A Fight Is Brewing (Mikkeller & Evil Twin Breweries)
Janill Gilbert stashed this in Etoh
The creators of some of the most distinctive craft beers in the world are identical twins from Denmark who can’t stand each other. Jeppe Jarnit-Bjergso, left, in Brooklyn. Mikkel Borg Bjergso, right, in Copenhagen.
Mikkel Borg Bjergso, a 38-year-old former high-school science teacher who runs the Danish brewery Mikkeller, stuck his face into a bag of hops and inhaled deeply. It was a rainy February afternoon, and Mikkel, who makes some of the world’s most inventive beer, was visiting de Proef, a Belgian brewery in the town of Lochristi. The hops had been processed into unctuous pellets that resembled cat food, and they released a ripe botanical stink heavy on lemon grass and cannabis. “That’s nice,” Mikkel said, crumbling a few pellets between his fingers and nodding approvingly at the sticky green smear they deposited on his thumb. They were specimens of a strain called Polaris, developed by growers in Germany, which Mikkel had asked de Proef’s proprietor, Dirk Naudts, to purchase for use in a new Mikkeller beer. “They’re very fatty,” Naudts said.
Unlike most brewers, Mikkel doesn’t own a brewery. A typical Mikkeller beer originates in his brain as a far-fetched question: What quality of fattiness would a beer obtain if you sprinkled popcorn into the mash? What would happen if you dumped in a load of mouth-numbing Sichuan peppercorns during the brewing? How much fresh seaweed would lend a beer the right umami jolt? He then finds his answers by proxy, outsourcing the actual brewing to facilities, like de Proef, owned and operated by other people. Mikkel draws up detailed instructions for these fabricators to follow — specifying malt quantity to the milligram, mash schedule to the minute, bitterness to the I.B.U. — and the first time he tastes his own beer is usually when the brewer sends him a shipment and an invoice. “I don’t enjoy making beer,” he says. “I like making recipes and hanging out.”
This way of working is known as “phantom brewing” or “gypsy brewing,” and Mikkel is one of its best-known practitioners. His creations are adored not only on aficionado websites but also by chefs at Michelin-starred restaurants like Noma, in Copenhagen, and El Celler de Can Roca, in Girona, Spain, each of which enlisted him to design beers for their menus. As a phantom, Mikkel can source unwashed seaweed from the western fjords of Iceland, yuzu from Japan and avocado leaves from Mexico while leaving someone like Naudts to deal with the nitty-gritty of putting such ingredients into a beer someone might actually drink. And because he has so little overhead, Mikkel doesn’t have to worry about appealing to mass tastes. Which means more creative freedom. In any given year, a typical craft brewery produces maybe 20 different beers. Last year, Mikkeller made 124.
The number of phantom brewers is growing, and Mikkel, who got into the game in 2006, views this with a mixture of magnanimity and trendsetter’s pride. But he pays particularly close attention to one Brooklyn-based phantom brewery, because it is owned by his identical twin, Jeppe Jarnit-Bjergso. Jeppe started his brewery four years after Mikkeller began and, in an act of winking provocation, named the outfit Evil Twin. It is a smaller operation than Mikkeller, but similarly well regarded among connoisseurs. (Jeppe used to help Noma curate its beer selection.) The Bjergso brothers have opposite temperaments: Mikkel is reserved; Jeppe is an extrovert. And they are not on good terms, despite — or rather, because of — their shared infatuation with beer. They haven’t spoken to each other in more than a year.
The Danish press has caught the conflict’s biblical whiff, casting Mikkel and Jeppe as sworn enemies. Thomas Schon, Mikkeller’s first employee, told me that the twins suffer from a pronounced personality clash: “It was a big relief for Mikkel when Jeppe moved to Brooklyn. It was like the Danish beer scene wasn’t big enough for the two of them.” Mikkeller’s operations manager, Jacob Gram Alsing, said that the subject of Jeppe “is very sensitive for Mikkel to talk about.” Mikkel himself put it this way: “You know Oasis? The Gallagher brothers? They were one of the most successful bands in the world, but those guys had problems with each other.” With twins, he said, “it’s a matter of seeing yourself in another person, and sometimes seeing something you don’t like.”
