I’d dearly love to gift my readers with an overview of the incredibly detailed planning that preceded the debut of the New Albanian Brewing Company’s brewery in 2002; how we spent months poring over spreadsheets, collecting data from similar startups worldwide, traveling throughout the United States, then conducting rigorous small-batch testing of the recipes…verily, never in my life have I dived this thoroughly into a project.
When the simple truth of the matter is that I barely remember anything at all about it.
Preoccupied? Slightly. Amy and I separated about the same time that NABC beer’s started flowing. I moved into a small apartment at the rear of 1515 E. Market St. in midtown New Albany, a 19th-century grocery building that later housed La Rosita’s, Israel’s Delicias de Mexico and Leaven Café, among others.
The spheres were separate, and my departure date had nothing to do with the brewery’s arrival. The time had come for both.
After my father’s death the previous year, I’d inherited his charcoal black 1985 Ford F150 pickup, which was kept licensed, serviced and readied, although it did me precious little good because I never bothered learning how to drive a manual transmission (and yes, Buddy, you tried mightily to teach me).
But necessity is the mother of absorption, and almost overnight I pole-vaulted into a borderline level of stick-shifting competence. In fact, a brawny, unpretentious farm truck with fewer than 100,000 miles was ideal, and stood to be handy in its new guise as official brewery vehicle. Besides, I had items to move to the apartment.
Amid my relocation, NABC’s inaugural brew team of Michael Borchers and Joey Burns brewed two batches of New Albanian Brewing Company beer, to be released just before Thanksgiving: Community Dark (English-style Dark Mild) and Beak’s Best (Best Bitter). They used a London ale yeast, and both beers were quaffable and suitably English.
Next was the infamous Samuel Smith Winter Welcome clone for holiday season, which emerged tasting a lot like Stone’s Arrogant Bastard Ale and not a quaint English countryside tipple. This was described to me as a serendipitous accident. I nodded affably, and didn’t believe it for a minute.
Keep reading for more about Elector.
Our opening trio of beers tasted great, and the first brewery in New Albany since 1935 had arrived. Today in 2026, the New Albanian Brewing Company is the oldest continuously operational brewery in the Louisville metro area, and the 8th-oldest in the entire state of Indiana.
You can rest assured that I’m very proud of this.
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Even the old-timers forget that we first discussed brewing beer almost a decade earlier during the winter of 1993/1994, although the conversation never really went anywhere. I made a few industry contacts and filled several old-school file folders with information, but those were the pub’s earliest days, and we barely managed the food and drink business we already possessed, much less add layers of complexity to it.
What’s more, nothing remotely resembling start-up/operating capital existed beneath a stray mattress, and our credit rating was “TILT.” At this stage NABC was a hand-to-mouth business venture, and amid founder Rich O’Connell’s moral collapse in 1994, to have been simultaneously pursuing a brewery project might well have pushed us over the fiscal cliff’s edge.
However, we ensured that Daddy Numb Nuts took the old incorporation with him when he fled for Paraguay (or maybe it was Florida), and from the chaos came a completely reorganized configuration: New Albanian Brewing Company.
Almost immediately the questions began: “When will you start brewing beer ― and by the way, what the hell does ‘Albanian’ mean?”
Answer #1: It’s only 1994; see you in approximately eight years.
Answer #2: I’m glad you asked. “Albanian” means us, here in this town.
New Albanian
[noo al-bey-nee-uh n]
adjective
1. of, or relating to, the city of New Albany, Indiana (as opposed to Old Albania, otherwise known as Shqipëri/Shqipëria), its inhabitants, or their psychology.
noun
2. a native or citizen of the city of New Albany, Indiana.
The civic naming debate dated back to Scoreboard Liquors during the 1980s, as a topic of discussion with dear friends like Gene Lind and Joe Kerstiens: “What is a person from New Albany called, and why is the correct answer New Albanian”?
“New Albanyite” or “Naw-ba-ton-ian” didn’t resonate. New Albanian always seemed most logical, and in terms of our company, being “the” New Albanian brewing company meant tagging ourselves as the only one.
But did I coin this usage? As it turns out, no.
In 2017 the local physician and politician Al Knable serendipitously uncovered irrefutable proof that the use of New Albanian to describe a resident of this flood plain settlement was at least as old as “Eclipse of 1869” (see photos).
