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The overall mood is much more jovial than the grim queue of underslept theater geeks who’d waited all night in San Francisco’s Civic Center for Hamilton tickets last December, probably because everybody knows they’re going to get some beer.
But almost no one appears intoxicated: These are hopheads, not dipsos, and everybody wants to keep their palate fresh.
The brewery puts out free coffee and pastries from Peet’s.
At one point, a heavily pierced Starbucks barista, clearly nonplussed over seeing so many of his rival’s cups, works the line, doling out slices of lemon cake. Fewer people than I’d expect leave the line to seek refuge in a cafe or a car.
Ramen, pastries, day-old bagels: San Francisco knows what it means to wait voluntarily in long lines for foods and beverages that are otherwise readily available elsewhere. Holmes Bakehouse, these are niche items that far outweigh the competition.
But as with any avidly chronicled phenomenon in our food-obsessed culture, the experience itself can overtake the “real” reward.
I knew then: He’s not going to inherit this business.” Evidently, she was supportive, and her son opened his first microbrewery, Blind Pig, in Temecula in 1994.
They’re not permitted to speak to the press, but they do confirm that this year is much like any other.
Beyond the searing envy directed at the back of your neck from all the second-tier superfans behind you and the energy it takes to sustain a pose of casual triumph, there’s no protection from the elements.
Ten or 20 people back, you can shelter in an alcove — in front of the barbershop, say, or the glass blower’s.
Since [Stacey] started brewing beer, I’m enjoying it. “In high school, he started experimenting with beer,” she says.
“Not really drinking it, but experimenting with different brews.