Mikkel is tall and taciturn, with a solemn bearing that can make him appear extremely bored even when he’s in good spirits. “He can seem very arrogant and distant when you meet him,” his wife, Pernille Pang, says. “All my friends thought he was, at first.”
Wearing a black sweatshirt and worn bluejeans, he seemed underdressed for de Proef, a 70,000-square-foot operation that looks as if it might manufacture the occasional microprocessor in addition to its porters and pale ales. Through a spotless, two-story glass wall, a man in blue workman’s pants darted purposefully between nine steel brewing vessels, while a woman in a lab coat hustled up a staircase with a clipboard. Naudts is less beer geek than egghead: He describes his vocation as “applied research.” Last year, he installed a laboratory at de Proef that is outfitted with instruments for, among other things, moisture measurement, oil distillation, gas chromatography and mass spectrometry; three full-time lab technicians perform extensive diagnostic testing on hops, malts, spices and yeasts.
Mikkel had flown in from Copenhagen to check on a couple of Mikkeller beers in progress at de Proef and to witness the start of a brand-new brew, but these were largely ceremonial duties. For Mikkel, brewing has become primarily a discursive activity. “I get inspiration from tasting beers, food, coffees and wine, and from talking to people who have different ways of thinking about flavors and aromas,” he said. “Winemakers, coffee-makers, chefs, other brewers.”
Joining him were Alsing and an American named Chris Boggess, the head brewer of Three Floyds in Munster, Ind., known for its adventurous stouts. Mikkeller and Three Floyds have collaborated on several beers, and before leaving Indiana, Boggess procured a water-analysis sheet of Lake Michigan, which feeds Munster’s taps, for Naudts to replicate at de Proef. This simulated water would be used in a corn-heavy beer, called Majsgoop, that he and Mikkel were putting into production that day. “The water in Lake Michigan is pretty neutral,” Boggess said. “I think it just tastes really good with our yeast selection.”
Naudts said that when an ingredient’s effects are especially unpredictable — licorice, say, or shiso — “we send Mikkel a sample, he tastes it, and if he thinks the ingredient is too much or too low, we make a second, adapted brew and we blend them together.” But Mikkel rarely asks his contractors for sample batches, confident that a brew will come out as he intends. “When I do a recipe, it’s not difficult anymore,” he said. “I know what comes out of it.” He once bought $8,000 worth of truffles for use in a small-batch beer called the Forager. Schon, describing Mikkel’s facility with potentially overpowering flavors, told me later: “It’s all about balance. If you buy a blueberry beer, it’s got to have a clear, defined blueberry taste, but that’s No. 2. You want it to taste like beer first.”
Mikkel handed the bag of hops back to Naudts and smiled. “The hard life of a brewer,” he said.
The tale of the phantom twins has generated attention for both Mikkeller and Evil Twin, and while Mikkel acknowledges that “it’s a great story,” he regards it with some circumspection. “Our relationship is very complicated,” he said, adding, “I don’t see Jeppe as a rival.” He was unsure whether Jeppe regarded him the same way. When I mentioned my plans to meet Jeppe in the United States, Mikkel fixed me with a heavy gaze and sighed: “He’s going to talk so much trash about me.”
Jeppe lives with his wife and their two young boys in north Brooklyn, near Torst, a bar he co-founded and whose rarefied offerings he manages. On an early March afternoon, I met him at the bar, where he had happy news to share. “I’m here on an E-1 visa — a business visa,” he said, “but we’re changing it to an O-1, which is an artist visa. I just got preapproved last week.” He smiled. “Now I’ll have it on paper that I’m an artist.” Jeppe has shaggier hair than Mikkel and is far more gregarious. He sprinkles emails with exclamation points and showers casual conversation with the word “dude.” His New York friends include the musician Julian Casablancas, a fellow dad whom Jeppe chatted up one day as they watched their children at the playground. At Torst, he patted a stool, inviting me to sit, and asked, “You want some beer?”
