The group had good intentions, but the brightly colored $10 cocktails just weren’t big enough.

They were gathered shoulder to shoulder around a few small wooden tables that, shoved together, formed one long place setting of awkward silences sandwiched between awkward getting-to-know-you-but-I-need-to-have-a-few-more-drinks-before-I’m-ready-to-really-get-to-know-you pleasantries. There were about 12 or 13 twenty/thirtysomethings in all, the girls sharply dressed and the guys wearing sharp attention for the girls. I think they’d gathered here at bāśik as part of some sort of cocktail or bar-hopping tour. My brother-in-law and I watched from a cushioned bench near the entrance, sharing $6 pints of Captain Lawrence Pale Ale and a mutual appreciation of being onlookers, not participants.

bāśik is another newish Williamsburg bar with that specific type of clean, minimalist, industrialized vintage character that area hipster and hipsterettes fawn over. The walls like white-washed jeans, the floors cold cement, the tables candlelit, the beer menu simple, the cocktails obtusely named And How, Love Makes You Feel Ten Feet Tall, longitude / latitude. There’s a wood-paneled patio in the back, like a giant sauna with tables and chairs, and the bar itself is, according to their website, “perhaps the most impressive element… [a] long 19th century butcher block bar, salvaged from an abandoned packaging plant.” Wood and cement. Wood and cement.

More impressive, I think, are the two stark closet-like doors, painted metallic-grey, facing that old butcher block bar. One has “Restroom” neatly painted in black across the top; the other, nothing. Where oh where could it lead? Perhaps it’s the entrance to Pandora’s box, a portal to a mind-bending imaginarium of fantastical wonders and shadowy horrors. It may also lead into the mind of John Malkovich, the actor best known for his captivating performances as Bruce Brazos in Transformers: Dark of the Moon and Quentin Turnbull in Jonah Hex. Open at your own risk.

There are, of course, no happy hour specials, but there are, of course, $3 cans of Budweiser.

Once upon a time this space was home to Phoebe’s Cafe, which was favored by area scenesters when I first moved to Williamsburg some 9 years ago. I tried it once on the recommendation of a flaky-cool editor who worked at a hip downtown magazine I was interning for at the time. I also tried the fish sandwich at the nearby White Castle on the corner of Humboldt and Metropolitan once–it was delicious. bāśik tips its hat to its predecessors with the phoebe’s sandwich (oven-roasted squash, eggplant and portobello, naan, sriracha mayo, $8), as part of a modest 13-item menu that also includes mac and cheese ($8), deviled duck egg ($4), and two types of hot dogs ($4 each).

Through the tall looking glass windows on bāśik’s Graham Avenue-facing facade, a view of C-Town, the neighborhood grocery, the “SuperMarkets for Savings”. Here the teenage cashiers, all girls, snack on potato chips and mini-donuts kept in drawers underneath their registers, carrying on fascinating conversations amongst themselves that tend to start with an impassioned “No, that stupid muthafuckah…” and end with a “… so fuck that bitch” finality. Once in awhile they say “you’re welcome” after thanking them for the attentive services they have kindly provided. C-Town’s piss-yellow lighting illuminates bright futures.

My brother-in-law’s paperback copy of The Way We Die Now, by Charles Willeford, lay on our low wooden table near the cushioned bench at the entrance, in front of the tall glass windows, across from the 19th-century butcher block bar, near the two closet-like doors painted metallic grey on the walls like white-washed jeans. We each choked down a small oatmeal cookie and washed away the blandness with the last of our pints of Captain Lawrence Pale Ale. One of bāśik’s proprietors was introduced to the cocktail group, which was still mired in fits and spurts of awkward silence.

Everybody at those tables had good intentions; I can appreciate that. bāśik itself has good intentions, and I can appreciate that too.

bāśik is located at 323 Graham Avenue, just off the Graham Avenue stop on the L train, between Metropolitan Avenue and Devoe Street. M-W 4p-2a; Thu-Fri 4p-4a; Sat-Sun 12p-4a. 347-889-7597.

“Do you want some drink? Perhaps a bottle of French wine? We have red wine and white wine. Maybe you’d like a cheap wine?”

Dinner at Chandrika Hotel, an aspiring “boutique hotel” in Tissamaharama, Sri Lanka. Like so many service establishments in this developing South Asian country, they try so hard to give you what you want. After all, you’re a part of the relative trickle of Western tourists that visit the country, particularly compared with its neighbors just north in India and across the Indian Ocean in Southeast Asia.

