“That’s because of the six-row Bohemian hops, the same hops that were brought here by Czech immigrants in the early 1840s.”
The specific remarks reached through Collier’s rising buzz. She knows her beer. And then he took a closer look. Hair black as India ink hung just a bit past her shoulders. She seemed small-framed but something in her eyes showed him a large-framed sense of confidence. Collier’s sexism ranged his eyes over her bosom but the baggy apron wouldn’t hint at her size. An ornate silver cross sparkled just below the hollow of her throat.
When he tried to say something, though, he caught her staring at him.
“I don’t believe it. Justin Collier is in my bar.”
“Dang straight!” Jiff announced a bit too loudly. “A bonner-fide TV star he is!”
Collier winced.
“Hey, Jiff,” the woman leaned to whisper. “Mr. Collier probably doesn’t want a lot of attention.”
“No, actually I don’t,” Collier said, relieved.
“Oh, sure, sure.” Jiff got it. “Say, how about a couple more?”
The woman poured two more glasses and set them down. Then she extended a small but somewhat roughened hand. Probably from dishwashing, Collier presumed.
“I’m Dominique Cusher, Mr. Collier,” she introduced. “It’s a real pleasure to have you here. If you want to know the truth, your show is about the only thing I watch on television these days. I really love it.”
“Thanks,” Collier said. “Pleased to meet you.”
She held up a finger. “But, I remember a couple episodes ago, you were touting that new Rauchbier from Oregon. Whew! You actually like that codswallop? They cut their barley with corn, and I could swear I tasted Liquid Smoke in it.”
Collier laughed at the surprising, bold remark. He didn’t really care for the product, either, but the question nagged, What the hell is a dishwasher doing drinking an obscure smoked beer? “Well, sometimes business has its demands. Every now and then I have to give a nod to a beer that’s not all that great.”
Now she smiled. “Oh, I understand. Advertisers.”
“Bingo.”
“I have to do the same thing, too. It kills me to post a Bud happy hour…but if we run the special we get a discount. Don’t know how people can drink it.”
“But more people drink it than anything else,” Collier noted. “Business is business. One has to accommodate the market. But let me just say that this house lager is excellent. Could you please pass my compliments on to the brewer?”
“You just did,” she said.
Collier was stunned. “You—”
“That’s right, Mr. Collier,” she said with no arrogance. “I’ve got a master brewer degree from the Kulmbach School, and I took supplemental courses at Budvar in Budejovice and Tucher in Nuremberg.” She pointed between two of the service tuns. There hung the certificates in plain view.
“That’s incredible,” he said. In fifteen years of beer writing, he’d never met any American to graduate from Kulmbach, and perhaps only two or three women with master brewer certificates from anywhere. Suddenly, to Collier, she was the celebrity. At once, he felt invigorated. This fiery little woman with black hair and rough hands is the one responsible for what has to be one of the finest lagers in America…Dominique Cusher.
Jiff seemed content to be out of the conversation as he swigged more beer and shoveled in the rest of his burger. Dominique leaned over on her elbows, smiling. “I guess you’re on vacation, right? I can’t be arrogant enough to think you came all this way to try my Civil War Lager.”
“Actually, I did. A couple of fellow beer snobs told me about it.” He took another sip and found no trace of monotony. “It really is fantastic.”
“Mr. Collier here’s finishin’ up a book,” Jiff barged in.
Collier nodded. “I need one more entry for my Great American Lagers project. I don’t want to jump the gun, now, but I’m pretty sure this is going to be it.”
“That would be a true honor.” She tried to contain the thrill. But her eyes sparkled. “No palate fatigue yet, huh?”
“None,” Collier admitted. “I’m not finding any deficits. Let me buy you one. It’s known as good luck—”
“To buy the brewer a glass of their own beer,” she finished. “Goes all the way back to the Reinheitsgebot Purity Law.” Dominique poured herself one, then clinked glasses with Collier and Jiff (though Jiff’s slopped a bit out of his glass).
“Prost,” she and Collier said at the same time. “Who’s he?” Jiff said.
“It’s German for ‘cheers,’ Jiff,” she informed.
“Aw, yeah, that’s right…”
Collier smiled at her. “I’d try some of your other selections, too, but I should wait. I don’t want anything to interfere with my initial impressions of the lager. Is there anything unique about the recipe that you could tell me?”
“It’s a family tweak,” she said. She seemed to nurse her glass in exact increments. “A variation of Saaz hops and some temperature jinks in the worting process. But please don’t tell anyone that. My ancestors would crawl out of their graves to come after me.”
“So you’re a family of brewers?”
“Yep. This tavern’s been here in various incarnations since the beginning of the 1800s, and the Cushers managed to hang on to it all that time, even through the war. When federal troops captured the town in 1864, they burned every single building downtown except this tavern. When the Yankees tried the beer, they didn’t dare put a torch to the place.”
“Good sense.”
“The only other structure they didn’t burn was the Gast House, now Mrs. Butler’s bed-and-breakfast.”
“I wonder why they didn’t burn that, too,” Collier questioned. “They were pretty torch-happy once they started to win.”
“Jiff can tell you that,” she said.
Again, that pained look on Jiff’s face. “Aw, come on, Dominique. I been tryin’ hard not to let any of that creepy B.S. get ta Mr. Collier.”
“I knew it,” Collier said. “Ghost stories. Haunted folklore.”
“The way it goes,” the woman began, “is that when the Union commander sent a team of men up to the Gast House, he had to wind up putting them in the stockade.”
“The stockade? What on earth for?”
“Because they refused to carry out their orders.”
“They refused to burn the house, you mean?”
Dominique nodded with a mischievous grin. “They said they were too afraid to go inside, said there was an ungodly presence.”
Jiff frowned, as expected, but Collier wasn’t impressed. “That’s all?”
“No. Then another squad of men were sent up to the house, and…” Her eyes shined at Jiff. “Jiff, tell Mr. Collier what happened.”
“Shee-it,” Jiff said under his breath. “The second squad never came back, so’s the Yankee commander went up there hisself and saw that the whole squad hanged thereselfs.”
“From the same tree that Harwood Gast had hanged himself a year and a half previous. The tree’s still there, too, right Jiff? That giant oak next to the fountain.”
“Yeah, but it all ain’t nothin’ but a bushel basket full’a horse flop, Mr. Collier.”
Collier chuckled. “I’ve got to tell you, Jiff, it’s a fascinating story, but…I don’t believe any of it. So you can relax.”
“Thank God…”
“Regional folklore has always interested me, but at the end of the day,” Collier said, and paused for effect. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“But Jiff’s right,” Dominique added. “There are a lot of ghost stories around here, typical of any Civil War town. Funny thing is, our stories are a bit harder-edged than most.”