Having never been to a Tree House Brewery before, I did a tiny bit of research before going and discovered that not only were the reviews lackluster, but the company itself released its own press release saying something to the effect of, "Hey, sorry we're assholes and our service sucks, but, gee willikers, won't you just suck it up and give us another chance?"
This should have been red flag number one.
My friend and I pull into the nearly empty parking lot, walk up the charming stone steps of the former country club, and are greeted by a person with a squawking walkie-talking, a rumpled cardboard box, and a shitload of pink paper wristbands -- like they're prepping for the Thanksgiving Day Feaster Five Road Race, or something.
"Hi. We've never been here before. Don't we just go in and order beer?"
Oh, no. Jesuschristalmighty. That would be too damn easy.
The person inhales a huge breath, and, while the radio is still blasting voices, gives us a spiel that must be longer than a Henry James paragraph, and delivered at the rate of an auctioneer. I am suddenly reminded of Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant courtroom speech. When she finishes, a bit blue around the gills from lack of taking in air, she smiles and looks at us expectantly.
Say, what? What in the hell did you just say? This should have been red flag number two. Can't we just go into the damn venue?
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. We must download this and open that and QR code this thingamajigee and enter that into the kiosk, and what's your credit card, phone number, social security ID, rank, serial number, and the password to every bank account you've ever had. By the time we even get to the first room (more on this in a moment), I feel more violated than if I'd had a pap smear in the food court of the mall. So, we stand there, inside this first room, looking around at the familiar, wonderful, expansive venue, and notice that almost everything has been roped off -- the upstairs, the former restaurant -- like an abandoned mansion or the set for a horror flick. We are told to open our phones, use the internet, and go from room to room.
This should have been red flag number three.
Room one, as I just referenced, is the QR room. Yes, folks, here you can buy tickets for up to three beers. Step right up! The fun is about to begin! No more than three beers! All you can ever have here are three beers. That's it. No more. Ever. Never. My friend and I scan the code and I am able to open their "Buy your ticket here" but not any kind of beer list. So I step back outside to my long-winded pal.
"What if I want a flight of beer?"
Red flag number four.
Horrified eyes, completely and utterly aghast as if I have just killed her first born child and torn out its entrails, stare back at me. "We don't sell FLIGHTS!" she whispers harshly, as if I've just spit blasphemy in the house of God. Then she smiles her Mr. Sardonicus smirk and says, "But we do offer some samples!" Then she shoos us away like we are crap on her shoe.
I am able to open the ticket sale page on my phone because I am still connected to my car's Bluetooth. My friend's phone, which is much better than mine, just keeps buffering and buffering and buffering. So, we wander into room number two. Surprise! It's a golf and gift shop. Apparently, we are supposed to buy all kinds of crap on our way in, like Disney Land has gone backward and you must get your purchases out of the way first before you forget to spend more money. We look appropriately interested and wander into room number three, passing more roped off spaces like we are in an art museum that sadly lacks pictures. Plenty of docents (useless extra staff) standing around looking bored, but nothing really to enjoy.
We move along to room number three. This is apparently where you buy canned drinks. Yes, canned. No need for a bartender here, but there is one, just the same. All she has to do is stand behind a gorgeous mahogany bar, pop the tab, and overcharge the patrons. But, wait. We cannot order drinks because we cannot buy tickets because the Tree House Brewery QR site is still buffering.
Gosh, gee whiz, and howdoyado. If this place is completely self-service and entirely web-based and web-run, shouldn't the Internet be strong and efficient? We shake our phones, as if that will help secure a connection, and wander over to the young lady standing behind the bar next to a fridge full of cans. We are about to ask what we seem to think is an obvious question, especially in this day and age of modern technology.
"What's the Wi-Fi password here?"
Red flag number five has just been raised.
She looks at us, glances around to make sure we are alone (we are - the place is practically empty), and sheepishly admits, "We don't have Wi-Fi."
