KEGGING THE CHERRY WEIZEN DIDN’T take long. Unlike at Der Keller, where a team of brewers worked on state-of-the-art, automated equipment, at Nitro we were a two-person team, which meant that nearly everything we created was touched by our hands. Like our barrels. A barrel is the standard measurement for breweries. At Nitro we have a five-barrel system, tiny in comparison to the big guys. Each barrel consists of thirty-one gallons. A standard keg is a half of a barrel. So our entire system could produce one hundred and fifty-five gallons, or ten kegs at a time. Plenty of beer to serve thirsty customers, but nothing like Der Keller’s massive brewing and bottling operations. Their beers were distributed throughout the Pacific Northwest, and even as far away as the East Coast. Whereas at Nitro, we weren’t even producing enough yet to have our beers on guest taps around town.
We had devoted three barrels to the Cherry Weizen, giving us a total of six kegs. That roughly translated into just under seven hundred and fifty pints, if my math was correct. It was a challenge to estimate how long six kegs might last. Hopefully they would last through all three weekends of Oktoberfest, but there was a good chance that we might run out sooner.
Garrett and I had spent hours trying to predict how much traffic the pub would get, but it was almost impossible to determine. First, we were brand-new. Second, we weren’t an authentic German pub. And lastly, Nitro sat off Front Street, the main drag that would lead tourists to the Festhalle and Oktoberfest tents. Businesses along Front Street prepped for months in anticipation of the throngs of tourists who would pass by their shops. Since Nitro was slightly off the beaten path and wasn’t a featured beer vendor, we might not be busy at all. Then again, with over twelve thousand people expected to descend on our fair city, there would likely be spillover and those looking to escape the crowds and the never-ending oompah music for a while. In the end, we had opted to brew a little extra, but not go overboard.
The main draw for the next three weekends would be Oktoberfest itself. The massive street party required a ticket for entry. Once inside the tented area, beer lovers would knock back authentic German brews as well as a variety of beers from throughout the Pacific Northwest. The celebration would last into the early morning hours each weekend night, with bands, dancing, schnitzel, strudel, and constantly flowing taps. It was no wonder that people came from near and far to be part of the celebration. I could feel anticipation beginning to build in me.
When we finished kegging the Cherry Weizen, Garrett pulled on knee-high waders and elbow-length rubber gloves. “I’m going in,” he said with a goofy grin as he covered his eyes with a pair of plastic chemistry goggles. The brewery’s sterile white walls and cement floors reminded me of a science lab. Shiny stainless steel tanks stretched into the twenty-five-foot-high ceilings, making the sanitation process challenging, to say the least. Garrett would have to climb up a tank’s ladder to spray down the interior. Then he would open a hatch at the bottom of the tank and allow the water to drain directly into a trough that ran the length of the floor. For every hour we spent brewing, we would spend double the amount of time cleaning.
“I’ll soak the hoses and paddles in iodine and then go see if I can score some cranberries. Do we need anything else for tonight?” If only April were here now. I’d like to show her the grimy process of scouring the tanks. No self-respecting brewer would take on the task in a tight skirt and heels. Actually, scratch that. April probably would.
Garrett shook his head. “We’re set for food, right?”
“Right.” I had already finished our special Oktoberfest menu. To accompany the Cherry Weizen, we were offering a fruit, meat, and cheese tray with pomegranate and honey goat cheese, a tangy farmer’s cheese, and an Irish white cheddar, rustic three-grain bread, salami, three types of local cherries, apple and pear slices, and mixed nuts. Our fall soup was a hearty vegetable soup laden with onions, garlic, carrots, celery, peppers, sautéed Brussels sprouts, and broccoli. We would serve that with a thick slice of the rustic bread and pat of hand-churned butter. Lastly we would grill specialty sausages that had been soaking for days in our beer brine. For the brine, I had combined water, salt, peppercorns, thyme, garlic, onions, brown sugar, and our Bottle Blonde beer. After boiling it until the brown sugar dissolved and the liquid became almost clear, I poured it over sausages and stored them in an airtight container. The brine would infuse the sausages and give them a juicy finish—perfect for fall grilling.
