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Food & Wine Food & Drink

I.D., Please

Local developer Henry Turley owns Miss Cordelia’s Neighborhood Grocery in Harbor Town and thus holds the market’s beer license. But that didn’t stop a cashier from requesting his driver’s license the last time he tried to purchase his favorite brew.

“A small indignity for a man in his 67th year, but the day was hot and my favorite Sam Smith’s was cold,” Turley says.

Others, like 50-year-old Patrick Hunt, get more than annoyed when carded for beer sales.

“I’ve been carded every time I’ve bought beer lately,” says Hunt, whose graying hair is proof that he’s of legal drinking age. “It makes me think the government is a bunch of imbeciles.”

As of July 1st, all sellers in the state are required to I.D. everyone buying beer regardless of how old they appear. It’s part of the Responsible Vendors Act, an attempt by the state legislature to curb underage drinking. The mandatory identification provision is the first such law in the country.

“Even if a blue-haired old lady comes in to buy beer, they’ll have to card her,” says Bond Tubbs of the Tennessee Alcoholic Beverage Commission (ABC), the agency charged with punishing vendors for violating the new law.

Sam Hujeir, owner of Sam’s Market on Highland, says some older customers get angry when asked for an I.D.

“This may be a good idea for the store owners, so we’re safe from selling to minors, but the cashiers don’t like it. They get cussed out a lot,” Hujeir says.

Interestingly, the law only applies to beer sales. Wine and liquor stores and restaurants are exempt. That may have something to do with the industries that pushed to get the bill passed. The Tennessee Malt Beverage Association, the Tennessee Oil Marketers Association, and the state Retail Association (all special-interest groups representing the beer, convenience-store, and retail industries) paved the way for the Responsible Vendors Act.

“If they’re going to have this as a law, they need to make it apply to everyone, not just beer sales,” says Al Sahan, owner of Raffe’s International Beer Market on Poplar.

But there’s more to this new law than simply requiring everyone to prove their age. The law also creates a new Responsible Vendor Program, in which retailers can choose to pay for a training class to gain certification through the state ABC. The classes teach clerks methods for recognizing and dealing with underage customers.

After taking the optional class, a certified vendor caught selling to a minor will receive a lesser penalty than those who have not taken the class.

For example, nonparticipating retailers can face suspension, revocation, or a fine of up $2,500 for each violation. Certified retailers face a $1,000 fine, but if the business is caught with two underage violations in a 12-month period, it can lose its certification.

Germantown mayor Sharon Goldsworthy says the bill takes power away from local beer boards to fine as they see fit. Instead, the state ABC handles punishment for certified vendors now. Critics of the law believe it actually benefits the beer industry by allowing them to face smaller fines and fewer chances of license suspension.

“If we suspend someone’s beer permit, it affects the wholesaler that sells the beer,” Goldsworthy says. “This basically gives vendors permission to pass from local authority on the first violation.”

Representative Brian Kelsey, who voted against the bill, agrees: “This was a ruse by beer sellers to make it seem like they’re cracking down when they’re actually just removing liability from themselves.”

Congressman Steve Cohen also voted against the bill in 2006 when he was still a state senator. He calls the law “the most craven capitulation to illogical special interests I’ve ever seen.” Besides his opposition to lowering fines to certain retailers, he says the mandatory I.D. provision is “stupid.”

“My mother is 92, and if she doesn’t have an I.D. with her, she can’t buy beer. That’s ludicrous! It’s not like she’s buying heroin,” Cohen says.

Representative John DeBerry of Memphis used to chair the local beer board. He voted for the bill because he says he’s seen too many photos of mangled teenage bodies involved in drunk-driving accidents.

“Any person over 25 years of age ought to have a legitimate I.D. to do business with anyway,” DeBerry says. “Why would a responsible adult not have an I.D.?”

Customers like 51-year-old Debbie Jacobs agree. She says she always carries her identification.

“I get carded all the time. It doesn’t bother me,” Jacobs says. “It tells me they’re watching out for the kids who don’t need to be buying beer.”

The carding provision will expire in one year, and legislators will evaluate whether or not it’s making a difference.

Ronnie Ray, owner of the Keg in Millington, says he doesn’t see how carding people with gray hair and wrinkles will prevent underage drinking.