Hotel managers here are well aware of the impact a positive TripAdvisor review can have on business. They often don’t really know what exactly you want, however, because regular Western tourism is only just now picking up–and let’s face it, we’re a fickle lot with inconsistent demands, complaints, and compliments.

I think that explains Chandrika’s bizarrely faux-formal inclusive dinner.

Our short two-night stay was sandwiched around a morning safari in Yala National Park, and expectations were modest: clean, air-conditioned rooms; clean pool; quiet; convenient access to Yala. Check, check, check. Perfectly fine little place with a friendly manager that helped arrange our safari and, after checkout, assigned somebody to stand with us at the “bus stop” out front to ensure we flagged the correct one down.

We weren’t sure what to expect at dinner. We definitely didn’t expect a sitdown affair that felt like a small wedding banquet with strangers. The dining room was spartan and nondescript: white panel floor, black tables, ceiling fans. Teenaged servers dressed in white button-up shirts and black slacks looked on anxiously as guests filed in, about five or six tables in all. Our server asked if we wanted wine, but despite his hopeful earnesty (and management-prompted upsell) we had to decline; something about the humidity and overly optimistic pricing.

Our first course was appropriately, perfectly absurd and out of context here in southern Sri Lanka: a hot, watery, tasteless bowl of spinach soup served with a basket of dinner rolls and tray of butter cubes on ice. Soup slurps, the clinking of silverware, and Muzak renditions of popular Christmas songs like “Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland” wafted through the open-air dining room on this steamy night in May.

I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if the main course was pepperoni pizza with a side of iceberg lettuce salad; instead, an authentic, well-prepared Sri Lankan spread arrived in waves. Papadum, rice topped with shaved coconut, curried vegetables, spiced cabbage, ash plantains, green beans, daal, eggplant–refills on everything if you wanted it. Dessert was a scoop of malty chocolate ice cream.

After the table was cleared, to the kid’s delight I gave in to one final upsell stab and ordered a glass of Chivas. They were out; I instead got a bottle of beer and asked to have it delivered to our room. Ten minutes later we heard a knock on our door, then glass shatter on the pavement: the kid must have slipped and dropped the bottle. He was initially nowhere to be seen, but when we stepped outside he darted back from around the side of the building and quietly, anxiously, casting furtive glances over his shoulder in the direction of the restaurant, said “Madame, madame, I’m sorry, your beer.”

We told him not to worry about it; he bent over and quickly picked up the shards of glass with his bare hands, squeegied the beer into the grass, then skipped back to the restaurant. If we asked for another beer he’d clearly have to pay for it out of pocket, and probably incur the wrath of his boss too.

I hope Sri Lanka’s endearing lack of total understanding, despite best efforts, for many Western tourism wants and needs never changes (though of course that’s probably impossible). I want to slurp hot, watery bowls of spinach soup in the company of awkward Western families on a humid night in May while listening to Christmas music. I do also hope, however, that a day soon comes when the wants and needs of the ones struggling to serve us are given just as much thought and attention as ours.

Often there are musicians up in the front corner playing a session of tunes. There are plenty of places to sit and relax, up close to the music if you’d like, a bit farther away at the bar, and at a range of tables near enough and far away to either of those things to enjoy a chat and a drink of one of the many beers and ales available on draft or by the bottle. In the back room, there might be a singing session going on, or perhaps someone hosting a private vent such as a wedding reception or a family party, all adding to the atmosphere of the place, which is both festive and relaxed. Where is all this? The Burren in Somerville, Massachusetts. It may not be that TV made famous and rather touristy bar where everybody knows your name, but there’s always a feeling of welcome at The Burren.

The burren, in Ireland, is s a distinctive landscape of rock said to have been formed by glaciers passing over west Clare in ancient times, with stone formations built by giants, fairies, ancient people, or geology, take your pick. The Burren in Davis Square just a short way from the center of Boston is warm, friendly, wood toned gathering place that is both Irish and American.

That idea is carried out in the food served at the Burren, too. At weekend brunch you could order a full Irish fry with eggs, black pudding, and Irish bacon. You could also have a classic American breakfast of eggs sunny side up with American bacon. Eggs Benedict is on the menu as well. Lunch and dinner menus offer the same mix of Irish and American fare, with, as is not so common in Irish pubs, quite a few dishes that will suit vegetarians well and plenty of fish from nearby New England coastal waters on offer too. It’s all quite tasty and, Irish expats and lovers of a true Irish pot of tea take note, the know how to brew a proper cup of tea at The Burren as well — and they use Barry’s Tea.

