food, however, was ordinary. Dull. Uninspired. And overpriced.
* How did a German restaurant come to be called The Ranchero? ** Oh, and about that beer: The waitress asked if I wanted the full litre or half. I said full. She said litre, but I thought pint. There is a difference, my friends, between a pint and a litre. Standard bottle o' beer = 12 oz Pint = 16 oz Litre = 33.814 oz
So a litre is 2.82 bottles of beer. Now, I do like beer, but it is exceedingly rare for me to consume three bottles in an evening, much less in the course of one meal. I really only wanted a pint. Really.
But, as it turned out, the meal I had was so bad that I viewed the extra beer*** as my just dessert.
The blogger who calls himself Bleeet posted a list expanding on the Biblical 'inherit the earth' theme. You can read it here.
This little blog has had frequent posts about beer.
In a rather forced attempt to bring these disparate references together, here is one of Richard Brautigan's first published poems.
The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth's Beer Bottles
When we were children after the war we lived for a year in a house next to a large highway. There were many sawmills and log ponds on the other side of the highway. The sound of the saws could be heard most of the time and when there was darkness trash burners glowed red against the sky. We did not have a father and our mother had to work very hard. My sister and I got our spending money by gathering beer bottles that had been thrown along the highway or left around the sawmills. At first we carried the bottles in gunny sacks and cardboard boxes but later we found an old baby buggy and we used that to carry our bottles in. We took the bottles to a grocery store and were paid a penny for small beer bottles and two cents for large ones. On almost any day we could be seen pushing our baby buggy along the highway looking for beer bottles.
----- from Four New Poets. Ed. Leslie Woolf Hedley. San Francisco: Inferno Press, 1957.
But this is supposed to be about food. OK, leaving aside for the moment the argument that beer is food, let’s try again.
You say Milwaukee, I say… bratwurst!
What beef on weck is to Buffalo, what five-way chili is to Cincinnati, what Malt-O-Meal cereal is to Northfield, brats’n’beer* is to M’waukee. (According the many Wisconsin refugees who live in Minnesota but pine for the old country, the proper pronunciation is M’waukee.) There are many, many cheeseheads where I live, and my personal favorite is Bob Bjorklund from Oconomowoc. Just say that aloud with me one more time: Bob Bjorklund from Oconomowoc. Pure poetry.
So, where does one go for the authentic M'waukee dining experience, and what is bratwurst, and how does one properly prepare bratwurst? Hey! One question at a time, please.
The ballpark is one place to start, though neighborhood taverns are of course the culinary temples, synagogues, churches, and mosques of M’waukee.
Miller Park: The marriage of two corporate giants of mediocrity is celebrated at Miller Park. Bud Selig, erstwhile owner of the Brewers and master shake-down artist, joining forces with Miller Brewing, maker of that weak excuse for a beer, Miller Lite. The brats at old County Stadium were the same as those at Miller Park (made by the Klement’s sausage company), but the aroma of the old ballpark (sweat, urine, mown grass, charcoal smoke from the tailgaters) somehow made them taste better. The new park (which is not so new any more, I guess) makes everything taste like aluminum. All the more reason to bury your bratwurst in an avalanche of sauerkraut.
Bratwurst is a simple pork sausage, sometimes with a little veal added. The spices are pretty mild and pretty common – celery seed, marjoram, mace, maybe a touch of ginger. Sometimes the makers get carried away and stuff 'em with cheese or infuse them with beer, or even use turkey, but the original is just pork and veal and some spices.
The preferred cooking method (in the USA) is direct grilling. The little buggers can be parboiled (as in Germany) or broiled or sauteed, but there really is no substitute for the charcoal grill.
Neighborhood taverns. You can get a good bratwurst just about anywhere in M’waukee, but the old German/Austrian/Polish bars are best.
Wolski’s Tavern is famous. It’s on Pulaski Street. Kasimir Pulaski is of course the great Polish hero for whom so many things are named in this country. I worked in South Bend, Indiana, for a while. It has a sizable Polish-American population that at one time controlled pretty much everything in that town (a smaller version of Richard Daley’s political machine just up the road in Chicago). If you wanted to build anything in South Bend, from a laundromat to a juvenile detention center, all you had to do was name it after Kasimir Pulaski and any opposition evaporated rather quickly.
Other classic M'waukee taverns are the Von Trier and the Port of Hamburg.
