|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sun Jul 15, 2012 9:13 pm
Following Bigsby's show of skill in the school of drinking song, the pub had fallen back into a happy, chaotic din of silverware clattering on platters of food, large mugs of drink slamming onto tables, and the babble of drunken men enjoying an evening. Bigsby, with a massive burger before him, had also fallen into his usual routine, and set at the meal with a vigor that Philip tried to avoid observing. Papa had tried to teach Bigsby some form of manners countless times, but Bigsby seemed incredibly resistant. Not out of stubbornness, but out of a seeming incompatibility with the concept, similar to his inability to break from the strange vernacular he employed. Bigsby had his way of doing things figured out, and in this case, “his way” consisted of tearing food apart like a wounded animal.
Heavy footsteps, the boot-clad kind, approached the table where Bigsby and Papa sat and stopped. Bigsby paid them no mind, for he had hit about the halfway mark of his burger and had no desire to stop eating to look up. Nonetheless, whoever owned the feet inside the boots that were making the footsteps placed his glass down upon their table, and from him rumbled a deep voice.
“That's some voice you got yourself there, kiddo. I'm impressed.” It was the voice that had started the song in the first place. Bigsby was decidedly less impressed by the compliment, and didn't look up, at first. He was a little like a dog in that sense, hard to turn away from his meal. When he finished swallowing a mammoth mouthful, though, he pounded his chest twice to help the food along and looked to the man behind the voice. It was a HUGE Marill man, with a great blue mane of hair and a thick beard to match.
”I liked the song!” Bigsby said, smiling. ”Was great fun to sing, 'specially with everybody cheerin' afterwards. Papa,” Bigsby paused, looking over to Philip, and then to his glass of ale. ”Can I have some of your drink?”
Philip, after a moment of conflicted looks, allowed Bigsby to have a TINY sip of his beer, unaware that Bigsby had been drinking nearly triple the amount every few seconds when Philip hadn't been looking.
The Marill man laughed, his giant gut shaking with mirth. “Likes the brew, does'ee? You two should come visit my Brewery, see how that ale is made!”
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jul 15, 2012 9:14 pm
The next day, Philip and Bigsby arrived at the address inscribed upon the card given to them by James, the Marill man. Or perhaps it should be said that Bigsby arrived with Philip, for the little boy went running up to the place with Philip in tow. It was a great brick building, almost strangely quaint when compared to the more modern buildings, typical of Clubs, that hemmed it in on both sides. Great, wide windows marked three stories, or at least three stories of height, and the door into the place was unmarked, made of simple, sturdy wood painted dark green with a brass handle.
Philip, as he seemed to be so wont to do, saw Bigsby as far as into the front door, then trounced off again, leaving Bigsby to sort for himself.
He didn't have to, though, for the Brewmaster was waiting just on the other side, leaning on one meaty arm with his hand splayed across a counter beside him. James smiled at Bigsby, heaving himself upright with a herculean effort.
“There y'are, kiddo! Was wondering when I might see you. Ready for a tour?”
Bigsby nodded several times and approached James, and before he knew what had happened, the man had fit his hands under Bigsby's arms and lifted him clean off his feet. Without a second thought, the man placed Bigsby upon his shoulder, quite a suitable roost, and set off into the brewery.
“You're heavier'an I expected, kiddo, I won't lie to you, but it's nothin' I can't handle.” James said, absently, as they entered into a room much larger than the tiny office which they'd started in. All around were giant metal containers, the use of which Bigsby hadn't the slightest idea, but James seemed to be steering them towards the lowest-tech items in the room instead: A collection of sacks that sat in the corner, away from everything else.
Bigsby's steed, with a deftness and balance out of place for one of such girth, reached into one of the sacks and pulled out a handful of what was inside. Holding it up for Bigsby to see, he said, “This is what we call malt barley, and it's one of the main ingredients for brewing beer. Whiskey, too, but I prefer beer. Bwahaha!” James thundered into laughter, and Bigsby had to hold tight to keep from falling off the man. When it finally tapered off, James handed some of the barley to Bigsby, who, after scrutinizing it closely, took a deep whiff of the stuff. It smelled vaguely sweet, and a little like the earth.
James went on to walk Bigsby through the entire brewing process, from mashing through to filtering, pointing out what each of the different metal containers, kettles, and tuns did, showing how each fed into the next, and sometimes fed back around again. He explained conditioning and filtering, and how these processes polished the flavor to a mirror shine. Finally, he explained about how long it took to brew up a batch.
”'Dat seems an awful long time just to make a batch'a ale!” Bigsby exclaimed, craning his neck to look at James' head. ”Why would'yez wait so long?”
James smiled, his serenity lost upon Bigsby, for the boy couldn't really see his face. He could, however, see the bottle that James produced, from seemingly nowhere.
“Because, kiddo,” James said, opening the bottle with one twisting motion, prying metal from the glass with brute force, “The results are so sweet. Sometimes patience can be rewarding; you'd do well to remember that.”
Bigsby nodded slowly, the message working its way slowly into his thick skull, the profundity of James' statement seeping in.
“Beer's good for patience, by the way. Slows you right down! Bwahaha!” James' laughter nearly sent Bigsby flying again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