The bar was fashioned from thick marble, and the walls were covered in wood salvaged from upstate barns. Mikkeller, which has contracted with brewers in Holland, Scotland and Norway and has bars in Copenhagen (where the company is headquartered), San Francisco, Stockholm and Bangkok, has greater global reach than Evil Twin; Jeppe concentrates on the American market, New York particularly. His beer is available at specialty shops and restaurants across the city, including Eleven Madison Park and Pok Pok. “Being a gypsy brewer, I don’t have my own brewery, so I couldn’t showcase beers at my own place,” Jeppe said. With Torst, that has changed. Mounted on a marble slab were 21 beer taps, a third of them devoted to Evil Twin; Jeppe had a $16,000, custom-built draft system called a flux capacitor, which allows the bartender to control the precise carbonation and temperature of each selection. Despite this elaborate rig, Jeppe said: “I didn’t want Torst to be just a geeky place, just for beer nerds. I like to go out sometimes and not only be around fat men that drink beer.”
Jeppe’s affability notwithstanding, he was full of bravado when it came to discussing business. “I wanted to change the beer scene in New York,” he said. “I wanted to show New York how to do it.” I ordered an Evil Twin beer called Bikini, a mere 2.7 percent alcohol by volume, and when I expressed surprise at its abundant flavor, Jeppe took a shot at his brother’s tendencies. “For me, drinkability is the most important,” Jeppe said. “I’m not gonna make a Dark Lord” — the ultrarich Three Floyds stout. “It’s a fun beer to try, but it’s undrinkable. I don’t want to sound like I put down my brother’s beer, but he’s in the line of Three Floyds a bit too much. He’s very fascinated with what they do. He makes this blueberry spontaneous” — a Belgian-inspired ale — “and I hate it. I think it’s disgusting. It tastes like Kool-Aid.”
Laughing, Jeppe told me about Bozo, a high-alcohol stout that he designed expressly to “make fun of” the extreme flavor experiments in which craft brewers like Mikkeller often engage. “We added cocoa, chocolate, coconut, cinnamon, oak chips, chili, coffee, vanilla, hazelnut, chestnut, marshmallows,” Jeppe said. “It’s not a beer I’d drink, but it came out excellent, and it gets crazy high ratings.”
Mikkel and Jeppe grew up in Niva, a small town 20 miles north of Copenhagen. Their father, Jens Borg Nielsen, was the warden of Vestre prison in Copenhagen; their mother did administrative work in the Danish Prison and Probation Service. When the brothers were 8, their parents divorced, and Nielsen, accepting a job at another prison, moved six hours north and had two more children.
The twins incorporated their mother’s surname, Bjergso, into their own, dropping “Nielsen.” “It was hard for my mom to have two kids, and we didn’t have a lot of money,” Mikkel recalled, “so I didn’t like the fact that my father had moved away and got a new family and didn’t show an interest in me. But I try not to spend time on being angry at people.” He described his relationship with Nielsen today as “very good”; Jeppe, whose feelings are much less sanguine, has replaced the vestigial “Borg”’ with “Jarnit,” his wife’s surname. The divorce, Jeppe told me, was “extremely rough,” but it had the effect of tightening the twins’ bond: “It was us against the world, always together. Defending each other.”
But they were also intensely competitive with each other, a dynamic that manifested early and sometimes comically. “Mikkel and I were born less than two minutes apart,” Jeppe told me. “He came first, but I was supposed to. He was laying the wrong way, and he came out through a C-section. If we’d been delivered the normal way, I would have been first. I like to say he made trouble before he was even born.” As small children, the twins competed to see who could empty the dishwasher faster, and such timed trials continued into adolescence. “From about 11 years old, we started middle-distance running, and we became really good,” Mikkel said. As Jeppe put it: “We always had someone we wanted to beat.” In 1994, the twins entered an 800-meter race at the Aarhus Games, an international track-and-field event. “It was our best race, and the difference between us was, like, one-hundredth of a second,” Mikkel said. “I came in second. Jeppe was third.”
Mikkel discovered craft beer while studying at Kansas State University, which he attended on a running scholarship and where he took chemistry and physics courses. His first taste was a bottle of Dead Guy, from Oregon’s Rogue Ales. “I remember thinking it was interesting,” he said, “but I didn’t pay attention. I went back to Coors Light, drinking what everybody else did. I loved the Silver Bullets. Remember those cans?” After freshman year, his passion for running waned, and he returned to Copenhagen, where he found “a beer revolution” underway, echoing the American craft-beer boom of the 1980s: “We had been completely dominated by Carlsberg,” Mikkel says, and “people got tired of it.” He joined a beer club started by Jeppe, where they and several of their friends drank and discussed the most interesting brews they could find. In 2005, Jeppe opened a beer store called Olbutikken, which became well known among beer drinkers. Mikkel, who worked as a science teacher, began home-brewing in his spare time with an old running pal named Kristian Keller. Forming Mikkeller in Mikkel’s kitchen, they found an early hit in Beer Geek Breakfast, a stout brewed with French-press coffee, which Jeppe agreed to stock. A year or so later, Keller left the business — he wanted to be a writer — and Mikkel took control of the company.
