The Big Sour

By Dick Cantwell

Harvey Weinstein himself made the call. His girl hadn’t gotten him Sam’s direct number, so he had to wade through the company directory at Dogfish Head. Thank God his boy—he hoped he was his boy—was in.
“Sam? Sam Calagione? Harvey Weinstein here, from Miramax Pictures in New York City.”
Calagione knew Miramax like most people knew Miramax—makers of independent-themed films, based in New York, continually twitting Hollywood, reminding it that it didn’t necessarily have a stranglehold on the Big Picture. He’d been so-so on “Shakespeare in Love.”
“I’m here, Harvey. I’m macerating raisins, and then I’ve got a TV appearance, so I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Macerating raisins! You kill me, Sam! The things you kids do to make beer! Now that’s extreme brewing. Well, let me cut to the chase. I read about what you crazy guys did in The New Brewer—the trip to Belgium. It’s like D-Day all over again, the Yanks coming to the rescue!”
“Harvey, that’s not exactly the way it was. They don’t need to be rescued, at least not like that. We went there to learn, not to teach.”
“Yeah, whatever you say. Anyway, I’ve got a pitch for you, you and your Brett Pack friends.”
“Brett Pack?”
“Yeah, Brett Pack. Like Rat Pack, like Brat Pack, but with the critters. So here’s the pitch. We’ve got a slot open for something earthy and low budget—forty, fifty million—and, well, you might not know this, but I’m a big homebrewer. And a big fan of the sour beers.”
“Who knew, Harvey?”
“Exactly. Who knew? So look, it’s a heist picture, but instead of just being about the big score—you know, thirty million in A-B bullion, something like that—it’s a save-the-world kind of angle.”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, so you’ve got your posse, all split up now that the Belgian invasion—adventure, I mean—is over, just kind of pottering around with your barrels and your bacteria slants, wondering what’s next, what worlds are out there to conquer. You’re down there in Delaware doing your appearances and your franchises, Tomme’s got the Lost Abbey thing to run him around, Adam’s gearing up for the ski season, Vinnie’s shopping for tanks on the internet, and Rob, well, he’s wondering if he’ll ever figure out a way to deal with his spent grain up there in Maine.
“So then the call comes, from Frank Boon, say. He’s at his wit’s end. Everybody is over there—Armand Debelde, Rene Lindeman, Kris from DeDolle Brouwers, Jean-Pierre--all of them. Somehow, somebody has stolen the sour.”
“Stolen the sour?”
“Yeah, stolen the sour. Well, I’m not sure exactly how that would work, since they’ve all got cellars, right? But somebody has managed to take the sour away for the future, forever, unless a gang of gutsy guys, like old war buddies, but with no war—manage to infiltrate and get it back.”
“What do you mean infiltrate? Get what back?”
“The sour, Sam, the sour.”
“Harvey, the sour, as you call it, isn’t something you keep in a box. It isn’t something you can put under your arm and walk away with. It isn’t something to steal, and it probably isn’t something to recover.”
“I know that. You know that. But they don’t know that. We’ll make it look like a bomb, but not evil. And you guys—let’s talk about casting.”
“Casting?”
“I’m thinking “Ocean’s Eleven, the original one, not that eleven, twelve, thirteen thing they’ve got going at Warner Brothers. And a little bit X-men, but literate, smart, very edgy. Roger Mussche as the Ian McKellan-type character. Acetobacters from his fingertips! Anyway. You, well, it’s obvious, you’re Frank.”
“I’m Frank?”
“Yeah, unless you think that would bother Vinnie. Leadership is a very touchy thing, I know. Talk to my brother. You, you’re Chairman of the Board material. I figure Adam for Dean Martin, since he’s the good-looking one. And he—Adam is single, isn’t he?”
“We’re never quite sure. Look, Harvey, I don’t know about this.”
“Hear me out! If Vinnie isn’t Frank, then he’s probably got to be Peter Lawford. I mean, he’s got a background there in Sonoma, Mendocino, whatever, right? Generations—that’s very Kennedy-esque. And Rob Tod, well, he’s obviously Sammy Davis. He drives the tanker truck--the beer tanker truck--on the caper. He’s up in Maine, he’s misunderstood.”
“Let’s leave all that aside for now, Harvey. Are you telling me that Tomme has to be Joey Bishop?”
“Well, somebody’s got to be, right?”
“Do they? This whole thing is crazy. We’ll all be playing actors playing hooligans in some heist, but a good heist, and we’ll have a bunch of Belgian brewers in cameos with superpowers who somehow still need our help?”
“Exactly. Belgians can’t crack wise. They need the Americans, if only for audience share. Do you have any idea how small Belgium is?”
“Yeah, Harvey, I do. I’ve been there. Have you ever been to Belgium?”
“I’ve been to Epcot, but it’s been years. Wait, no, that was Holland.”
“And why is it we should do this? I mean, we’ve all got breweries to run. We’ve got wives, families.”
“Sure you do. There’s nothing stronger than family. But think of your careers. You’re all growing—everybody’s growing, coast to coast—but you’ve got to branch out. The awards, they’re nice, but they don’t take you to the next level. And unless you kids are smarter than I think you are, they don’t fill the offshore accounts. You guys are star material, rock star material—well, maybe folk star material, but big. Big! Did I tell you who the president is in this picture?”
“Let me guess. Hickenlooper.”
“Bingo! With maybe Papazian as vice.”
“They’re both from Colorado, Harvey. That would never fly.”
“Sam, my friend, this is fiction. The line may be blurred, but it’s fiction, the movies. Not that we won’t be tackling some tough social issues. Look, what do you say you get on the hotline to the gang? Run it by them. Tell ‘em whatever you tell ‘em. I don’t know, free beer. And we’ll get Lorenzo back. He keeps everybody loose, right?”
“Harvey, what can I say? I’ll get back to you”
“Day or night. We’ll make history, Sam, in a blurry, fictional kind of way. And a lot of money. I knew I could count on you.”

Not long afterward, Tomme Arthur hangs up the phone in his expansive new brewery, shaking his head.
“Joey Bishop? Forget that. Still, I could use the cash…” He whistles a jazzy little phrase.
At the same time, Rob Tod leaves a note for his farmer—“9 bins full—need 12 for next week. Leaving town for awhile, Arrivederci, baby, Rob.”
Adam Avery settles back onto his stomach, resuming the position he had held before the phone call, receiving a massage from a lithe blonde in Capri pants. He is laughing, and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
And in Santa Rosa, a slight unpleasantness ensues.
“But Natalie, they need us. We’ve got to save the world!”
“How many times have I heard that? That’s such a threadbare premise! Let somebody else save the world. You’ve got a brewery to run, in case you’d forgotten.”
“I love you, but I’ve got to go. The guys are counting on me.”
“Honestly, Vinnie Cilurzo, sometimes I think the only thing you love is danger.”