Specifically: “The shouts of the New Albanians rent the air for the return of sweet daylight.”
The quoted passage is from the Ledger, a municipal newspaper of the time. As an aside, note the multi-syllabic words used in the header, among them obscuration, magnificence, manifestation and protuberances. Newspaper editors today will view these words with unmitigated horror, given we’re now expected to write at a neonatal level of reading comprehension.
Thanks to Doc Knable for this major etymological contribution to our understanding of local history. As for myself, I’m happy to have facilitated an overdue restoration.
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And so eight years did pass, and the NABC brewery finally came to fruition. Its advent reflected a chain of circumstances dating to late 1998 or early 1999, when Todd Tucker phoned me and said he’d be selling off Tucker Brewing Co. after three years of operation.
Did Rich O’s want to buy it?
I replied that it was unlikely we could swing it, but I knew someone who might be interested. That’s how Todd made the acquaintance of Michael Borchers, a friend, a public house regular and a longtime homebrewer.
Michael, a native Ohioan, was working for his college buddy Jeff Compton at an internet service provider in Sellersburg; apparently the latter was flush, and space was available in their commercial building. It seemed that Compton was ready to dabble in other business pursuits, and while his knowledge of beer was rudimentary, he ostensibly trusted Michael’s judgment.
The result was Silver Creek Brewing Corporation (1999 – 2001). The brewing equipment was conveyed from Salem to Sellersburg and reinstalled, and Michael prepared for his role as the new brewery’s boss.
Except that the presumed brewer, Don Russell, decided at the last minute against going to work for SCBC.
No shade on Todd when I say that Tucker Brewing Co. found its footing only when Don became the brewer; due praise to Todd for hiring him. The consistency and overall quality of Tucker’s beers stabilized and steadily improved; the Pale Ale in particular became an unapologetic go-to for me. I genuinely enjoyed it.
Don was grounded, and a steady, meticulous brewhouse influence. I believe he was self-taught, and if so, apparently as fine a teacher as brewer.
The apparent understanding was that Michael, a homebrewer, could help Don when needed, but absent commercial brewery training, he never intended to be the brewer of record. Unfortunately, Michael also wasn’t the “money” man; that’d be Compton, and with his money being spent, and everything in place, it was time for revenue.
Michael soon realized that like it or not, without Don, he’d be the brewer of record, giving him a second job to perform. Being the diligent sort, Michael plunged into the learning curve on impossibly short notice, and things began improving for SCBC in the local marketplace. The brewery was distribution only, with no taproom in the contemporary sense; initially, home brew supplies also were sold.
The biggest initial decision was to continue brewing the Tucker line of beers, albeit no longer in oversized ceramic flip-cap bottles, but rather 12-ounce bottles (and of course kegs).
There’d be innovations to come after Michael solidified the re-planted brewery, among them arrangements to contract-brew for NABC, which he and I had discussed often. I wanted to partner with SCBC to develop NABC draft brands, which I foresaw as pizza-friendly styles at moderate alcohol contents: English stalwarts like Mild and ESB, and my homebrewer wife and business partner’s Tunnel Vision, a Belgian wheat ale with honey.*
Toward our future shared self-interest ― in effect, putting skin into the game ― Amy and I invested a chunk of our own money in SCBC. The ramifications were different than we’d imagined, but the gist was that if a brewing arrangement with SCBC was indeed workable, there might be no need to make a much larger investment in a brewing system of NABC’s own.
And, to reiterate, if not for Michael’s presence at SCBC, it is doubtful that any of this would have been contemplated, much less a dime tithed.
We’ll never know how this scenario might have played out, because in late 1999, not even a year into the SCBC project, Compton began developing a burning sensation in his dot-com wallet pocket. Learning that Oldenberg Brewing Co. was on its deathbed, available for the proverbial song, Compton bought it, not unlike you and I impulse-buying a scratch ‘n’ dent tiffany lamp at a thrift store.
The ripple effects were immediate. At last, Michael would get to run a brewing business full-time, except it was located a 90-minute drive each way from Sellersburg, and maybe the Tucker beers would continue to be brewed in Sellersburg, although probably only if Michael could perform three jobs at once, but better yet, maybe all the brewing could happen at Oldenberg, because who really cares about the little ex-Tucker brewhouse in Sellersburg if SCBC scored windfall profits elsewhere?
