Tony Rehagen

6 days ago | postguam.com | Tony Rehagen

The wall behind the bar at Lost Generation Brewing Company is a shrine to a distant time. A row of unmarked taps and the handwritten tap list are flanked by shelves sparsely adorned with backlit antiques. There’s a gramophone, patinaed jazz-age horns, a manual typewriter, a candlestick telephone, and a few dusty volumes of Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, who inspired the name of the brewery in Washington’s Eckington neighborhood.

1 week ago | bloomberg.com | Tony Rehagen

The first thing one notices when driving through the plains of east-central Arkansas is how flat the land is. No hills, no slopes, no ridges. In fact, if it weren’t for the sporadic patches of forest and a few manmade terraces and artificial levees, the horizon would be a straight line that seemingly goes on forever.

1 week ago | bloomberg.com | Tony Rehagen

Hello! It’s Tony Rehagen, your measured moderator of all things brew-related, here for your monthly serving of Top Shelf beer culture. In this edition, we’ll be talking about resisting the bladder-busting trend going on in high-alcohol beer. But first your regular ration of industry news:I was in the gas station recently, picking up a six-pack of Dos Equis for a day on the deck, when I paused in front of the cooler and marveled at the selection of “road sodas.”

1 week ago | washingtonpost.com | Tony Rehagen

The wall behind the bar at Lost Generation Brewing Company is a shrine to a distant time. A row of unmarked taps and the handwritten tap list are flanked by shelves sparsely adorned with backlit antiques. There’s a gramophone, patinaed jazz-age horns, a manual typewriter, a candlestick telephone, and a few dusty volumes of Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, who inspired the name of the brewery in Washington’s Eckington neighborhood.

1 week ago | bloomberg.com | Tony Rehagen

Marika Josephson on a foraging run in the hills around Scratch Brewing Co.(Bloomberg Businessweek) -- On a bright, clear May morning, I’m wandering the hilly wilderness of southern Illinois, two hours east of St. Louis. I follow my guide, Aaron Kleidon, as he weaves among towering birch, oak and hickory trees while trying to avoid the mud. He stops and crouches over a low-lying plant, a dark purplish-green clump of leaves that I would’ve disregarded as a weed.