Othere uses for bratwurst: For those who won't eat pork or don't fancy BHT or polybutylmethylparabenzinate on their dinner plates, bratwurst does have some other practical applications:
When frozen, makes a handy tack hammer.
If all the moisture is cooked out, one end may be filed to a point and the bratwurst used as tent stake.
Form a ring with about a dozen links and it becomes a festive holiday wreath
Sliced into narrow discs and dried, may be used as poker chips (also sometimes works as a quarter in vending machines)
The perfect nose for a Cyrano de Bergerac snowman.
Freshly cooked and garnished with cinnamon, use one link as a stir stick in hot chocolate or hot buttered rum.
At a Polish wedding, substitute bratwurst for kielbasa in the groom’s sandwich and videotape his hilarious reaction.
Split open one large link lengthwise and wear as a hat for a Packer’s game
*Has anyone over the age of 20 ever eaten a brat without a beer? Ever?
Rob Hardy, who recently returned from an extended stay in England, says he likes real ale. I've never been to England, but have come to enjoy ale and have been exploring some domestic brands. The eight ales listed below have all been sampled (read: consumed in sufficient quantities as to provide a more than adequate basis of comparison for someone who is not a connoisseur) in the past twelve weeks or so.
Sierra Nevada, Chico, CA (especially with Chico's favorite son Matt Garza on the mound) Full Sail, Hood River, OR (first encountered in a waterfront bar not far from Giants stadium) Summit Pale Ale, St. Paul, MN (all over) Summit India Pale Ale, St. Paul, MN (ditto, especially at the Contented Cow pub) Avalanche Amber-style Ale, Breckenridge Brewing, Denver, CO (during the Rockies' remarkable late-season winning streak, of course) Schell's Pale Ale, New Ulm, MN (why is this hard to find when we live within spittin' distance?) James Page Burly Brown Ale, Stevens Point, WI (a feature at The James Gang Hideaway) Goose Island Hex Nut Brown Ale, Chicago (the father of a friend of my daughter is the CFO of Goose Island brewing, so we bought some just because we thought we should)
According to the kind folks at Cryptobrewology, an ale is a lager beer, except --
The main difference between yeasts used for lagers and ales is that ale yeast is a top-fermenting yeast, which means the yeast floats to the top and hangs around up there during most of the fermentation process. Lager yeast is a bottom-fermenting yeast, which means it hangs around the bottom of the fermenter. During both types of fermentation the active yeast does permeate the brew and eventually settles out on the bottom of the fermenter when it is done.
The other main difference in producing a lager or ale is in the temperature during fermentation. Most ales are fermented at a controlled temperature around 70 degrees Fahrenheit, although Sierra Nevada's Celebration Ale is said to be fermented at 65 degrees. Lagers, on the other hand, are fermented about 15 degrees lower, around 55 degrees.
I'll take their word for it. Baseball and beer are, of course, intimately intertwined: Miller Park, Coors Field, Busch Stadium. I remember going to a game at old Comiskey Park in about 1958 and being fascinated by the beer vendors hawking Hamm's. My uncle George worked for a time at the old Drewery's brewery (no kidding) in South Bend and would bring home a case a week, which he and my dad and my other uncles would consume in the back yard on a Sunday afternoon with a White Sox or Tigers game on the radio.
Right now, my vote goes to Sierra Nevada, with Schell's a very close second. Full Sail seems a little weak to me. Summit Pale Ale is very crisp -- good with pizza (B & L, anyone?) The Burly Brown and the Hex Nut Brown are, for me, just novelty brews. Good, though.
A block from the port entrance, we encountered Oscar, who had a cute three-wheeled jitney (sometimes called an auto rickshaw) and offered to drive us up the steep narrow streets to the big forts (one built by the Medici dynasty), then back down through town. For 24 Euros, and to avoid having to climb all the way, we took him up on his offer.
After poking around the fort/castle, Oscar took us to the house where Napoleon lived, past a theater that Napoleon built, and to a nearby chapel dedicated to Napoleon.
We knew of a restaurant next to the theater, having done a little research before our visit. It's called Teatro (check the web site here) and has a nice patio with a view over a small park, the sparkling sea in the distance. We found it easily (having zipped past with Oscar) and had a very nice lunch, including of course the local beer.
The obligatory visit to an
archeological museum and shopping at a couple of nice pastry shops
rounded out our visit. Fun and educational day! 
