Business having stranded me in Washington, D.C. for a few evenings, I took the opportunity for field research into what the Capitol City might have to offer for the serious beer aficionado. In spite of the unusually frigid weather in the area, I eschewed the predictable parking nightmare and the almost equally predictable temptation to have one-more-beer-even-though-I'm-driving and took the Metro. For those of you unfamiliar with Washington and its rapid transit, we are not talking CTA here, it's fast, clean, comfortable, relatively derelict-free and gives you access to to essentially the entire city. For the full immersion beer investigation I had in mind, it was the ideal choice.

My goal the first night was the Brickskeller, located between "P" and "Q" Streets on 22nd Ave. Within walking distance of the Dupont Circle Metro stop, the Brickskeller boasts of the largest selection of bottled beer in the known universe. An arguable distinction, but without question the selection is enormous and varied. If you have been combing your local area, without success, for that Eithiopian doppelbock you had heard so much about, chances are the Brickskeller probably has a few bottles. Another plus is that some of the bartenders are, in general, fairly knowledgeable and can make recommendations, whether from U.S. microbreweries or imported, on specific styles. However, my prime reason for journeying through the unusually sub-Arctic Washington cold that evening to the Brickskeller was its selection of Belgium beers, many of which the pub imports directly and I have not been able to find elsewhere in the U.S. Personal favorites are the Chantillion lambics (the Brickskeller has a Gueze, a Framboise, and a Kriek). Being the real thing, as it were, they bear little resemblance to the overly sweet lambics typically imported into the U.S. Upon my ordering, the bartender eyed me suspiciously, produced a printed description of how lambic beers are made, and asked "if I'd ever had this before". Even answering with an enthusiastic, "Yes!" did not seem to satisfy my barkeep who retreated to the far end of the bar where he pretended to busy himself with the glassware, (glasses to match the beer style are another Brickskellar plus) but continued to furtively watch me to insure that I didn't spit out the Kriek I was at that point pleasurably consuming. I followed the Kriek up with a bottle of Weihenstephan Weiss, a disappointment as it was highly oxidized; a shortcoming explained by the 12/93 bottling date on the bottle. This is a downside of the Brickskeller's large selection; the more obscure beers they have in stock have potentially been there for a while.

The extreme cold had kept the usual crowds down and, by this time, the staff at the Brickskeller was growing somewhat restive. Having just finished my Weihenstephan, I was confronted by the chef who had emerged from the kitchen to demand the name of the Beaver's best friend on 'Leave it to Beaver." My answer of 'Larry' seemed to satisfy him and he proceeded into the dining room to loudly inquire if 'any of the white boys out there' knew who first recorded 'You've Lost That Loving Feeling'. The long and, if the reader will allow some interperative license, stunned silence that followed spoke volumes about the generally yuppified clientele of the establishment. With this, I moved on the microbrewery side of the menu and tried a rather forgettable brown ale, ostensibly brewed in New York City, but closer examination of the label revealed that it was contract brewed at the Utica Club brewery in, where else, Utica. (The very name Utica Club should strike fear in the hearts of those readers who may have spent part of their formative years in the Northeast).

Having various meetings with government technocrats looming on the morrow, I called it an evening and took a pass on further delving into the extensive Brickskeller beer list which, I would note, includes the one commercial mead I have found, Chaucer's. I had, on a previous visit to the Brickskeller tried a bottle and found it sweet to the point of being cloying. I’ve never been a fan of sweet meads and this I found way over the top. This judgement was shared by my boss, a mead fan by virtue of having sampled the various concoctions emerging from my basement, who accompanied me that particular evening.

The following evening, I ventured, again via the Metro, to the Capitol City Brewing Company, located across the street from the Washington Convention Center. The layout and ambience of this brewpub is very reminiscent of Goose Island and the beer is definitely worth a stop, both the porter and the nut brown ale I had with my dinner were pluses. The bar was crowded in spite of the continued cold weather and I found myself seated between a couple engrossed in a dialogue over the merits of their company's newly installed Ethernet on my left and a second couple ängsting over which of the establishment's various brews were likely to be most like a Lite. Finishing both my dinner and my brown ale, I cut my visit short as my next planned stop that evening was the Bardo Rodeo. Back to the cold, the Metro, and further adventures.

The car dealership that the Bardo had been in its previous incarnation has been only slightly modified to accommodate its new occupants. The display room is its front bar, where I had initially ensconced myself. This room contains the interior section of the bar's landmark feature: a car imbedded in the front display window. The front seat of the car contains a jukebox which one must crawl inside to access. The service department in the rear had been transformed into a huge drinking facility with the parts counter being turned into a spacious bar (Bardo perhaps missed a trick here by removing the hydraulic lifts which could have made sitting at a table an interesting experience………but I digress). What had been its parts department has been turned into the brewery and the upstairs offices are now a vast array of pool tables.

An aquaintance, who would know, subsequently explained to me upon my return to Chicago that Bardo is one of the hells described in the 'Tibetan Book of the Dead'. In the Tibetan Bardo, departed souls must navigate past various apparitions that are presented to them without reacting if they are to successfully reach Nirvana. This is reflected on the T-shirts worn by the staff that display a quotation from this text (go there and find out what it is) and, perhaps, by a hand-lettered inscription in the men's room claiming that 'the road of excess leads to the palace of reason'.

Taking this last bit of advice to heart, I moved on to try a pint of the White Lightning Barley Wine, a powerful brew that seemed well named. I was halfway through this pint when some prankster entered the bar undetected by either myself or anyone else, as I was later to determine, surrepticiously lit a Roman candle behind the jukebox/car, and quickly departed to, one assumes, view the results from a safe distance. When the pyrotechnics went off, the staff, apparently believing they were in the midst of a drive-by shooting, dove for cover behind the bar. In spite of my indulgence in the establishment's wares, my own reflexes were equally razor sharp. Whipping around at the first report, I sized up the situation as fireballs emerged from behind the car and streaked randomly about the room, (one of which collided with the bar next to me and skittered around at my feet) and said, "Uh, cool." The staff was less impressed with the entertainment value and emerged from their various hiding places with the sole intent of locating the perpetrator and exacting vengence. With the thick smoke from the fireworks now filling the front room of the bar, the smell of recently detonated cordite wafting freely about, and the curses of the staff making the establishment resemble more a Dantean vision of hell than the perhaps more genteel Tibetan version, I drained my glass and walked out into the night (which seemed only slightly colder than the Bardo)

I would note that a subsequent to the Bardo Rodeo a few weeks later proved that my earlier visit was far from representative; a friendly crowd, good food, and no explosive devices. Good beer remained a constant.

Having discovered that flying into Baltimore Washington Airport is substantially cheaper than flying into either Dulles or National, I had arranged to arrive and leave through BWI. Finishing up my business early, I arrived back at the airport hoping to catch an earlier flight. No such luck. The downside of BWI is that flights to Chicago are few and far between. My chagrin at this situation was somewhat mollified by my discovery of a Wild Goose brewery outlet strategically located immediately adjacent to the United gate I was due to depart from 2 hours hence. A bowl of the crab gumbo and a pint of Winter Ale convinced me of the wisdom of arriving early for one's flight, a practice I promised myself to repeat on future trips.