When I lived in Asheville, N.C., a realtor with a weakness for Belgian beer opened a very dark pub in a downtown basement that he couldn't sell to anyone else. Unlike most of the craft breweries in town, where it wasn't unusual to encounter paddlers jamming on washboards, this bar had a continental moodiness stoked by highly alcoholic beers bottled by temperamental monks. I held a few political meetings there, although it would have been an equally good venue for reading Sartre or writing... More >>>