To my interpretation, Compton was saying to Michael: “To make money, we need to get bigger. Any promises we made to you, or you made to others, don’t matter. Forget the SCBC brewhouse; make money. Maybe we’ll sell this Tucker brewery junk for scrap.”
There’s something I need to get off my chest after a quarter-century, but I’m fearful of being too harsh, because Jeff Compton died in 2000 at 52, and I’m genuinely sorry about that; it’s far too young to go.
Concurrently, I’m no longer in the brewing business, so it doesn’t matter one jot at this point, yet in defiance of karmic propriety, I’m still angered about what SCBC’s Oldenberg acquisition led to. Yes, I celebrated initially, only because it meant abject humiliation for my ideological adversary David Heidrich.
The truth for posterity’s sake is that Compton and I didn’t see eye to eye, probably because we were very different. It happens. While there existed an outside chance of reaching rational co-existence, it wasn’t going to happen once Michael was trampled underfoot for the second (third?) time. My antipathy toward Compton never really lessened after that.
As for Oldenberg, the employees there were stolid and long-suffering, but by 2000 what more could they do? Again and again ownership let them down; the brand was exhausted, upper management clueless, and the chances of a Hoosier dot-com dude with more money than common beer sense reversing a decade of Heidrich’s value-subtracting conceptual pratfalls surely nil.
Nonetheless, Michael would have to attempt it on Compton’s behalf. On Oct. 2, 1999 the Silver Creek Brewing Corporation’s purchase of Oldenberg’s brewing operation was approved by a federal bankruptcy court.
40 Years in Beer (Book II), Part 64: The 2,301 day McOldenberg Brewmall 1990s vigil
Michael’s modest initial ambition to slowly and responsibly nurture a local brewery had metastasized into a succession of morale-sapping maneuvers undertaken by his own team. Moreover, Compton’s core internet business ventures was weakened after the dot-com crash.
For a while, the center held. Then events moved quickly. In 2001, a little bird made me aware that the entire Silver Creek business “empire,” from gigabytes to East Kent Goldings, was tottering. Whether NABC was ready or not, the time had come to decide.
I made the case to Compton that we’d invested in his local brewery so it could be local. But he’d co-opted localism to finance an ill-advised regional brewery purchase. My conclusion? SCBC must sell us the moribund Tucker brewing equipment at a steep discount, given that in effect, we’d already made a down payment via our share purchase.
We arrived at a penny-wise price satisfactory to both parties. now quick action was merited, lest SCBC’s creditors came snooping.
Cash we had; a place to store the tanks, not so much. Our friend and longtime customer Tony Euler came to the rescue. He was the plant manager at Rauch Inc., a New Albany non-profit that made employment available to developmentally disabled adults in an industrial park setting not far away from the Public House. NABC regularly took part in Rauch fundraisers; they were our preferred neighborhood non-profit.
Tony cleared it to allow our brewing equipment to be stowed in Rauch’s warehouse. We hired flatbeds, raised a crew and wrote the check to Compton. Tony unlocked the doors, and Kevin Richards supervised the transfer.
Following a brief respite, the heavier lifting began. We couldn’t impose on Rauch forever, and where would they fit at 3312 Plaza Drive without taking up seating space, which already was at a premium?
We met with Greg at Hometown National Bank down the street. 25 years earlier, he’d set up my very first checking account at Union Bank in Georgetown. Greg sketched acceptable parameters of a small loan. Meanwhile Dan, a contractor friend of Amy’s and Kate’s mother, drew up a plan to add a purely utilitarian brewhouse to the north-facing side of the pizzeria by University Woods Dr., visible from Grant Line Road.
Understanding that legalities could be mind-numbing, I commissioned legendary New Albany attorney and longtime pub regular Mike Naville (R.I.P.) to research the zoning implications of brewing beer.
Mike came back laughing to collect his fee in liquid ounces, because there were no implications, and not a single mention of brewing in the city’s voluminous codebook. Apparently after Prohibition, not a single New Albanian thought there’d be such a thing as locally brewed beer, ever again.
In January, 2002, the brewery began coming together.
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Even the hastiest of scribbled cocktail-napkins-of-a-plan for using the brewery would have been better than nothing.
That’s about what I had.
