The Beer Industry Is My Soul Dog
And we lived through my 20s together.
They say the dog you get in your twenties is your soul dog. For me, that’s Barley. And though our sweet peach joined us a little later, she’s Ian’s through and through. Both our mutts came from the beer industry. A line cook and one of our bosses’ backyard dogs had a litter, and we scooped Barley as soon as they were weened. Georgia came to us, from the same litter a few years later, and we’re still reeling from how lucky we got.
They say you go through major life changes with your soul dog. My first job in the city, our first house, and marriage—we did all of it with Barley, and the beer industry. Ian’s first beer label, Ian’s first design on merch, my first job in the city, my first territory as a beer sales rep, my first official work-friends (certain woes come from being the owner’s daughter, and in college, I worked mostly with my roommates who started as friends), our first attempt at a publication, our first podcast, my first published article, and technically my first judging experience.
Thankfully, they also say your soul dog will give you unconditional love, never judge you, and love you anyway—flaws and all. Thank the gods for that, because I’ve been reflecting on some of those early articles I wrote while digging around to find my first byline on Eater Detroit (RIP 💔). Let’s just say, growth is real. And another shoutout to really great editors.
The beer industry did the same for me. It saw me through the various roles I accepted over the years. It kept reading my articles, offering thoughtful critiques that often sparked community discussions, and heck sometimes even inspired the craziest gatherings. It expanded my network in ways I’d never expected and, though some of it might be chalked up to trauma bonding, it deepened and broadened my friendships in a way that’s hard to overstate. And trust me, I’ll be the first to admit that the industry has its faults, but it’s tough to argue against it when I’ve had the privilege to get to know so many wonderful humans through it.
This past Sunday, I was so jittery with excitement that my leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. Sitting still wasn’t an option, so I paced around the house, pestering Ian and the dogs at every turn. I’d been chosen as a judge for the fifth annual chili cook-off at 8 Degrees Plato, and I’d be judging alongside two of my industry favorites. I’d planned to play it cool, but within seconds of stepping in, multiple friends spotted my flushed cheeks, Ian sold me out by gushing about my insane level of excitement to be here while he handed me a pale ale, and Steve presented me with a platter of eight chilis—each made with a distinct beer style (and all delicious, might I add).
Judging alongside brewers is intimidating on its own—especially knowing that these two have refined palates and a depth of beer knowledge that surpasses my years in the industry. But the beauty of a chili cook-off at a local beer bottle shop? There’s no “right” answer, and multiple awards were handed out and we raised money for Matrix Human Services.
At some point in the night—between the beers and the buzz of seeing so many familiar faces packed into one space—a quiet ache settled in. This bottle shop, the place where so many of us got our start in the industry (it’s where I made my first sale!), was winding down. Tim and Bridgid took it all in, their eyes misty as they watched one of the last events unfold in their space, offering heartfelt thanks to the supportive crowd after the winners were announced.
I had dozens of conversations throughout the night. What would happen if someone potentially bought this space? How could it survive without Tim and Brigid’s touch? Remember the time Tim took a stand for women in the industry and posed naked in the cooler? Remember the Detroit beer fest afterparties, where we all inevitably stayed way too late, and how we’re going to relive that experience one last time on the 28th. The night was filled with stories: nights spent behind the bar, the evolution of chalkboard art, breweries that have weathered the storm, the shifting landscape of the beverage industry, changing drinking habits, what it would take to buy and run this space not just to save it but to also make money, and how the industry will continue to transform over the next few years—with and without many of us in the room.
“When you started working at the brewery you were twenty-nothing!”
When a former boss realized I had turned thirty-four, he let out an exclamation of surprise. I reassured him, reminding him that yes, we all get older, and yes, we had reached that stage. But I encouraged him to look on the bright side—it meant we’d spent a decade together! And that somehow, despite the odds, we were both here eating chili and celebrating the remarkable work our friends had accomplished. And the work we desperately still need to do so we can see more stories like theirs, but that last long beyond just dog years.
*This story has a new development as of Feb 25, 2025 (plus Eater is back!). I’m beyond geeked to know that the work of our beloved beer shop will continue under the watchful eye of incredible beer industry veterans.