The arrangement between Olbutikken and Mikkeller was symbiotic. The store helped to put Mikkeller on the beer map; Mikkeller became Olbutikken’s marquee draw. There was an implicit pact between the Bjergso boys: One would stick to selling beer, the other to brewing it. In 2010, however, Mikkel opened a flagship Mikkeller bar a short walk from Olbutikken. It was not a bottle shop, but the business “started to create conflict” nonetheless, Schon said. “The agreement that they’d had fell apart.” Soon after the bar opened, Jeppe started Evil Twin, and things went downhill. “I don’t know the details, but how would you feel if your brother copied your entire business plan?” Boggess said. Schon recalls being with the twins around this time. “Mikkel would say, ‘Tell my brother this,’ and Jeppe would respond, ‘Tell my brother this,’ ” Schon said. “They were 10 feet apart, but they refused to talk to each other.”
Jeppe acknowledged that when the first Mikkeller bar opened, it felt divisive: “Mikkeller had always been my house brand, and when Mikkel opened his bar, I said, ‘If he’s not gonna do it for me, I’ll just do it myself.’ ” But Jeppe said that his real anger stemmed from a quarrel over a 2009 real estate transaction, when Mikkel tried, he said, to back out of a deal to purchase Jeppe’s apartment. “For me, it wasn’t about money,” Jeppe said. “It was about the coldness in how he did it. He was like, ‘I don’t care.’ I felt a betrayal, big time. That’s where it all went really wrong. We almost got into physical fights. We didn’t, but almost. This episode made me realize that just because we grew up together, just because we’re twins. . . .” Jeppe trailed off, then declared: “You don’t choose your siblings.” (Mikkel disputes Jeppe’s account.)
I asked Jeppe if he had talked through these grievances with Mikkel. “We went to therapy right before I moved to the States — like, couples’ therapy,” Jeppe said. These visits spanned several months, but he deemed them unproductive. “I was crying, I put myself on the spot, and he was pretty cold, just sitting there looking at me.” And yet, he said, the therapist had been Mikkel’s idea. “He probably feels it somewhere,” Jeppe said. He added that, not long ago, Mikkel emailed him, hoping to reopen a dialogue, “but I feel it’s worthless to even try anymore.”
“Jeppe, on some level, is a little more insecure than Mikkel,” says Keller, who has known the twins since adolescence. “Jeppe always seems like he needs to prove himself more. That’s why he talks more. Whereas Mikkel is not trying to convince you to like him. So he comes off more relaxed or sure of himself. I’m not sure he is, but he comes off that way.”
Still, Mikkel’s troubles with his brother clearly weighed on him, even as he tried to make it seem otherwise. Over dinner one night, I asked him if he’d visited Jeppe in America. “I’d like to see my brother’s bar,” he replied, with a touch of wistfulness. A beat later, he added: “But I have no reason to go there. I don’t really have a market in New York.” Later on, when I pressed him, he cast his troubles with Jeppe as an irreducible fact of genetics. “It’s being the same person,” Mikkel said in what became something of a refrain. “You’ll only understand it if you’re a twin.”
As we traveled through Belgium, Mikkel rarely mentioned Jeppe unless I did so first, and he was eager to quit the topic of his family for a happier one: beer and how he makes it. In the lobby of his hotel, he sat with his laptop, focused on business. “Our daily work is a lot about logistics,” he said. Mikkeller’s staff consists of fewer than a dozen full-time employees. “We could probably use more people,” he said, “but we have a really good group right now. I don’t want a big staff.” Mikkel likes to hire people with unlikely backgrounds. Alsing, before he came to Mikkeller, was a major in the Danish Army, serving a seven-month deployment in Feyzabad, Afghanistan. Mikkel told me that he had recently been charmed by a job applicant whose résumé began, “I worked in a forest with an ax and a chain saw. . . .”
