Blood, Sweat, and Beers

On a rainy Saturday evening in April, the Museum of Science and Technology in Armory Square hosted Tap Into The MOST, an adult party in a kid's museum. More than 900 guests--nerds and boozers alike--weaved among exhibits such as a giant, sneezing nose replica and Foucault's pendulum while they sipped beer from five-ounce sampling glasses and plotted ways to skirt the 12-drink limit.

Tables stood throughout the museum's three floors. Some offered appetizers like sushi and spicy chicken wings from local restaurants. Another explained the "science of beer‚"--though this one was relegated to a low-traffic area on the bottom floor. But most tables served booze, and representatives from more than a dozen beer companies eagerly dispensed samples of their brews. Most labels were familiar to the average Syracusan beer drinker, including Guinness, Samuel Adams, Middle Ages, and even Ommegang. All but one hometown brand: Landmark.

The Landmark Beer Company, owned by husband-and-wife duo Kiernan and Julie May, is a small business. So small, in fact, that the Mays don't even have their own brewery--they contract production out to a place in Buffalo. To pay the bills, Kiernan works a full-time job in the medical field. Landmark is as much work as another full-time job, with much less pay. But the Mays are proud of their business, and it satiates Kiernan's passion for brewing.

Tasting events like Tap Into The MOST offer a great chance for the Mays to attract new customers. While some pourers for bigger brands seemed apathetic or aloof, Mays hustled all night. Kiernan hurried to move boxes and refresh their supply, pausing occasionally to sip one of his amber ales. He and Julie shook hands with guests, poured samples, and patiently detailed the flavor profiles of their products.

Get Kiernan going about brewing and it's easy to understand why he has so doggedly pursued his dream of owning a beer company. During lunch at the Empire Brewery, he leaned over the table and spoke in complicated brewer-lingo about such subjects as Kent Golding hops, how German schwarzbiers need to be marketed, and why small companies tend to avoid high-alcohol content beers. His quotes sometimes read back like lecture notes from an Advanced Beer Business tutorial. Meanwhile, his bowl of chili congealed.

Kiernan likened the beer industry to a fraternity. He seemed to know half the people at the MOST tasting, constantly shaking hands and shooting the shit with old friends and business partners. "You get to know people in this business," he said. "There's a lot of guys I owe a beer to, and there's a lot of guys that owe me a beer."

Todd Relyea, one of Kiernan's many beer buddies, explained the bond between brewers.

"Pick any profession in the country, like accountants or lawyers," he said. "There are literally millions of accountants, millions of lawyers. How many breweries are there in the US now, a little over 3,500? There aren't actually a whole lot of brewers in this country. So yeah, it's definitely a tight-knit group."

Most craft brewers tend to start as hobbyists with homebrewing kits, according to Todd. "Your homebrewing habit gets bigger and bigger," he said. "Eventually you decide to take it to the next level."

Kiernan followed that same trajectory. He started as a homebrewer and after touring some breweries, he knew he wanted to take a stab at the industry. It took him a while to get going. He wrote his first business plan in 1997 but didn't brew a commercial batch until 2004. Landmark had just one style back then, an India Red Ale, produced under contract in New Jersey. In spring 2005, Kiernan and Julie tried to move to a brewer closer to Syracuse. The transition took longer than expected and their wholesaler went out of business, effectively forcing them out of the market.

The Landmark brand re-emerged in 2006 after they contracted with Wagner's Valley Brewing in Lodi, but complications were still to come. Some batches had to be recalled due to over-carbonation. Bottles poured entirely as foamy head and some even cracked under the building pressure inside.

So in 2007, Landmark switched producers once again, this time to Flying Bison Brewery in Buffalo. They've been happily contracted ever since and now produce three beers year-round: the India Pale Ale, crisp and hoppy with a bitter bite; the Vanilla Bean Brown Ale, sweet like Newcastle with a scoop of ice cream; and the Sunrise Amber Ale, good for some old-fashioned summertime beer-drinking session.

Landmark expanded into New York City late last year, and orders skyrocketed. Demand grew so high in 2008 that the Mays could only ship half their orders. Since the beginning of 2009, they've already brewed 80 percent of last year's total output. Expansion has continued out to Albany and down the Hudson River Valley, with Binghamton soon to follow.

Things look good. But after the comedy of errors over the past few years, Kiernan is cautiously optimistic. He's seen how sound situations can fall apart in minutes. Todd Relyea and his brother Ross owned and operated the Towpath Brewery in Syracuse between 1998 and 2001, during high times for both the economy and the craftbrewing industry. Towpath churned out more than 75,000 gallons of beer per year. Things were on the up-and-up. Then all of the sudden, they closed.

"Like a lot of other businesses in the late 1990s...we were just way over-leveraged," Todd said. "We took on too much debt." They could produce tons of beer, no problem, but couldn't sell it fast enough to keep up with loan payments.

Debt kills small businesses, so Landmark operates on a cash basis. It's safe, but can grind production to a near-halt. The Mays have to put up a bunch of money to make a batch of beer, then wait for it to trickle back. They're at the mercy of their customers--if they don't pay promptly, Landmark has no money to make more beer.

This February, the Landmark IPA went absent from store shelves because the Mays hit a rough patch like that in December. Eighty-five percent of customers had outstanding bills. The Mays were so strapped for cash that Kiernan would collect a payment and drive straight to the bank to deposit it. The next morning, after the deposit posted, he'd write a check for one of his own outstanding bills.

At the lowest point, the Mays had less than $10 on hand, not enough to pay for a standard 620-gallon batch of IPA. On top of that, they were waiting for new packaging to arrive. Even after they could brew, they still had to wait to bottle, box, and eventually sell it.

"Ah, the joys of small business," Kiernan mused. "The situation is much better now. Positive cash flow is the first thing you want, and we're nearly at that point now."

At the end of the Tap Into The MOST, Kiernan said that the night went well, and if tastings were any indication of consumer interest, sales should be higher. It sounded strange, coming from a man that just a few months back could only brew enough to fill half his orders.

But when his brothers-in-beer came to shake hands and ask about his business, Kiernan admitted things were good. The draft side of his business was growing, and production was increasing rapidly. Just a week prior, he released a limited-run Black Lager, a new beer, half of which had already been sold. Those who had tasted it, like a clerk at Party Source Beverage on Erie Blvd., said it was good. Real good. Malty and full-bodied with a clean finish.

Kiernan had told me that he would have the Black Lager at the MOST, and I was really looking forward to a taste. When I approached him for a sample, he hesitated, then said he didn't have any. He turned toward Julie, mumbled something to her, and smiled a bit. Before I knew what was happening, he pulled out a growler filled with opaque liquid he'd stashed behind the table and started to pour a sample. "I'm saving it for my brewer buddies," he said, "but have some." He couldn't hold himself back from sharing his work, and I'm glad he didn't. It was delicious.