From the standpoint of our successful beer and pizza business, there was a pre-existing, institutional “problem” that the vast majority of craft brewery startups never experienced, because somehow, for whatever reason, I had become quite good at running a world-class, better-beer program, a program that now needed to be combined harmoniously with a small brewery’s output. There were few templates for that.
NABC, which for many people still implied Rich O’s Public House and Sportstime Pizza as separate entities, enjoyed an established reputation for excellence pertaining to the quality of its beer offerings (ironically, our reputation only grew as the decade progressed with the brewery fully integrated).
Of course, all these excellent beers were brewed somewhere else. I excelled at sourcing the best beers I could (legally) find, organizing them into a coherent overall presentation, educating customers about their merits, and expanding this better-beer perimeter as far as I could humanly push it, while the pushing was good.
Recalling that in 1992, even close friends doubted that selling the planet’s best available beers could succeed in a place like New Albany, my beer vision worked far better than anyone ever imagined, even me.
But how could a somewhat elemental four-barrel brewing system produce beers that would “belong” conceptually within the parameters of the existing program, thus enabling us to break through the creative glass ceiling by brewing house beers that evolved from our own ideas, not someone else’s?
The answer was to focus on undervalued or unavailable beer styles and style groupings. Numerous stylistic gaps remained evident, even with a world-class beer list, and despite ever-widening selections from importers and wholesalers. A small brewing kit could be complementary, and fill these spaces.
The “high” end was fine. Already by 2002 higher-gravity and extreme beer styles like Imperial Stout and Barley Wine (annual staples of Gravity Head) were in vogue and becoming easier to find, at least in part because greater alcoholic strength lengthened their shelf life and insulated them from mistreatment during shipping.
Conversely, lower-gravity “session strength” styles could be elusive. Subtlety did them no favors during long journeys, and shipping expenses meant “bang for the buck” often wasn’t conducive to fast turnover. Consequently, I thought we could emphasize moderate-strength beers from comparatively neglected brewing traditions that paired with food and were suitable for sessionable consumption.
Like British ales.
They tended to be lower in alcoholic content but still assertively flavored. Wonderful examples of traditional British styles were exported, as with the Samuel Smith and Fuller’s lines, yet it was almost impossible hereabouts to find styles like Mild, an obsession with which was one enduring legacy of my previous travels in Great Britain.
In its contemporary interpretation, Mild generally implies a session-strength malty dark ale of less than 4% abv. Nowadays Mild usually bears a brownish or mahogany color, stopping short of stout-like blackness. Brown ales are related to Mild, but constructed differently, and while Mild may sometimes appear to be Porter at a distance, there are no shared beer-family ties between the two.
I’d always held that amber or “dark” beers paired well with pizza. Mild was ideal, but hardly any American brewery accessible to us brewed one. Mild was rarely exported from Britain, and kegs that made it here were pricy, and not always optimally fresh.
The same went for British classics like Extra Special Bitter and Pale Ale, as well as a range of maltier Scottish (as opposed to Scotch) ales. Belgian pale ale styles similar to Palm and De Koninck, too, and even a few German beers, as with the Abzug we eventually brewed, a lower-gravity smoky version of a Vienna-style amber lager.
There was no sense using the brewery to compete against imported or craft drafts that already sold well. I preferred conjuring demand for different beer styles, then being the only local brewery capable of meeting demand. But I fully expected our brewers to experiment with their own interpretations; we’d see where these went.
So it was that after three batches, we had two certain flagships. Community Dark (Mild; 4.2% abv) was named for Sam Peden Community Park down the street, and Beak’s Best (ESB; 5% abv) referred to my cousin and mentor Donald Barry’s prominent proboscis. By design, both were very British.
Then came Elector, the “Winter Warmer” seasonal, an ale so wrong it was right, hence my only question to Michael: “If this actually is a mistake, fine, but can you replicate it”?
He could. Make that three flagships.
Elector was born on Election Day, 2002, which happened to be the mid-term congressional election following the disputed presidential race of 2000, in which Al Gore won the popular vote nationwide, but lost the White House owing to Florida’s uncounted hanging chads and the state’s votes for George W. Bush in the Electoral College.
Needless to say, as crafty subversive leftists (and as craft brewers, who always should be crafty subversive leftists), this political outcome was still somewhat fresh in our minds in 2002. Brew day was uneventful, but as the fermentation proceeded, it became obvious that the new batch was going to have a deeper reddish burgundy color than planned, and also was considerably hoppier than the intended “winter warmer” style should ever be.