Last year, Mikkel brought on a full-time art director, an American named Keith Shore, whose portfolio includes illustrations for McSweeney’s books and merchandise design for the Shins. (Shore is an acquaintance of mine.) His Mikkeller labels, featuring misshapen cartoon characters that evoke construction-paper cutouts, give the brand a look both whimsical and, in a market dominated by labels either unremarkable or garish, anomalously cool. Mikkel attributes Mikkeller’s success to the scrupulous attention he pays not only to beer but also to the context within which customers encounter it. “I hate to look at ugly things,” he said. “If I’m in a bar, and it’s ugly, I don’t want to be there.” He added: “I’d never put a good beer in a bottle that looked bad. The beer wouldn’t be good anymore.”
The day after our visit to de Proef, we headed south, toward several breweries that specialize in lambic ales. Lambics are produced by what’s known as spontaneous fermentation, in which wort, a sugary mush extracted from boiled starch sources, is poured into a shallow metal basin called a koelschip, where it is exposed to the open air, rich in bacteria and wild yeasts. The taste of good lambics — dry, sour, with varying degrees of funk — derives largely from a wild yeast called Brettanomyces, which in most beers is considered a contaminant. Mikkel calls spontaneous beers, which age in wooden barrels, “by far the most interesting, both to make and taste. When I do a recipe, I know what comes out of it. With lambics, though, it’s impossible, because what’s in the air now will be different tomorrow, and all barrels are different. It’s a lot more like winemaking. I think I’d do that if I could, instead of brewing beer. I like being not in control of everything.”
As we approached the town of Lembeek, he said: “You are about to meet the godfather of lambics. In the ’70s, no one was buying lambics anymore. They were almost dying out. This guy kept it alive.” We soon arrived at Brouwerij Boon, where the godfather in question, a 60-year-old man named Frank Boon, greeted Mikkel warmly. Inside, Boon gestured toward a set of windows that are thrown open during brewing season, which lasts from fall into early April. “We capture wild yeast from the surroundings,” Boon said. “Below 10-degrees Celsius, unwanted bacteria can live, but they don’t develop to a troublesome degree. If we keep brewing past then, the lambic tastes like sour soup. You can smell the change in the air, the grass growing. The beer gets goût de fin de saison — a nice name for something not very nice.”
In a cavernous storeroom, wooden barrels were fitted with blowholes that Boon’s crew had plugged with billiard balls; gases could escape during fermentation, nudging up the balls, which otherwise maintained a seal. When I asked Boon what he liked about Mikkel’s beer, he responded with a fable intended to praise Mikkel’s unorthodox, prolific creativity: “A bee is intelligent, but if you put it in a bottle and you point the opening of the bottle away from the sun, the bee will only fly toward the sun, and he will never escape. If you put 20 mosquitoes into the bottle instead, they may have no intelligence, but they fly in every direction, and one will be free in two seconds.” Mikkel raised an eyebrow gamely. “So you are saying I’m a mosquito?” he asked.
The lambics you encounter most commonly — fruit-flavor varieties made by relatively big brewers like Belle-Vue and Lindemans — are very sweet. Mikkel was eager to visit smaller producers, whose ales are subtler and scarcer. One of these was 3 Fonteinen, a venerated brewery in Beersel not much larger than an auto-body shop, where we arrived the next day. The head brewer was Armand Debelder, who has known Mikkel and Jeppe for several years and calls them “very special both.” Jeppe approached Debelder during the Olbutikken days about selling 3 Fonteinen in Copenhagen, and Debelder was charmed: “He had passion for the beer,” Debelder said. “When you talked to him, you felt it immediately.”
To celebrate Mikkel’s visit, Debelder fetched a dusty bottle of Millennium Geuze. Bottled in 1998, the beer has become a collector’s item. “This originally sold for the equivalent of 8 euros,” Debelder said. “I have heard of people selling bottles for €950 — crazy!” Among beer connoisseurs’ favorite descriptors for wild ales are “farmhouse,” “barnyard” and “horse blanket,” and as I tasted the 16-year-old geuze, I expected some serious horse blanket. But it was bright and crisp. “It tastes fresher than younger beers,” Mikkel said, shaking his head in amazement.
Mikkel believes that producing beer on too large a scale invariably hurts excellence. After Debelder mentioned Sam Calagione, whose Delaware-based Dogfish Head brewery makes some of America’s most popular craft beers, Mikkel said: “Sam’s a really good guy. But I don’t really like all of his beers. It tastes like he filters them. They’re not as extreme as when he started. I think, as he’s gotten big, he’s lost touch with the quality.”
