Brewer's Pizza ~ Orange Park FL

  The first time that I saw Brewer's Pizza a jug shaped neon hanging in the front window caught my attention. One may know the jug of which I speak; it is an Andy Griffith type of jug. It is a Beverly Hillbillies type of jug. The "Craft Beer To Go" message inside this jug forced me to turn the truck steering wheel, pull in, and park. There was no way that I was not going to check out Brewer's Pizza.

  This message of to-go beer confused me since I just moved to Florida from Georgia. In Georgia, one does not see restaurants displaying signs about to-go-beer delivered in "Andy Griffith" jugs. Maybe, if there had been neon signs like this in Georgia, I would not have left!  I have also noticed signs at barber shops and salons offering a beer or a glass of wine for those enjoying a haircut. I am not so sure about that. Drinking beer while getting a hair cut may result in one coughing up a hairball afterward. What in the heck is going on with the beverage laws in Florida? Wait, scratch that question. The great leadership of Florida allows restaurants to sell beer to-go in a Hillbilly jug. I am OK with that.

Brewer's Pizza

  The joint is not all that big, but it seats about sixty or so patrons comfortably. Booths line the walls except for the space where Brewer's has a table top "Shuffle Board" game. A Juke Box churns out "regular tunes" at non-annoying decibel levels which actually gives the space warmth. This is a good thing as the decorations are at a minimum (The neon was expensive.). A petite bar is squished into a corner, and a window on the back wall reveals the brewing area. I would usually explain in considerable detail this brewing area, but I did not investigate due to the distraction created by the excellent taste of the beer which I had ordered. Besides that, I was dog-tired from moving.

  The list of the beers offered is a hearty two pages long. I decided on Pinglehead Red (which on the menu was the fourth beer from the top). This is an excellent beer. Evidently, it is Brewer's Pizza's best selling beer. It has a nice finish, but it is hoppy enough for my liking. One is plenty happy after consuming just a few of these Pinglehead Red beers (7.8 % alcohol).

   I wondered what the quality of the pizza was going to be the first time that I ordered it at Brewer's Pizza. Only because, it has been my experience before, that "beer-heads" do beer well and do food poorly (or vice-versa). I am here to report that the pizza is off the hook. The food delivery is slowish; however, the food quality surpassed my expectations both times I have dined at Brewer's Pizza. I wonder if they drag their feet intentionally, until after I order a second beer. Yes, it is the clever "slow-food-service" sales tactic.

  As aforementioned, the last time I dined at Brewer's Pizza was the night after my move to the great state of Florida. We were rather tired from the move, and the place was jammed! I discovered that a home-brewers club was meeting that night. I kept overhearing wisps of words like "hoppiness", "bite", "smooth", "after-bite", and such. After a while, I just could not stand it any longer. I bugged a gentleman (I instantly forgot his name, gah!) who was kind enough to explain what their club was all about. He also gave me a sip of his Habanero Pepper home-brew. It tasted remarkably smooth and had a slight bite. I inquired how one would become a home-brewer, and he directed me to Just Brew It. I also met David Rigdon a sales manager for Champion Brands Inc. The entire CASK club was mingling and having a fabulous time. A beer club is a genius idea. I should have joined one years ago.

  I will be back to try other varieties of Brewer's Pizza's beer, as well as other varieties of their pizza. This could take quite a bit of time. Hey, someone has to do the hard work. I will report back to my readers the results of my research in about ten pounds.

Thanks for reading,

gf

The Moving Maze

  I never was too good at Tetris. Now I feel as though I live inside the game. Odd shaped blocks surround me, and I must weave through the maze. I expend extra energy dodging boxes. Every day when I return home I discover the new paths through the boxes. This requires relearning the grid so that my poor toes do not continue to pay the price.

  The refrigerator is a wasteland. Old bits of cheese and peanut butter highlighted my recent search for a snack. I did recover two expired cans of Miller High Life beer. They were astoundingly refreshing (Now you know how desperate the situation  has become). Jill sipped her wine from a Styrofoam cup during dinner. She smirked as she enjoyed her beverage. I presume that the bouquet of the wine in a foam cup differs significantly from that which is served in a wine glass. The cookies and chocolate are memories. One lone peach hides in the fruit bowl. Paper plate service is the new the dining protocol.

  Moving generates an asinine amount of trash. So far we average approximately five bags of trash daily. I wonder what important papers are hopelessly lost forever. Hopefully several bills are in the mix. Half full trash bags litter every room. The hall has been reduced to one-way traffic. A four day old fried chicken box permanently resides behind the front door. Starbucks coffee cups decorate the counter tops.

http://tokyo5.wordpress.com/2010/04/02/godzilla-tokyo-hollywood/

  I was denied the use of the washing machine tonight. "Don't mess with my rhythm." Jill warned me as she neatly rationed and folded my clothes for me. A basket by the bed (next to a towering stack of boxes) has become my dresser. I figure by tomorrow the basket will be gone, and I will have a pair of shorts set out for the move. Where are my shoelaces? The crooked stacks of boxes make each room look like mini-cities which wait anxiously for Godzilla to come out of the sea wreaking havoc.


  The moving truck has been ordered. The candle on the good-bye cake has been extinguished. The mail has been switched. The batteries have been charged for the Flip recorder. Eight more boxes to pack and my eleven year saga of Douglasville comes to an end... (and forty odd for one of us [cough]).

More to come,

gf

Moving Day Blues

  As I relace (by the way Webster does not acknowledge this word "relace") my moving shoes, my thoughts wander through the past eleven years. I know these shoes well. Somehow they are comfortable even after many years of neglect. Maybe I am a Gypsy.

"Medusa" by Jonathan Ewert

www.elfwood.com

  There are many details to work out. Dates need to be studied schedules need to be changed. Cable men worry the mind the most. Checkbooks stretch and creak, under the immense weight of deposits and fees. I recently found out what a concession fee was. What a holy crock of manure this concept is. By the way, breaking a lease brings out the Medusa apartment lease ladies. Anyway, Concession Fees are the monies that one would have paid if the lessor had not given such a remarkable deal. Such as, fifty bucks off the monthly rent (because possibly my hair was quite coiffed on a Wednesday). One must pay all of these discounts back as a penalty for being a Gypsy. People do not like us Gypsies. This is no good. (Go back and say those last two sentences with a crappy Russian accent to get the full effect.)

  I often wonder how much stuff I could get rid of. I have a full storage unit which I honestly have not missed much, save a barbecue grill and some fishing poles. I could just donate it all to charity and take a $3000 tax credit. No, the wife would not have that. We must have stuff. We must pack it in endless boxes and take them down endless flights of stairs. I wonder if the Japanese Tsunami survivors miss their stuff. Wait, stop. They are not Americans who save everything and buy bigger stuff every day. They are all minimalists except for the Sumo wrestlers. I am sure that they have a lot of stuff. They are the most American Japanese... then again, maybe not. They are very important and religious allegedly. They have shrines. That is what is missing from the WWE. Shrines. That is the ticket.

  Oh yeah, stuff is everywhere. Boxes scribbled with nonsensical descriptions of the contents. "Bathroom" or "Greg's Crap" are the norm. Some are unreadable and look like designs from a Mayan calendar. I have stubbed my toe thrice this evening. Look at Gypsy feet. They tell a story.

  More to come.

gf