There was nothing wrong with the resulting. It was delicious, full-bodied and aggressively hopped, and we concluded that whatever the intent, the result was something unique and worth keeping. Imperial Red? “Strong American Ale” (BJCP)? A few years down the road, I took to calling it “Elector-Style Ale.”
The name arose from drunken mischief (imagine that), when after much discussion Joey suggested “Elector” as a direct reference to the Electoral College’s way of making the popular vote redundant, by extension rendering democracy pointless.
I replied cautiously: But the “-tor” suffix might suggest Doppelbock (Salvator, Kulminator) in the minds of knowledgeable drinkers, and of course we had no intention of producing a beer remotely similar to Doppelbock.
Joey: “Right.”
Michael: “Right.”
Roger: “Right.”
So we agreed, and Elector it would be. Two dozen years down the road, it remains that an Elector in hand is worth two Bushes (either departed, or merely retired) any election day, and in fact, any time of the year.
Tunnel Vision was brewed again. The brewery promised to brew a batch of the winning recipe from the FOSSILS homebrewed Porter competition, which became Beth and David Howard’s The Black Hand.
These were my intentions at the outset, and we were off to a good start. If I didn’t stick entirely to my plan for the brew schedule, it’s because deep down I knew that we’d never be able to remunerate brewers for what they were worth. There had to be an element of “as you please, guys” to it, and I was willing to indulge their whims.
I also knew a clock was ticking.
Michael was in a serious relationship. He’d be getting married and starting a family sooner rather than later, with the aim of going to graduate school and working in environmental engineering. It was understood that we wouldn’t have the same brewer three or four years down the road.
However, more than anything else, I wanted Michael to have the opportunity, insofar as humanly possible, to get the bad SCBC-Oldenberg taste out of his mouth, and to be able to do quality brewing from scratch, knowing he’d done it his way, something denied him previously.
The key word in the preceding? Quality.
Another reason for brewing styles of house beer that differed from popular guest beers was to artfully sidestep direct comparisons with our own brews, at least until there’d been time to navigate learning curves. Missteps occurred, like a stuck mash, but these were few, and I worried very little.
My serenity was justified, and while Michael was aboard, it was a blast. Furthermore, the debut of NABC’s brewery also provided a timely reminder to take out the trash, as explained in a press release circulated to local media.
Urge Overswill: Social Engineering in New Albany as an Unwelcome Guest Belatedly Leaves the Building
The arrival of house-brewed beers at Rich O’s Public House and Sportstime Pizza signals the departure of American mass-market lagers and low-calorie “light” beers from Sportstime, and the completion of a crusade that began almost a decade ago.
There isn’t a beer lover among us who hasn’t experienced the dissonance arising spontaneously when a brewpub patron is spotted drinking Budweiser or Miller Lite, usually straight from the bottle, while all around them people are enjoying craft beers.
While it is lamentable that so many beer drinkers routinely settle for the lowest common denominator and choose to define themselves by reference to a mass-market product, and a generic one at that, it isn’t only a case of people consciously or unconsciously bowing to the incessant and pervasive nature of modern mass marketing. It must be remembered that they are allowed to do so by the management of the brewpub in question.
Explanations for this incongruity on the part of brewpub managers are many and seemingly varied, but quite frankly, most have at their foundation an implicit admission of cowardice on the part of ownership, further implying a lamentable unwillingness to trust the veracity of the beer being brewed on their own premises.
By allowing Lite, the establishment’s reason for being is fundamentally contradicted. Philosophically and conceptually, Miller Lite is the antithesis of a pint of house-brewed ale. The very existence of the house-brewed ale, and by extension of the brewpub that produces it, is predicated as a necessary reaction to Miller Lite.
Miller Lite symbolizes the mass-market “McWorld,” in which the individual is subordinated to the system. Conversely, house-brewed ale celebrates the uniqueness to be found in every person and the joy of the differences discerned in pre-industrial communities.
At this juncture, there will be readers who are unable to fathom the preceding. Some are irrevocably loyal to a certain brand, and no amount of persuasion will budge them from the certainty that McBeer, and McBeer alone, is the only beer in this huge and diverse world that can be allowed to touch their lips.