Back in Copenhagen, several days later, I dropped in on the Mikkeller office, located on a busy thoroughfare in Vesterbro, above a Cantonese restaurant. In an hour Mikkel would join Boggess to check out a vast, white-tiled industrial space in Copenhagen’s meatpacking district, where Mikkeller plans to open a brewpub with the help of Three Floyds this year. That evening, Mikkel was co-hosting a private beer-dinner at a restaurant called Mielcke & Hurtigkarl. His desk lay at one end of a long room, overlooking a double-row of workstations where staff members quietly tapped at keyboards and murmured into phones. “Mikkel doesn’t like a lot of talking in the office,” Alsing told me. “If you need to have a conversation, or even a phone call, you go into the kitchen.”
The lighting fixtures and furniture, in complementary shades of fuchsia, grape and cobalt, were the work, mostly, of Verner Panton, a Danish designer whose psychedelically undulating creations Mikkel collects. “His designs were totally outrageous,” he said. “He used different colors, materials, shapes. He did what I want to do: What no one expects.” Mikkel didn’t mention it, but Jeppe is an avid Panton collector, too.
One recent weekend, I joined Jeppe in South Carolina, where he’d been invited to participate in the Charleston Wine and Food Festival. He gave a seminar on contract-brewing, a cooking presentation with the Pok Pok chef Andy Ricker and a private dinner at Edmund’s Oast, a gourmet brewpub. After these obligations were through, he drove across the Cooper River into Mount Pleasant, to a small brewery called Westbrook.
Evil Twin has been contracting with Westbrook for several years. “Like, 80 percent of their capacity is taken up by my beer right now,” Jeppe said as he pushed through the front door. Inside was Micah Melton, the chef de cuisine at Aviary, Grant Achatz’s high-concept Chicago cocktail bar. Melton had come to Charleston for the festival, too, and he and Jeppe were inaugurating a new collaborative brew that involved blueberries, cured raisins, lemon peels and a half-dozen other things. (For all his digs at Mikkel’s extravagant concoctions, Jeppe has a maximalist streak of his own.)
As Jeppe sniffed from a bag of Sorachi Ace hops and tasted a new beet-and-licorice-infused beer straight from the fermenting vat, my mind flashed to Mikkel doing the exact same thing across the world, at de Proef — the twins mirroring each other, with an ocean of resentments and recriminations between them.
This May, Mikkeller will hold its annual beer festival in Copenhagen, and as always, Mikkel has invited a select group of brewers, including Jeppe, to showcase their wares. In 2013, Jeppe pulled out at the last minute, upset by a heated email exchange with Mikkel. I asked if he would go this year, and he said that he’d already bought his plane ticket. “Do I want to go?” Jeppe asked. “I don’t know. Not really. But I think it would be more of a victory for Mikkel if I don’t, because then he can say, ‘He canceled again.’ ” Jeppe nodded solemnly. “Me showing up is gonna be worse for him.”
I had the good fortune of trying some Mikkeller beers yesterday, in one of the few Mikkeller bars in the world, located in San Francisco.
What makes the beer so distinctive?
Bottom line they care about good beer, and have a more complex tasting, finely crafted product than the big beer companies, not for everybody, but just like foodies are very much into finely tuned dishes, so are beer aficionados. Some will always be fine with a Big Mac and a Bud, but for the others...
They make beer across all categories: IPA, Stout, Porter, Sour, Lager, Belgian, Weisse, so not one particular style, though Jeppe does seem to do more IPA's, and Mikkel seems to do more old world stuff.
Ah, so they really are like fine dining. Sweet, I will have to try it.
I've been meaning to for a while...
I just got into beer this summer, and it is a whole new world compared to what I drank when I was young, so much variety, you're bound to find something you really love, and probably many ;)
It's a little overwhelming, frankly, to have so many choices.
It doesn't take long to figure out what styles you like, try to find places that have beer tasters/flights (4-6 smaller beers), this way you can try many, also go along with someone who knows beer, or plan your next get together with friends at a pub, or do a small pub crawl, so you can learn about beer together.
Who knew sitting around drinking would require so much thought and effort?