The car gets pressed into active service on the Route 17′s twisted layout. Just as the hard-cornering road fun gets going, however, the Bobcat draws into view on Bristol’s story-like Main Street. I am out of the speedster and walking into the café, realizing my heart is still pumping in synch with the VW’s tach. The decor is pleasant and the bar feels old and welcoming.

I sit down and get treated to a loving description of everything on tap: Bobcat Bristol Pride (an English bitter), Downtown Brown (brown ale), Mud Puddle Porter (my eyebrows rise), Hogback Bock (doppelbock), Cat Paw Kölsch (golden lager), and Summer Farmhouse Ale (Belgian Saison). I feel at home and my smile widens.

I don’t see my cousin, so I order a pint of the Mud Puddle Porter as the bartender asks where I came in from. “Philadelphia. All the way up just to have one of your beers,” I said only half-joking. “How long did it take you?” the bartender asked as he drew the beer. “Well, exactly six hours,” I said. “Six hours? From Philadelphia? That doesn’t seem possible,” he winked and slid the porter onto a coaster. “Uh, that’s moving along pretty fast,” a neighboring beer drinker chimed in. “I suppose,” I offered as I took my first gulp. “I suppose it was all worth it. This is incredible,” I perked up pointing to the porter.

The bartender gave a knowing grin. “My god,” I exclaim. “Who made this?” I ask. “Well, our brewer is Ron [Cotti] and straight from the American Brewer’s Guild,” he returned. Bobcat’s website calls their porter “a creamy, smooth, and very drinkable dark beer.”

Nice description, but woefully undersold. It is sublimely balanced between hop and malt without the usual raspy porter finish. Yet, it isn’t sweet either. Sort of a small magic trick that the brewer pulled off and something I went straight back the next day to enjoy again. I savor every sip all the way to the end of the glass and immediately order another—the soft mouthfeel and complex malts insist on a 2nd pour.

If you are in the mood for a great porter, take the trip (even if its 6 hours from Philadelphia) to Bristol and try out this beer.

Caldera’s brewer, like some mystical alchemist, fashioned a way to put the essence of an ice cream parlor into an ale. The beer pours dark, semi-sweet colors with luscious tan cream. My mind, on first sip, echoed childhood and cold memories of seltzer, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate syrup.

The hopping holds just outside the fray of creamy flavors. Just enough to say beer, but not so much to stay planted in bitter adulthood. My explorative sipping eagerly converts to quaffing, and quaffing leads to my second and third draft. I feel like a kid again, I speak fluent French, and I want to move to Oregon tomorrow.