While most of us find comfort in the idea that human beings are rational animals; others embrace irrationality as a non-negotiable article of faith, and there is nothing that can be said, and no alternative to be offered, that will alter their perceptions.
A far better argument on behalf of Miller Lite goes something like this: A licensed establishment enters into business in order to make a profit, and the light, mainstream beers are the biggest selling brands in the world. Furthermore, if the establishment is a restaurant and not just a bar, customers want to drink their favorite brands when they come to eat their favorite meals.
I reiterate: What were these people thinking when they made the decision to become a brewpub?
To brew one’s own beer and serve it on the premises is to stake out specific and specialized territory; one proposes to leap far beyond Miller Lite. In the same manner, a steak house is a more specific, specialized version of a hamburger joint.
Besides, isn’t it possible (and in fact, usually always the case) that the on-premises brewhouse can produce a mild, yellow-colored liquid for the flavor impaired?
I will concede that it takes patience and fortitude to navigate America’s insipid sea of swill, and I know that neither Rome nor the Lite Free Zone was built in a day.
But now that Sportstime Pizza and Rich O’s Public House have added a brewing arm, the time has come to take the next logical step and provide New Albany with its first venue in which to enjoy the city’s, the country’s and the world’s finest beers without the taint of execrable Anheuser-Busch, Miller and Coors.
Back on January 1, 1994, American low-calorie “light” lagers were banned from Rich O’s Public House, and the prices of dubiously “full-flavored” mainstream lagers (Budweiser prime among them) were raised.
The advent of the Lite Free Zone was momentous, but as most Rich O’s patrons always grasped, it was a “zone” only, a foothold from which to wage war against the prevailingly “lightweight” mentality of Kentuckiana until such a time as it would be possible to extend the “good beer” mandate to the remainder of the building.
Consequently, we pursued a pragmatic strategy at Sportstime Pizza and continued to offer mainstream golden lagers and American low-calorie lagers. At the same time, we used Rich O’s Public House and its Lite Free Zone as the rallying point for the revolution.
The results of this gradualist approach became increasingly evident as the millennium arrived: Steadily declining sales of mainstream lagers and light beers at Sportstime Pizza accompanied by concurrently increasing sales of better beer.
With the new brewery approved for operation and the first batches of beer already brewed on premise, it finally is time to complete the process of transformation at Sportstime Pizza, which in its original incarnation (circa 1988) was the leading draft Budweiser account in all Floyd County.
Now it will be the taproom and pizzeria fronting a brewpub dedicated to the revolution of good beer over mass-market swill.
When current stocks of Budweiser, Bud Light and Miller Lite are depleted, no more will be ordered. The New Albanian Brewing Company has brewed an authentic English Mild, a dark-colored, light-bodied and lightly hopped ale, to serve as the house “dark light” beer.
For those customers demanding the familiar golden hue, we will offer Spaten Premium Lager, certainly the easiest drinking of German beers, at a reduced price of $3.25 a 20-oz. pint. We have introduced Flying Dog Old Scratch Lager and Oaken Barrel Meridian Street Lager in 12-oz. bottles at $2.50, and lowered Samuel Adams Boston Lager to $2.50. Lighter imports like Red Stripe and Warsteiner still are available, albeit at regular prices.
To drinkers of light beer, I say this: Try to remember when you were a baby, and a quivering spoonful of Gerber’s goo was lovingly offered in the vicinity of your mouth.
Sure, it tasted good.
It was easy going down, and it served the purpose – but you knew even then that Gerber’s was a passing stage. You were thinking already about growing up someday and being bigger, and when you were bigger, you certainly would NOT have to eat Gerber’s any longer; there’d be steak! Chicken! Lasagna! Bacon! Even falafel (for the veggie crowd)!
It’s the same thing with beer.
Now it’s time to grow up, to wean your long-suffering palate from the spoon-fed swill, and to become an adult beer drinker. Sugarcoating no longer is necessary: If you can’t drink Spaten Premium Lager, you have no business drinking beer, here or elsewhere.
It’s as simple as that, and as a business, we’ll sink or swim with that dictum in mind.
Thank you for your support.
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Man, was I an absolute prick, or what?
But it felt sooooo good…
Next: 40 Years in Beer (Book III), Part 91: New Albany’s brewing history, prior to NABC resuming it.
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* I’m reminded by Walking the Dog that at least one batch of Tunnel Vision came from Sellersburg.
