Depends on who you ask. According to Google, it’s the most absurdly named lingerie company you could possibly imagine. Down the list, though, it’s the name of a blog that I’ve been maintaining since 2005 with posts that almost always have something to do with beer.

It’s also, incidentally, an obscure Austrian beer serving measurement of 200mL.

The use of the name Pfiff! for the blog, though, is derived from the advertising campaign for the local brewery of Darmstadt, Germany, the town that my mother’s from: Die Brauerei mit Pfiff! Strictly speaking, it translates to “whistle”, but colloquially it means “that extra something”, or “spice” or “flair”. Only in Germany would an onomatopoeia that sends spittle flying across the room be slang for “elegance”. (It was really a toss-up between Pfiff! and Plopp! to be honest.)

If you could enjoy a beer with any famous philosopher, who would it be ... and why?

Egah. Tough one, this. I was initially tempted to say John Cage, as he was not only a huge, pulsating brain whose distillation of Zen concepts through a distinctly wild American lens was pretty revelatory for me when I first encountered it through his writings, but also because he was almost certain to be a wicked good time at the pub. But then I was reminded of one of his contemporaries, local artist Tom Marioni, whose philosophizing on the boundaries between art and life led him to design happenings throughout the ‘70s that revolved around the act of enjoying beer with friends, to the point that his memoir is actually titled “Beer, Art and Philosophy: The Act of Drinking Beer with Friends Is the Highest Form of Art.” So not only would enjoying a beer with Marioni be a nice opportunity to have my mind twisted by a conceptual artist of the highest pedigree, but the act of doing so itself would be, well, art. Fun.

Didn’t the collective electronic mind of the InterWebs already answer this question over at Stan’s blog a few months ago? There’s a nice little group that’s recently started out here called Bay Area Beer Bloggers (BABB), made up of folks who, for whatever reason, blog about beer. And in respect to your question, I asked them, what do you want to be, what’s this all about for you? While nobody denied it would be nice to get paid to do it, and the perk of free beer was enticing, the answers stemmed from the same reasoning that floats most hobby blogs: it’s an activity they wanted to keep record of, it’s fun to share experiences, it’s fun to learn from their commenters, it’s an outlet for their miscellaneous thoughts, and it’s an arm of their online social life.*

Not one of them said that they “wannabe” credentialed authorities who can exert pressure on brewers and buyers equally to recognize them as a guiding light, beckoning them to the safe harbor of quantitatively good beer. There’s a presumed threat lurking out there, one that mimics the “professional vs. amateur” debates around online food writing (a far more entrenched journalistic establishment, admittedly). The perception is that there are all these bloggers roaming about, reaching an unprecedented level of journalistic impact without attaining a likewise level of journalistic integrity and ethics. But, in terms of what kind of an impact an inept blogger can have on the public’s relationship with beer, what amount of damage can they really do? They’re blogs. They’re on the ‘net. They have comment fields which can be painlessly utilized to inform the writer that they published something horribly off the mark. And more often than not, they’re about opinions, which don’t need oversight or correction. And in the end, in this country at least, there’s nothing to really aspire “to”, in terms of a vaunted palace of beer writing. As it is, there are writers who blog, and bloggers who write, and it’s all nice and blurry in a fab Web 2.0 kind of way. And it’s great.

*For what it’s worth, I think that like a lot of other beer bloggers, I started Pfiff! to relieve my friends from what was becoming a pretty bothersome level of “hey didja know?” comments about beer. In essence, it gave them an out, turned it into an opt-in experience: No more forced exposure to my fancy little hobby. I’m sure a collective sigh arose from my circle of friends once I let them decide whether or not they wanted to read an article about the plight of the Schaarbeek cherry. Oddly, at a certain point all bloggers discover that complete strangers are reading your piece on those stupid cherries, which is when things really get interesting.

What do you think the next big fad or trend will be in the craft beer world?

It’s tempting to answer “cans”, just because it’s a good idea that’s been sitting on the shelf for years but seems to have finally broken into the mainstream via brewers like New Belgium, 21st Amendment, Oskar Blues, and Maui Brewing. But it’s even more tempting to step out on a limb and suggest that the next big trend is going to be tapping into dead or dying beer styles, resurrecting regional specialties, oddities from history books and dusting off brands that have languished in the shadows. Look at witbier, for example, a regional specialty that was all but dead, now being reproduced by more American breweries than you can shake a stick at. Where’s my faro?

I have, actually! It went pretty well, considering all the corny, ironic genie stories out there. I asked for a brewpub within walking distance. I asked for growler access to the best wild ale brewery in the country. I asked for all the beer I could drink, given I had some barley and hops on hand. “Done, done and done,” said the genie, as he disappeared in a poof of smoke, taking along with him my 10-cent bottle deposit.

Oh, I do loves me a good loaded question! What you’re asking is: Is there a beer I enjoy drinking that would punch noticeable holes in my beergeek cred? One that, once I’ve been found out, would make it more difficult for me to retain that vaunted position of “expert beer witness” in a court of law? One that I’d have to defend like, no, really! Really, it’s good! One that involves a level of shame, disgust, and self-loathing?

