The Great L.A. Beer Run: May 2007 Archives

Our sixth shout-out in a series of shout-outs to standout beer collections in the city of Los Angeles. And next stop on the Great L.A. Beer Run, slated to take place sometime in the next couple weeks.

If you’re not familiar with Glendale, CA, some quick context is in order: Home to the largest Armenian population outside of Armenia, Glendale is its own city just outside Northeast L.A. before North Hollywood, nestled next to the mountains of the Angeles National Forest. It sticks out with its mini Financial District high-rises and hillside villas. It’s all about mall shopping, pimping seriously expensive styles and aggressive SUV driving. It’s not generally a place we would subject ourselves to (unless we’re under the influence on a Whole Foods shopping spree or fiending for a veggie sub from Mario’s).

But when we first caught wind, about a year ago, of this liquor and cigar store in Glendale that had a fridge-only, collector’s selection of upscale beers, we grabbed our plastic and our Gucci beer bags and hit Glenoaks Blvd.

Always the ghetto car in a modest parking lot of beamers and convertibles, we feel a little out of our element walking through the automatic sliding doors of Red Carpet Wine. The predominant feel about the place is a strong snooty wine vibe — harsh at times, depending on how many tan George Hamilton-looking fuckers are sipping bordeauxs in boat shoes — but the staff is generally congenial and you’ll get a “hello” as you pass the register.

About 70 percent of the long rectangular store is comprised of wine shelves, mazes of pricey Napa and French labels (meant to be immediately stuck in a cellar). The far side of the store is a long library of liquors, including an intimidating selection of whiskeys that we haven’t even been able to brave much because of prices (like amazing 30-year-old, small batch scotches from distilleries that no longer exist).

And there, past the long wine-tasting booth, sits an L-shaped fridge section, usually devoid of many customers because clearly they do more business in wine and liquor. Of all the beer places we’ve charted so far, Red Carpet probably offers the least amount of space (7-11 excluded). There are 2 fridges for Belgians, 1 for English, 1 for German, a small row or two of Scottish brews and the obligatory 2 for American microbrews. Further toward the back there are a number of mainstream crap beers, can’t tell you how many but too many. Around the L-shaped corner, in fact the most prominent area of the beer section is a shameless display for the high-end Budweiser magnum bottles, the Sam Adamses of the world etc. Almost nothing comes in 6-packs.

But in between this blasé beer fodder — that clearly sells among wine aficionados who probably grab Heineken Dark for their football parties, thinking they got the good shit — is a boutique-sized smattering of great bottles. The Belgians are well represented here, they have both important standards like all of Le Choufe’s offerings and harder-to-find specials like clay-pot mustard jar-looking farmhouse Belgians. What’s more, you can grab most of the 750ml Belgian bottles for a steal, $8.99 in many cases.

The American shelf is well proportioned too, with strong showings from Alesmith, Moylan’s, the Lost Abbey series and Victory. This was easily the first beer store in L.A. that carried the much-respected Port Brewing beers, including Old Viscosity. When the brewers’ came up for a tasting party they just left a case of beer, or so one clerk claimed.

Not much for English ales, we keep meaning to pay more attention to the British — including the Scottish varieties — beers, of which there are many.

On more than one trip here, we’ve gotten in the way of a particularly laid-back, Hawain-shirt-wearing employee as he’s carrying bottles to the back. He always comes back to talk shop and offer recommendations as needed. Coincidentally, the big guys’ name is HK, which we took as some kind of sign. On our last visit, he revealed himself as a true beer dudes’ beer dude by recommending we go to a competitor’s store sometime to check out their walk-in beer cellars.

As for the other staff, the vibe is heavy on the professional connoisseur vibe. They can be curt, but it’s only fitting. Our only gripe: Our buddy Mike Meanstreatz, not known for wearing dockers, no longer will go with us because they gave him shit for his scruffy look. Not cool guys.

Staff: These people live and breath beverages, that and cigar smoke, but definitely pay more attention to grapes.
Refrigeration: All of it.
Split Six Packs: Nope, but hardly any six-packs.
Belgians: There could be more, but what they do carry is better than average.
Microbrews: Standard American micros with a West Coast leaning.
Special Powers: Only the sleekest, the cream of the crop, in most categories. Heavy farmhouse styles.
Achilles' Heel: Not much variation, few seasonal surprises.
Location: Here.

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.