“I’m good, then,” Garrett said, giving me a salute as he began scrubbing the tank.
I left to fill industrial-sized buckets with a mixture of iodine and water. We used a food-grade iodine product to sanitize the hoses. The brewing gear would get a good cleanse in the buckets and be ready for our next round of cranberry beer. Once I finished, I grabbed my purse and headed for the grocery store.
As soon as I turned onto Front Street, a smile spread across my face. The village was bursting with activity. Red, yellow, and orange geraniums exploded from wooden kegs turned planter boxes. Banners and twinkle lights stretched from the rooftops to the gazebo. Shopkeepers were putting the finishing touches on their seasonal displays. The air smelled clean and fresh, and the mountainside was aglow with sunlight.
How could anyone want to live anywhere but here? I thought to myself as I waved to the deli owner, who was stringing cured sausages together by hand.
I continued on to the grocery store, passing the park, where rows of bright white tents stood ready to house face painters and ice cream stands. Like everything else in Leavenworth, even the grocery store was designed to look like a German farmhouse. The front of the store had huge displays of Oktoberfest T-shirts, plastic beer steins, and green felt hats. Along with aspirin, Tums, and ginger ale—everything a partygoer might need to cure a hangover.
I chuckled to myself and made my way to the produce section. There were plenty of pumpkins and other fall gourds in wicker baskets, but no sign of cranberries. It must be too early in the season. I checked every row without any luck. I was about to give up when a young clerk walked past me. He was a few years older than Alex and a senior at the local high school.
“Hey, Jack, you don’t happen to have any cranberries, by chance?” I asked.
“Hi, Mrs. Krause. How’s Alex?”
“Good.” I tried to ignore that he had called me Mrs. Krause. “He’s in Seattle for the weekend.”
“Cool. Yeah, I heard about that. Good weekend to be gone. You want me to go check the back for cranberries? I think I saw some earlier.” He pointed to the employee area in the back.
“That would be great,” I said with a smile and a sense of relief. Testing the recipe would take a few days, and I didn’t want to have to wait to get cranberries shipped in from Seattle. On that note, I wondered if I should go ahead and put in a bigger order once I got back to Nitro. With the craziness of Oktoberfest, there was a good chance that the supply trucks would be loaded to the max. I made a mental note to call our supplier.
I wandered around the produce section, stopping to admire the rosy red Washington apples and juicy fresh pears. Fall was most definitely the season of abundance here in the North Cascades. I was about to weigh a bunch of apples, figuring we could always use more and dreaming up an idea for an apple pie–inspired beer on the spot, but the sound of April’s voice stopped me in my tracks. She was one aisle over, but her nasal voice carried so loudly that I was sure everyone in the store could hear her conversation.
“Now, everyone, if you will follow me, I’d love to show you a vonderful pastoral mural over this way. We had it commissioned by a famous German artist, who we flew in from Berlin. That’s the level of commitment everyone in town has to ensuring that no detail goes untouched when it comes to authenticity.”
I glanced to my left. The mural April had referenced was behind me. It depicted a quaint countryside farmers’ market with bountiful produce, children dancing around a Maypole, and overflowing kegs. I agreed with April that the painting was lovely, but if memory served me correctly, it had been done by a local high school student as part of his senior project. Then again, I wouldn’t have put it past April to lie about the mural’s origin.
Before I had a chance to hide or duck into the next aisle, April and a group of people, who I assumed must be the film crew, given the fact that one of them held a portable camera and another a tablet, rounded the corner and ran straight into me.
“Oh, Sloan. What are you doing here?” April’s face held a plastic smile, but her tone made it clear that she was less than pleased to see me. She had managed to embellish her ridiculous outfit even more since I’d seen her earlier. In addition to her skimpy barmaid costume, she wore a silky sash and a lacy white maid’s cap.
“Shopping.” I held up my empty basket.
She widened her smile, revealing a lipstick stain on her front teeth. “Now, I know that I mentioned earlier that everyone in our village embraces traditional German attire.” She addressed the group. “Sloan is no exception. I’m sure you’ll be changing later.” She gave me a hard look. “Sloan is a brewer, and when she’s working in the … warts or something?”
“Wort,” I replied.