Nope. No dice. Like the Lagunitas labels say: “Beer speaks. People mumble.”

Name an “epiphany beer.” What was it and when did you try it?

It would totally be cheating to mention Epiphany ale, right? It’s a good thing we did this interview via virtual barstool, because in the real world, I would have answered that question with a long stare, a tactfully prolonged sip on my beer, followed by excusing myself to the restroom. Only after you heard the tires squealing in the parking lot would you know that I’d escaped. But then, after a few days, I would have gotten back to you, as I am now... Because it’s a hard question, and even with the grace period I’ve allowed myself, my answer is still pretty lame. Back in 2003, when visiting family in Germany, I was in the early throes of beer obsessiondom, and was excited to taste the same beers I’d had in some of my earliest experiences, but with my palate in somewhat better shape. I was convinced that my youthful impressions of German pilsner were more or less sewn from the fabric of my imagination: they couldn’t possibly taste as different - as crisp and bitter and refreshing and grainy and fresh and floral - as I’d built them up to be in my mind. It had to have been a Vaseline-smeared memory reel that had created such a distinction between the pils, imported or domestic, that I’d gotten used to tasting here in the US as an adult, and the one that existed in my nascent beer tasting youth, on holiday visiting family in Europe. And upon my first sip from a swingtop bottle of Darmstaedter Braustubl Pilsner, my theory completely crumbled. It was different. I still can’t tell you why. Freshness? The fact that it’s not brewed to export, or to sit on a shelf for more than a month? But there you go: My epiphany beer taught me that regional specialties, tasted at the source, are indescribably deep and distinctive.

What excites you about craft beer the most?

Call it the pioneer spirit, experimentalism, adventurousness, lunacy, what have you. An enthusiast of artisan beers could be forgiven for believing that their favored brewers have carte blanche when they approach the kettle each morning, free to follow their heart’s desire and concoct whatever their imaginations can bear, without restraint from budget or market research or good taste and common decency. It’s certainly the feeling I get, looking at the depth of variety, creativity, and near-reckless artistry you see going into bottles these days. It’s like those “What If?” comic books from the ‘80s, in beer form. What if you blended a European-style cider with a Ameri-Belgo pale ale? What if you aggressively dry hopped a wild wheat ale? What if you made a barleywine entirely out of rye malt? And then aged it on a boat traveling around the world? And then blended with a beer from another brewery that just coincidentally happens to bear the same name? Curiouser and curiouser, every time I revisit the local taproom or bottle shop…

This hasn’t been a terribly popular point of view in the past, but with AB now being managed by what, the Flemish? Wallonians? the Duchy of Brussels?, and the emergent largest American brewery also sharing the title of the largest American craft brewery, it would appear to be a mighty fine opportunity to put that unfortunately obtuse and divisive term “craft” back in the marketing vault that it came from, before it spreads any further than New Zealand. Beer is beer. There’s some mighty fine beer being “crafted” by large breweries and barrel upon barrel of garbage being brewed by small ones. Nobody’s quite sure what it means anyway. The first person to mention corn or rice gets to endure a speech about Hitachino.

I’ll have to defer to the mighty Mr. Calagione here, as I can’t think of a clearer way of expressing the opinion than he did in his interview with Jay Brooks a couple months ago that it’s all in the way the hops are used that generates the impression that there is “too much” in a given brew. I too am not a fan of what he calls “crushingly bitter”, which is refreshing talk from the guy who’s almost built his entire craft beer legacy by doing comically eccentric things with hops. So I guess the answer is “It depends”.

What would you like readers to know about you that they don't likely know?

I’m pretty sure folks who’ve read a little on the site have already figured this out, but it’s only fair to announce it publicly: See that other name on the “contributor” box below the masthead? Even though she’s never actually posted anything herself on the site, Des is by all means the “nose” of the operation. While my eyes are decent enough that I can tell you whether or not a beer is light or dark, and I’m imaginative enough that I can make up the rest, Des is the one I go to whenever it’s time for real flavor analysis. So the next time you read some of my tasting notes out loud, adopt a delightful, feminine voice, as I most likely lifted the words right out of my wife’s mouth (something I wouldn’t normally indicate in my writing unless it’s something particularly perverse like the reference to Gorgonzola cheese in the Immort Ale review). Other than that, thanks to my tendency to ramble, I think everyone already knows more about me than they’d like.

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So there you have it. The very first 'Barstool Confessional' interview in the books (or on the blog, as it were). Rob has indeed set the standard high for subsequent interviewees ... who will it be next? Post your suggestions, along with any questions you'd like to have asked, and I'll give them serious consideration. I'm going to try to post a new interview roughly once per month going forward, assuming time allows and subjects are willing.

Oh, and in addition to Rob's many other talents, he is a home brewer extraordinaire as well. Follow his efforts, and those of many intrepid brewers, on the group he founded on the Aleuminati called the "Aleuminati Alechemists."