Editor’s note: There’s a bottling tomorrow at Old Bust Head Brewing Company, see below for how to volunteer.
By Allison Michelli
While I frequently spend more than my budget allows on expensive IPAs, I’ve never been to the source of my hopped concoction, let alone helped bottle beer at a brewery. That was all about to change, as I traveled down the back roads of Fauquier County to Old Bust Head Brewing Company in Vint Hill. The brewery is nestled in an industrial park located on the old Vint Hill Farms Station, a former Army base established during World War II. Many of NoVA’s breweries are located back in these types of industrial parks because of strict zoning laws. After dodging a pot hole, I saw Old Bust Head’s tower rising above the metal warehouse buildings. I parked my car, opened the door and stepped way out of my element into the overbearing summer heat.
Old Bust Head Brewing Company began brewing in January of this year, and officially opened for business in February, with husband-and-wife team Ike and Julie Broaddus and head brewmaster Charles Kling. This 30,000 square foot brewery produces four batches of craft beer a week, roughly equating to 700 cases and 18 kegs per batch. Big news is on the horizon for the brewery, on August 15-17, the brewery will host the grand opening of their new 6,000 square foot tap room that will feature 48 taps and can accommodate up to 300 guests. Ike Broaddus says, “everything changes, we go from being a warehouse that’s open only on weekends to being a tap room that is open five days a week, Wednesday-Sunday with expanded hours on Friday-Sunday.”
Old Bust Head’s facility for the most part is ambiguously marked, aside from the tower outside and a door I found marked Production Room. When I opened it, the smell of hops and barley hit me like a Mack truck. I just walked into what looked like Willy Wonka’s factory, if Willy Wonka made beer that is. Several tall metal drums rose out of the ground, almost touching the ceiling of the large warehouse. A machine to my right was whirring with energy, interspersed every couple minutes with a hissing sound, like air escaping a pipe. A tall man, maybe in his late twenties, welcomed me and said we would be starting in the next half hour. There was already a small group of volunteers, most of them men in retirement with beer bellies, and a few middle-aged women. With the promise of free lunch and free beer, I was surprised to be the only college-aged bottler.
I was told to pick up some ear plugs and safety glasses from a nearby table and then to clean my hands in the back of the warehouse, next to the emergency shower and eye wash station. This little detail reminded me of high school chemistry class, and as I fiddled with the knobs on what I thought was the sink, I realized that I was on the wrong side of the station and the bottle of what I took to be hand soap, upon closer inspection, was actually some sort of chemical. I luckily realized this before using it.
After washing up, I noticed the warehouse had no air conditioning. With all the drums of fermenting beer and the bottling machine warming up, the heat building in the room was stifling. But in another ten minutes, the large fan keeping the air circulating cooled the space to a comfortable temperature.
I was anxious to start the bottling process because after surveying the four large pallets of bottles and the endless supply of cardboard boxes, I knew that this was going to be a long day. One of the younger workers (whom I remember as being the perfect mix of boyish good looks and rugged charm) gave a short explanation of each position on the line, making sure to stress specific points of information to ensure quality control. For example: don’t touch the tops of the bottles while loading them onto the conveyor belt; don’t wipe down the bottles too hard after they come off the belt so as not to rip the label; and lastly, don’t forget to look for short fills, bottles not completely filled, because those are the ones we get to take home. You damn well know my eyes were peeled for those short fills!
At the beginning of the assembly line, one set of volunteers loaded glass bottles onto a conveyor belt. The bottles’ labels were branded with a phrase: “Locally brewed, universally loved. Wildcat India Pale Ale.” After being labeled, the bottles transitioned into an enclosed area where the machine washed them with water and filled them to the top with Wildcat India Pale Ale. Once the bottles were capped, they were given another thorough wash. The final product came out of the machine, moving down the belt like soldiers at attention.
I was placed at the end of the conveyor belt (with the second set of volunteers), where I rapidly grabbed bottles off the assembly line, wiped them dry with a cloth and placed them into a cardboard box. Each box fit four six-packs and once it was filled, a volunteer would bring it to a table at the end of the line where it was hot glued shut and placed onto a wooden pallet. At one point during this process I caught myself humming the Laverne and Shirley theme song, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 Schlemiel! Schlimazel! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated,” as my hands rapidly moved in rhythmic harmony.
This pattern continued for the next five hours, with a short break halfway through for lunch, in which we rotated shifts in order to keep the process moving along. I took 15 minutes for lunch, where I scarfed down two slices of Papa John’s cheese pizza and guzzled back a can of Coke. I ate quickly because the assembly line was getting backed up and I had to jump back in to keep things from slowing down. Aside from being extremely loud, the whirring of the machine was like a pulse that was easy to fall into step with and allowed me to drift into a daze of cluttered thoughts.
During this time, I came up with a poem that speaks for itself: “Water running down my shirt. Tan ballet flats make my feet hurt. This is back-breaking work.” I was definitely rethinking my fashion choices for the day. Next to food, fashion is another love of mine and picking out the perfect outfit for bottling beer was a high priority. What does one wear to bottle beer exactly? Well in my mind I though ballet flats were an appropriate choice of footwear when instead I should have worn galoshes. My fellow beer bottling comrades wore t-shirt, jeans and sneakers while I looked dolled up for a wine tasting. One gentleman in particular wore a stand out shirt with the phrase “Eat here, Drink here, Fauquier” emblazoned on the front. He seemed nice.
By the end of five hours of bottling, my denim shirt was drenched in water and my feet were swollen with pain. I was really playing up the factory worker look: très chic.
By the time 3 p.m. rolled around and all 51 barrels of Wildcat IPA were bottled, I was ready to get out of the factory and go home, so I could indulge in the fruits of my labor. Like a giddy school girl, I took my two six-packs, one in each hand and bounded to the car. I wanted to get home before the beer lost its fresh chill. / Old Bust Head Brewery, 7134 Lineweaver Road, Vint Hill; There’s a bottling of Chukker Czech Pilsner tomorrow. Email dave@oldbusthead.com to become a volunteer and sign up for the newsletter to learn of future opportunities.