Bootlegging

"Fizzy Yellow Beer is for Wussies" So reads the signature glass for Stone Brewing Company’s Arrogant Bastard Ale. The somewhat cheeky advertising campaign employed by Stone is mostly about fun and serves to down play the quality and dedication to the brewer’s art that is apparent from the first sip of one of this brewer’s products. I have yet to see Stone’s beers for sale here in the Garden State, but I have found them all in Chinatown.

In the tradition of the bootleggers of old, I have clandestinely imported them to our little paradise on the Raritan Bay. That bucolic enclave of Victorian charm, the place we all call home, our own little Mayberry on the Bay … a town that once was a popular haven for Bootleggers … Atlantic Highlands.

My fall from grace began last Tuesday. Surreptitiously, under the guise of a healthy lunchtime walk, I exited the office onto Maiden Lane thence to Water Street. Continuing North on Water, under the Brooklyn Bridge, past One Police Plaza, toward Mott Street and the darkened heart of Chinatown. Weaving my way through the crowds and slipping past the herbal remedies and fresh sardines I continued north. My round eyes and trench coat marking me as an outsider…but not a tourist. Across a sea of humanity I strode. Just past the Lighting District via Bowery; I sprinted across Delancey Street. On a seedy side street in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge I met my contact. The venue was small, hidden amongst stainless steel fabricators and restaurant supply houses, my quarry hid in plain sight.

The entrance was forbidding, a steel roll up door - its perimeter protected by empty kegs - no doubt positioned to deter deliverymen from blocking the driveway. On my right, cold cases filled with all manner of beverages, some alcoholic, some otherwise. On my left, a panel of bullet proof glass that separated me from the cashier. The cashier who eyed me warily as I strode inside, her eyes betrayed no warning of what was to come. I didn’t see it coming, I was blindsided. As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I stood thunderstruck. A wall of Belgian imports and American Craft Brews confronted me. Here in this place I thought “how could it be?” Like Indiana Jones I proceeded further inside, then stood there, basking in the glow of hundreds of rare and tasty brews. The thousands of single bottles reflecting pinpricks of fluorescent glare that overwhelmed my senses. This was my idea of a thousand points of light. Vintage Lambics stood cheek by jowl with Baltic Porters. Rauchbier made conversation with Eisbock and Prize Old Ale. “Incredible” I thought, but the best was yet to come.

It was a few moments before I saw them, the … brews of Stone. The Leering Gargoyle proclaimed that I was “not worthy”, but I knew I was. And thus emboldened I finally fell, and fell hard. I grabbed three 22 ounce bottles and after tendering my payment I hastily journeyed back to the Financial District. I walked under the very noses of the occupants of One Police Plaza, the illicit fruits of my labor concealed in a plain brown wrapper.

At 5:20 P.M., after a nervous afternoon, I donned my coat and proceeded to Pier 11. My illicit cargo now concealed within my briefcase beneath the National Law Journal and other trade papers that, if given a chance, could put anyone to sleep in moments.

The ferry arrived and having dutifully, if somewhat nervously, tendered my ticket I took up a seat near the stern…trying at all times to look calm, nonchalant and inconspicuous. I am still not really sure just when I crossed the state line with my contraband and in doing so perfected my crime but somehow the authorities failed to accost me as I made my way down the dock to lose myself in the crowd of commuters heading for home. The angry glare of the Harbor Security Neon seemed to mock me as I strode up First Avenue.

Safely at home, as I removed the contraband from under the false bottom in my brief case I taunted each bottle “I am worthy, I am so damn worthy …”