It’s a good place to sit of a quiet afternoon over that pot of tea, and equally entertaining to stop in with a group to enjoy a drink. a chat, and a meal, and often, music form a singer who writes his owns songs, and an Irish tune or two as well.

photograph is of one of the front windows of The Burren during the Christmas season, and is copyrighted. thank you for respecting that.

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“Hey, have you tried the Farmstead Motueka? Take a sip if you want to dude.”

The guy next to me, bearded and buzzed and I think a little stoned, had the sort of twinkle in his eye unique to beer enthusiasts caught up in the ecstasy of a particularly special pour. He pushed his glass in my direction with a big, dopey, friendly smile. My first impulse, bottle of hand sanitizer burning in my pocket like a scarlet letter, was to decline the tasting and the fine ring of spittle that likely coated his glass rim.

But here, at Brouwerij Lane, you just don’t do that. You buck your anal-compulsive aversion to winter germs and embrace the comraderie fostered in this special place. I smiled, thanked him, took a sip from the spot I quickly determined he’d most likely not sipped from (nothing personal, bro). In their weekly newsletter Brouwerij described the Hill Farmstead Moteuka Single Hop as an ale “utilizing a rare New Zealand hop variety”, with tasting notes of “bitterness, mango, tropical, fruity, and hop resin.” That tiny sip was flowery, perfumey, refreshing, a revelation; I’m sold, and order a pint after polishing off a half pint of Hill Farmstead George, one of the nuttier, smokier, more satisfying brown ales I’ve tasted in some time. I forget all about the shared spittle.

Located on Greenpoint Avenue, just off Franklin Street, in the heart of the second-largest Polish neighborhood (to Chicago) in the country, Brouwerij Lane is a leading member of the growing beer bar / beer tasting room movement sweeping through the prime Brooklyn neighborhoods of Williamsburg and Greenpoint neighborhoods, my home for the past 9 years. Even one of the local Duane Reade drug stores is getting in on the action.

At any given time, 19 growler taps and 150+ (pricey) bottled microbrews from around the world can be had. Brick walls; dim, low-hanging lights; a massive shelving unit filled with empty beer bottles presumably chosen for their colorful labels; light-up beer signs for Southern Tier, Harpoon, Palm, and others; a wood-burning stove/fireplace near the back door that leads to an outdoor space.

Seating is sparse: two skinny tables big enough to snugly accommodate six each, a few tall, round tables, and standing room. Stools. The music, a mellow mishmash of funk, discordant rock, Brit punk, and dub reggae. And, of course, a mounted deer head with an eight-point rack looking on in silent watch. I assume the deer has a name because Brouwerij is that kind of place.

The centerpiece is a massive six-doored refrigerator, each section filled with six shelves lined with microbrews with names like Dream Weaver Wheat and River Horse Tripel. Empty four- and six-pack boxes line the floor in front of it for mixing and matching. As the room’s main source of lighting, the fridge shines golden, like the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark, without the flesh-eating consequences when opened.

It’s intimate. It’s perfect. It has bathroom walls plastered with vintage Star Wars wallpaper found in a roll on the street on trash day.

Bare descriptions of Brouwerij Lane seem hollow as I type them, however: in the end, it’s just a cozy bar.

No, there’s something else here, something less quantifiable and more difficult to illuminate. When I walk in, I feel welcome; I think everybody does. There’s not a hint of pretentiousness, beer snobbery or otherwise, from the staff to the patrons. There’s a certain… a certain dignity here. A shared dignity. A mutual respect for one another and an unspoken common ground. It’s a local neighborhood watering hole in every idyllic sense, full of sincere laughter, hushed conversation, and drinkers of all ages comfortably mingling, the latter an unfortunate rarity in the hyper age-segregated bar scene that is Williamsburg and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Greenpoint.

Chalk it up to the strong (and relatively cheap) beers, but at Brouwerij I find myself ruminating about the faces that paint the backdrop of everyday life. The familiar faces of the restaurants we eat at, the stores we shop at, the bars we drink at. These people may never be friends, and conversation may never advance beyond simple pleasantries, but they’re people that in some ways we share more kinship with, even it’s just a one-way street, than we do with distant family members. You’re as likely to recognize them on the streets of Berlin as you would be a long-lost friend. They may never know it, but the heavily tattooed bartender with the thick black-rimmed glasses at Brouwerij, the Latin-American woman at the drop-off laundromat (“The Plug”), the Vietnamese family who run the corner deli, the marble-mouthed Italian at the local pizzeria–they’re all so significant even if they don’t know it. They are part of the fabric of my life at 33 going on 34. They’re a part of all of our lives. Christ, I’m supposed to be writing about a bar here.

