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We can't always get what we want in Connecticut. Somewhere in the stone paved and torch-lit corners of our state's liquor legislation sit musty arcana which chased my beloved Avery brewing out of state, banned Festbier for two inexplicable years, and didn't allow Yeungling into town until at least fifteen years too late. It was the second decade of the 21st century before Connecticut blue laws - enacted circa 1655, and the scourge of mid-90s Jon Favreau - allowed Sunday sales, and package stores were allowed to stay open later than 8pm, in fear of a man who got the electric chair in 1960. "Steady habits," indeed.
When we couldn't get what we wanted, we took part in the grand American tradition of law-skirting, and just drove to New York. After all it's, like, right there. I was on no such quest when I found myself in midtown Manhattan a few weeks back with two hours to spare, and two blocks from The Ginger Man in the lower 30s. You want Hill Farmstead? They have Hill Farmstead.
Clik here to view.
We can't always get what we want in Connecticut. Somewhere in the stone paved and torch-lit corners of our state's liquor legislation sit musty arcana which chased my beloved Avery brewing out of state, banned Festbier for two inexplicable years, and didn't allow Yeungling into town until at least fifteen years too late. It was the second decade of the 21st century before Connecticut blue laws - enacted circa 1655, and the scourge of mid-90s Jon Favreau - allowed Sunday sales, and package stores were allowed to stay open later than 8pm, in fear of a man who got the electric chair in 1960. "Steady habits," indeed.When we couldn't get what we wanted, we took part in the grand American tradition of law-skirting, and just drove to New York. After all it's, like, right there. I was on no such quest when I found myself in midtown Manhattan a few weeks back with two hours to spare, and two blocks from The Ginger Man in the lower 30s. You want Hill Farmstead? They have Hill Farmstead.
