Wine House

By Guest Knife Mike Meanstreetz
This beer poem is the fourth installment of our on-going love letter to the best booze aisles in L.A. With the extended Hot Knives crew still recovering from a mad dash up to Portland this weekend we, this one is brought to you by Hot Knives’ friend and beer afficio-nah-do Mike Meanstreetz.
A jump without compass but for sun and mounting breeze, the pedal west to Santa Monica’s Wine House was firsted along side my Korea Town roomy back before shipping off to the beer tariffed wastes of Australia. In those days we were quick convinced of a spinning magnetism between preoccupations of bicycles and ale, and sweaty brows furled above whet tongues in ponder of barley, yeast and hops ceaseless poetry. Bus strikes and a broken Volvo opened new trade routes in hawk-eyed cross city commutes.

A rare hair more trouble it was in finding new brews then, and thoroughly sought was every little shop and sip, braking for culturally suspect neighborhood markets all ways to and from, and on Sundays squinting pay phone cabled Beverly Hills directories vigil of opening hour. It was off the malty bearded breath of my roommate’s fatherly co-worker freshly persuaded of a larger world than red and white, that we were cued to a locale he’d previously frequented in pursuit of the latter. To his rediscovery he found new favorites Schneider & Sohn’s Aventinus Eisbock and the Belgian Gulden Draak well nestled amongst a myriad of other lands capped in sixes, bombers, half liters, 11.2s and 750s. The word was passed and to us it was a glorious tale, and with our mission lain before us we soon ten-sped west through the neighborhoods ‘tweenst the crosses of Olympic and Normandie, and Pico and Sepulveda.
On side street Cotner, cornering a 405 freeway entrance, the Wine House sits as broad as a supermarket, but upon entry is unassuming and welcome as the smell of cork, an ambiance befitting a booze shop well kept beneath a seemingly starred gourmet restaurant and tasting bar above. The glimmer of uncountable bottles prod a wander past front registers never kept shy of a smile or recognizing glance. An excitement in their stock since my first visit has yet to lull, for as new beers are brewed, the seasons change there too, spicing a familiar consonance to every visit. Glass glass glass 200 feet down the House’s right a beer selection fortifies wee more than the two sides of a large aisle, and adjacent sits a cooler holding a rotating sampling taken from the aisle face’s devotion to American micro brewing in 12 oz form. Nobly priced is a wince-free break of this region’s 6’s, its comparable prides represented in plenty and variety from each brewery. I’ve taken home North Coast’s Old Stock Ale in three vintages side by side for the same price, markedly the lowest aound.
Also represented are wider lines from breweries hailing states if not entirely overlooked, then carried likely in limit. Here compatriots Deschuetes, He’Brew and Philly’s Victory, with steady stock of their San Diego-like strong ales, and freshly hopped pils, with their more festive 750s shelved the other side of the aisle with others clustered a taller luster.
This section specifically populated bombers, Belgians and half liters, for me leaves the 6 pack an afterthought. The first time and place I had ever seen Pizza Port’s brews sold north of my familial visits to Carlsbad, CA, I was quick struck by a lack of adequate bag capacity. Surely they not only carried standard 6’s of coppery Shark Bite, 22’s of the the more quaff-able than surf-able Wipe Out I.P.A., and the too-old too-young timeless too-bad of darkie Old Viscosity, but still in times good or worse the stock steadies three Belgian inspired 750’s corked comfy a length of shelf up a tier, sitting next to the domestic exoticisms of Jolly Pumpkins, Allagashes, the foiled eschelon of Anvil, and all that our neighbors Unibrou have Zymurgically had to say. In the shade of the four or so rows beneath there lie the 22’d likes of Californians Moylan’s, Lagunitas and Reaper, whose Sunday company so close to the beach decidedly ignores all suggestion of pause between holiday.
For seasonal big beers this is a heaven and safe haven as seemingly untappable as I have looted unquenchable. No slight at such brief mention of their unimpeachable vocabulary for the habitual recipes of breweries like Stone, but in the fore is the constant arrival of new seasonals as they come, with the Vertical Epic being their only gargyled offering priced more than four dollars, with the rest often dollars less than the going rate of the many other stops to end my day. It may be due to grapes’ higher gravity in a stronghold so named that beers can be slow to move, signs more than fairly warning “last til next year!” These restless cases often enough are on sale next to classics already within elbow’s reach. Multiple trippels, barley wines and double I.P.A.s may ask a moment of you in discerning which armful to compare. This seasonal sensibility carries over into the hearty effervescence of the Belgian lot with an unabashed attention to the more creative recipes of Le Choufe’s innovative double I.P.A., the latelies of La Fantome and the Mad Brewer, and a fullness of all else you may so be regionally inclined to, with proper lean toward Trappists like Rochefort, Westmalle, and their cloistered kin. No shortage of the darker aled likes of Kwak and St. Bernadus, saisons like Moinnete, the Flemish sour and a singularly generous attention lambics.
Of differing nationality yet crafted in similar mastery are a Southernly handful of Italy’s brews, to whose acquaintance I owe a befriended Wine Houser’s discerning and generosity. During my Sunday visits I have often lingered for a talkative lunch break, and although never having eaten at the upstairs restaurant I’ve shared a snack of painfully procured crystal salts and an affordably unhurried press of oil over my first and last impression of the only radishes I’d dare brag about. A true witness to off the shelf black bean dip silty cousined of the hickory smoked, thoughtfully grained crackers, and cheeses to boot. As an address to worriers, there is still some German beer left, although invisible like minds and I have drank much of it and still suffer no restock.
Staff: I’ve missed you too.
Refrigeration: Yeah, but scratch that. They got a chilling chamber working down to the fifth minute!
Split Six Packs: A few shelves donated to the orphaned with their own price stickers to boot.
Belgians: Read the labels and learn the states and their capitols.
Microbrews: Almost, exclusively.
Special Powers: See ‘chilling chamber’ above
Achilles Heel: Traffic, for some.
Location: Here.