“These people who make the laws should have bigger fish to fry,” Ray says. “People are killing people out in the streets. That’s a much bigger problem the state legislators should be dealing with.”

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Food & Wine Food & Drink

Pour a Beer on It

Sir Isaac Newton, it is said, discovered gravity by chance when an apple fell from a tree and bonked him on the noggin. My recent decision to Google the words “beer” and “bread” was prompted by a similar, if far more painful, encounter. Not once, not twice, but thrice, a jumbo-sized container of Louisiana Hot Sauce fell out of an upper kitchen cabinet, bonking me on the head, rattling my teeth, and nearly knocking me unconscious. Eventually, I decided it might be a good time to clean out the overstuffed cupboard, throw away all the things I don’t use, and make a little room for the hot stuff that was about to give me brain damage.

The cabinet purge revealed wonders. There were all kinds of fancy commercial rubs and marinades given to me as gifts by well-meaning friends who don’t seem to understand that I make my own and don’t trust anything trussed-up in raffia. There were strange boxes of exotic flavored gelatins that must have been tempting at the time but which now sounded vile. There were baggies full of bread crumbs and lost sticks of shortening. And then there were all the bread pans that I never use because breadmaking is far too time-consuming. I was on the verge of putting them in a pile to go to the thrift store when I noticed a brown, raffia-adorned sack marked “Jiffy Bread” or “Miracle Bread” or some such nonsense. It was halfway into the garbage can by the time I noticed the instructions reading, “Just pour a warm beer on it, stir, and bake.” It sounded easy enough, and I had a beer.

After settling into a warm yeasty loaf of Sam Adams bread, I went straight to the computer to find out where I might order more of this magnificent creation. But, unable to locate a vendor, I simply typed in the words “beer” and “bread.” The summary of the first result read, “The easiest bread you’ll ever make.” Looking down at the $4 price tag on my empty bag of mix, I was already beginning to feel a little bamboozled.

The basic beer-bread recipe was incredibly simple: Three cups of white self-rising flour and three tablespoons of granulated sugar. Pour a room-temperature beer on it, mix, and bake at 375 degrees until the outside is crusty and golden. There was a note informing bakers who might want to use healthier whole-grain flours to add three teaspoons of baking powder to the mix. It really was that easy.

It’s a scam, I thought. The whole breadmaking business would go out of business if the general public caught on to this little trick. “I need a cooking show on Spike TV,” I told my wife. How can you go wrong with the catchphrase “Just pour a beer on it”? Like the unknown manufacturers who thought they would become rich and famous wrapping up flour and sugar in a bunch of raffia and selling it for four bucks, I had stars in my eyes.

Handfuls of cheese were added to the recipe to see what would happen. It resulted in perfect cheesy bread. Herbs livened up the flavor. A blob of butter added to the flour mixture gave loaves a cakey texture. Budweiser worked well enough but added very little flavor to the bread. Pabst Blue Ribbon, alas, produced bread that smelled and tasted like PBR, which is good for beer but bad for bread. The most flavorful loaves were produced using a variety of hoppy microbrews.

When a bunch of bananas started turning brown, I cut them up and added them to the basic bread mixture along with a handful of chopped nuts, a cup of molasses, and a bottle of Guinness stout. It didn’t really taste like banana nut bread, but it wasn’t half bad either.

Inside of a week I’d made loaves from every kind of brew on the supermarket shelves. Most were acceptable, and many were excellent. I had cakey fruitbreads made with fruity beers, fluffy white bread made with wheat beer, and dense whole wheat made with barley wine. I had herb muffins and a crumbly variation on focaccia, both made with Moretti, and lots of drop rolls made with Rolling Rock.

This bit of baking advice comes with a stern warning: Baking beer bread is addictive. I became so obsessed with mixing beers and flour that my friends started treating me like some guy walking down the middle of the street talking to himself. Every time I excitedly called for my wife to “come taste,” she answered with mock excitement. “Do you mean to tell me you just pour a beer on it?” she’d ask, feigning airheaded amazement. “You really need your own cooking show on TV, so you can teach guys how to trick women into sleeping with them by making them fresh bread.”

It was almost as humiliating as being smacked on the head with a jar of Louisiana Hot Sauce. Repeatedly.