I’m taking the last few gulps of a Sierra Nevada Ruthless Rye. A few staffers are milling around by the taps and shooting the shit about beer. Eight or nine other people are here, dreamily zoned out over a beer and a book or a beer and a conversation. Or they’re just staring, mesmerized, deep in thought, into Brouwerij’s Golden Ark of Beer.

Brouwerij Lane is located at 78 Greenpoint Avenue, just off Franklin Street in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Open Mon – Thu 2pm – 10pm, and Fri – Sun 12pm – 10pm. 347-529-6133.

_{Meh photos taken with an iPhone 3GS by author. I guess they’re copyrighted, but have at it.}

Every year around this time, the Scotsman newspaper in Edinburgh runs a competition for sighting of the elusive mythological creature known as the haggis, which is said to roam in Scotland. You can join in this through checking out ten haggis cameras the paper has set up at its Haggis Hunt site. You can win prizes… but before we go further, should you be reading this on New Year’s eve, go take a look at the shot of Edinburgh Castle, where if the timing is right you’ll be likely to see fireworks, and check out the camera at Stonehaven, where you might see balls of fire being hurled into the harbor.

The ten haggis cams offer interesting shots at any time, though. At George Square in Glasgow it’s been fun to see a festive holiday carnival, including a ferris wheel in lights, and now you can watch as the festival is taken down, the strings of light come off the statues, and the square returns to its daily life as part of Glasgow city center. You could look for haggis (no worries, you will recognize one instantly) among the shoppers and tourists along the royal mile in Edinburgh or out in the far flung haggis diaspora of New Delhi, India. The camera angle at Eilean Donan Castle in Scotland’s northwest moves about now and again, so you might see a close up of the castle itself, a shot of houses on a nearby hillside, or a view of snowy mountains beyond the castle. As to the prizes, the competition runs through Burns night on 25 January (several of the cameras stay active the year around, though) and you could win hotel stays, rounds of golf at the historic course at St. Andrews, and perhaps packets of haggis flavored crisps, also known as potato chips.

Reading about those chips, you might be saying to yourself:

I thought haggis was something to eat? It is. Basically it’s the innards of sheep or beef mixed with oatmeal and spices and boiled. There are vegetarian versions too. The connection between the mythological creature and the dish comes in for a take it with several grains of salt explanation at the Haggis Hunt site.

So people in Scotland eat haggis all the time then?
No. Some do not eat it at all, and for some it’s a very occasional dish. While it by no means appears on every restaurant’s menu, in the neighborhood where I stay in Glasgow, I can walk down the busy shopping street and pass a fast food place which has haddock and chips, burger and chips, and haggis and chips on its menu board. There’s an upscale bakery a few shops down which often has mini haggis pies — pie crusts about two inches in diameter filled with haggis — in its display. Across the road there is a pizza place, with haggis among the many choices for toppings. At the grocers, you can get haggis in a tin any time of year, and especially in January as people are getting ready to celebrate Burns night, vacuum packed bags of both meat and vegetarian haggis for you to take home and prepare start appearing. Haggis as a tv dinner, both meat and vegetarian versions and accompanied by traditional sides of neeps and tatties — turnips and potatoes — gave me a good laugh the first time I saw it. Sightings of these, too, are more common around Burns night.

Okay, so what is the connection between Robert Burns and haggis anyway? and why is haggis so popular in Scotland?
Robert Burns was a farmer in his adult life and grew up on a farm, so he likely ate his share of haggis in eighteenth century Scotland. The best known connection, though, is Address to a Haggis, a poem Burns wrote. It’s actually about the independent character of the Scots and a call to national pride, with haggis as a metaphor. National bard, national pride, and history put together equal pride in a national dish.

As you are checking out the haggis cams or contemplating making your own dish of haggis, you might also want to

learn more about those fireballs and what else goes on in Stonehaven
get a heads up on a music festival coming up in Glasgow
choose music of Scotland to listen to
hear musician Julie Fowlis speak and sing in Scottish Gaelic, a language few of her fellow Scots, and fewer still around the world, still speak and understand

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