“Right. When she’s working in that, she breaks the rules and wears this.” April waved her hand across my jeans and yellow rubber boots.
Breaking the rules? The last time I checked there was no dress code for Leavenworth residents.
The only woman in the group, who looked to be about my age, clicked a tablet under her arm and stared at me. “You’re a brewer?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
April cleared her throat. “Well, Sloan has worked at Der Keller, where I’m taking you next, for many years. It’s only been recently that she’s struck out on her own and started working at a nanobrewery.” She said the word “nanobrewery” in a hushed whisper.
The woman made a note on her tablet and then tucked it under her arm again. She extended her hand. “Payton Smith. I’m directing a documentary about beer, and I’d love to find some time to come watch you in action. We could do an entire angle about women in beer,” she said, turning to an older man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “What do you think, David?”
He nodded. “I like it. It’s a good hook to draw in a female demographic. That could help pull in some new interest.” He wore an expensive gray suit, with a T-shirt underneath. The T-shirt reminded me of one of Alex’s Superman comics.
April seethed. She dug her fake nails into the folds of her gingham skirt and forced a grin. “I must warn you that Nitro is not a German pub.”
“But I thought you said that every business in town had to adhere to Bavarian design aesthetics,” Payton noted. Her hair was cut in an angular bob and held back behind her ears with a pair of dark sunglasses.
“Yes, yes. That’s true. We’ve been diligent in our efforts to ensure that any storefront—whether it’s a chain like Starbucks or a small mom-and-pop shop—is in line with our standards. However there is some leeway in terms of what business owners choose to do with their interiors. I assure you that the vast majority of businesses have fully embraced our Bavarian culture, but there are a few stragglers who have been slower to adopt it.” She glared at me.
“I don’t think that matters. We want to document the entire beer process, and having a female brewer in town is fantastic,” Payton said with a smile. She reached into an expensive leather purse hanging from her shoulder, removed a business card, and pressed it into my hand. “Give me a call, and let’s set up a time to get together. We’ll be here filming for the next three weeks. We have big plans for this project. I’m already working on advanced screenings at Sundance, LA film fest, SOHO, Toronto International, South by Southwest, just to name a few. It’s a huge undertaking and a ton of money, but we know the return on investment will be worth it. This is beer, after all. David and I are sure that Netflix or Hulu—one of the major players—is going to pick up the film. We’re also considering rolling out a variety of screenings at breweries throughout the country.”
I studied the cream-colored card. Payton’s name and the word “filmmaker,” along with her phone number, were embossed in gold. “Wow. That does sound like a big project. You’re more than welcome to come by later this afternoon. We’re tapping our newest beer, Cherry Weizen, and having a kickoff party.”
Payton nodded enthusiastically. “Great. What do you think, David?”
“Cherry Weizen sounds good to me.” He winked. “Not to mention having a lovely female brewer in the mix.”
The younger guy, who had been balancing a camera on his shoulder the entire time we had been talking, shifted the camera and spoke up. “I’m Connor, by the way. Sorry to interrupt, but I had a cherry wheat beer once that was killer. Is a Cherry Weizen the same?”
I nodded. “Yes, Weizens refer to wheat beers. Some brewers opt to add berries or citrus to bring out the naturally sweet aromas in their Weizens, while others rely on different varieties of hops like the classic Hallertau Mittelfruh, used in German Weizens. It’s a style that originated in south Germany. Traditionally they’re unfiltered, giving the beer a cloudy appearance.”
“Like a Hefeweizen?” he asked.
“Exactly. Think hazy.” I glanced around the neat bushels of produce and pointed to a bunch of lemons. “Like the color of those lemons and served in a Weizen glass. You know the tall glasses with a narrow base and curvature?”
Connor nodded and angled his camera at my face.
I stepped back. “Anyway, the curved lip at the top of a Weizen glass helps trap the foamy head and allows you to really experience the aroma of a wheat beer.”
“Okay we have to have you in this film,” Payton said. She turned to David, the old gentlemen, who had picked up a lemon and was examining it. “I mean, we have to have her, right?”
He nodded and smoothed his charcoal gray suit. It was odd to see someone wearing a suit in Leavenworth, and even more strange that he wore it with a T-shirt.
