In my 32 years on earth, I’ve been tipsy on beer more times than I can, or can’t, remember. I’ve chugged Busch via beer bong and glugged Germany’s Franziskaner Hefe Weiss by the glass boot. I’ve done keg stands of Keystone Light and slowly sipped Goose Island’s complex, barrel-aged Bourbon County Stout. Despite their flavorful differences, these boozy paths all lead me to the same terminus: a bleary-eyed a.m., grasping for aspirin and cursing the bright, relentless sun. Paying the Piper is never a pleasure.
I’m convinced that there's a force field surrounding New York, preventing me from breaking free of the five boroughs. How else to explain the months that pass before I leave the city limits?
If one thing will make me leave my Brooklyn apartment, it’s beer. I’m cuckoo for bitter IPAs, chocolaty stouts, sour ales, and other carbonated pleasures of the craft-beer constellation. I’ve traveled from Portland to Portland (Maine and Oregon, I mean) to explore the brewing scenes.
But—Philadelphia? Sadly, I’ve neglected the City of Brotherly Suds, despite its groundswell of excellent breweries, bars, and eateries.
"Let’s go this weekend," my girlfriend, Jenene, suggested. "It's only two and a half hours away by train." Sold.