At that moment, a younger man probably in his midthirties, wearing a pair of plaid shorts, a green felt hat with a ten-inch black feather, a crisp white shirt, and suspenders, burst around the aisle. “Hey! You aren’t filming without me? Are you?” At first I thought he was kidding, but he lunged at Connor like he was going to hit him.
Connor almost dropped the camera. He muttered something I couldn’t decipher and turned the camera on the man.
April swept forward. “Oh, Mitchell. Never.” She batted her fake eyelashes. “I was simply introducing your crew to one of our—uh.” She paused to give me another look of disapproval. “Local brewers, Sloan Krause.”
Mitchell tipped his hat. “Great. I’ll get you an autograph later, but for the moment we have B-roll to shoot.” He ripped open a package of Band-Aids and plastered three of them over a nasty wound on his right forearm. “I leave for two seconds, and you start shooting. Connor, what the hell, man? I told you that you never shoot without the talent on set. Understood?”
Connor gulped. I noticed sweat beginning to form on the back of his T-shirt.
April reached out to touch Mitchell’s arm. “Oh dear, are you hurt? We can’t have our big star getting hurt here in our darling village. That just won’t do.”
Mitchell tossed the box of opened bandages at David. “Put that on your tab, old man.” Then he flicked his suspenders, ignoring April, and motioned to the camera. “What’s the angle, Payton? Why are we shooting in a freaking grocery store? And how many times do I have to tell you to fire this idiot?” He flicked Connor on the chest. “Does no one around here understand how this process is supposed to go? That camera can’t be on if I’m not in the shot.”
Payton and David shared a looked of frustration.
David’s face remained passive, yet I noticed the tips of his fingers turn white as he pressed his hands together. “Enough. We’re not shooting, Mitchell. We were just chatting with Sloan and learning about her brewing process.”
“Why does the kid have his camera out, then?” Mitchell pointed to Connor, who lowered the camera. “I can’t stand working with amateurs. You want to get this screened at Sundance, Payton—ha! Good luck with that.”
What was the deal with this guy?
“When is the keg tapping?” Payton asked, turning to me and ignoring Mitchell.
“Tonight,” I replied, wishing I could make a smooth exit.
“We’ll be there. We’ll absolutely be there. A female brewer. Wow. I couldn’t have scripted this.” She noted something on her tablet. Her sunglasses fell. She grabbed them with one hand and then tucked them into her purse.
April cleared her throat. “I don’t know about that.” She made a clucking sound. “We have a full afternoon ahead of us. As they say in Germany, we’ll be ‘beschäftigt’—or ‘busy’ in our tongue. I’ll be personally introducing Payton and David to each business owner in town. We’re heading to Der Keller for a brewery tour and then Mitchell is going to shoot teasers throughout Front Street and in the tents.”
“No worries,” I said. “We’re not going anywhere. Cherry Weizen will be on tap as long as it lasts.”
Jack, the grocery clerk, appeared with three bags of cranberries. “Sorry it took me so long, Mrs. Krause,” he apologized, handing me the berries.
I cringed at hearing my married name. “Thanks. I’m just glad you had them.” I placed the berries in my basket. “Nice meeting you,” I said to the film crew. “Hopefully we’ll see you at Nitro while you’re here.”
Payton pointed to her business card. “Call me—please. Let’s set something up. If you don’t call soon, I’ll hound you. They call me the Bulldog in LA. I get what I want, and I want you on camera. No, I need you on camera. This production is my baby, and I am committed to doing whatever it takes to make it an award winner. Having a female brewer could just be the frothy finish I’ve been looking for.”
April pounded on her chocolate brown wristwatch. It was made of plastic with doves circling the face and two keg barrels hanging from a short chain. “Really, we must be on our way. I’m sure the next time we see you, you’ll be dressed for the part.” She gave me a hard stare before smiling broadly and nudging Payton, David, Mitchell, and Connor toward the front door.
I headed to checkout. I was eager to get back to Nitro to play around with a cranberry ale and to tell Garrett about the film crew. As a small start-up, we needed any publicity we could get, and it was all the better that April hated the idea.