I'm sorry, what?
She turns her head to the left then to the right, like she is a spy on a secret mission and is passing us covert information that might possibly get her killed. Still, we are the only ones within earshot. "Yeah, there is internet," she says quietly, "but no one is allowed to use it. Even the employees."
But, wait. How do we get drinks?
"You put your order in using the QR code on your phone using the Internet."
Using the Internet you don't have? We can't pay cash or simply hand you a credit card? The answer is no.
"Hold on, here," we say. "This is a one-hundred percent internet-based business." Yes. "But you don't have Wi-Fi for the patrons." That is correct.
At least the poor young thing has the decency to appear mortified. We look around. Everywhere, and I do mean all over the damn place, are signs for QR codes and online ordering. But, and this may seem like I'm nitpicking, there is zero access to said QR codes unless you are lucky enough to have your own Internet connection.
Okay, then. Red flag number six, it is.
We head to the tap room. Forty-eight beers on tap, they boast! Forty-eight! Now, we are just about the first patrons of the day. I count about twenty-six beers on tap. There's a rolling list on electronic boards behind the taps. They change so fast that I cannot even take in the information before it snaps to the next screen. I feel like I'm having a seizure. Finally, I notice a hard copy of the beer list, which is a damn good thing since we cannot open their QR coded beer list because, hey, there's no fucking Wi-Fi.
The list is typed up and very lovely, but 99.9% of the beers simply say names and then IPA after them. No descriptions. No information about said beers. No little catch-phrases to get you thinking about any beer in particular. So, me being me, I ask, "Can you tell me about the beers?" I notice that this is the same person from Door #1 who assured us that samples were available.
"Uhhhhh, well, this one is an IPA." Yes, dear, but tell me about the beer. What is it like? What's in it? "Uhhhhh, it's like . . . an IPA!" No shit, Sherlock. I'm not illiterate. What kind of beer is it? Is it fruity? Is it hazy? "It's, you know, beer!" May I sample one? Now, folks, remember: This is the person from the front door, the one with the radio and from whom we received our paper armbands, and who told me that, yes, they offer samples since they didn't sell flights. "Oh," she says to my face, "it's not really something that we do here."
What. The. Serious. Fuck. Red flag number seven.
I hand her my credit card. Nope. I have to have a paper ticket so they can take the paper ticket from me then mark my wristband with permanent marker to make sure I don't have more than three beers. "I would love to have a paper ticket," I say, "except that you don't have Wi-Fi so the internet doesn't work so your QR codes just keep buffering." Well, apparently that's not the problem of Tree House Brewery. No Internet service here on the back nine means no service, so move along, move along, move along. We are at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party, and even the White Rabbit isn't getting served without a damn paper ticket.
Big fat flying red flag number eight.
We finally manage to get two tickets into our phone cart, enter more information than was required to pass TSA precheck screening, and go back to the counter with our little paper tickets that we get from the nice girl who told us about the lack of Wi-Fi service for their web-based venture. I order a non-IPA beer, one of three on their list because, hey, wouldn't you just know it, the other taps ran out of beer at 1:00 in the afternoon, two short hours after opening to an empty house. The beer she (Door #1 Girl) hands to me in a clear Solo cup has a four-inch head of foam. Yes, an $8+ cup of beer, $5 of which is freaking air bubbles.
"Try it!" Door #1 girl says. Um, it has foam on the -- "TRY IT! TRY IT NOW!" I take a mouthful of foam and attempt to sniff my way into the beer. "Do you like it? Isn't it great?" Listen, bitch, I can't even drink this motherfucker. Who taught you to draw from a keg? When I finally get a taste, I almost gag. It's a fucking IPA.
You know where I'm going with this: Straight to red flag number nine.
My friend chuckles and says to the girl, "I think your keg is dead." No response from the Stepford employee.
While we sip our drinks, we go online on our own Internet because, hey, we have our own Internet service outside on the patio, and start reading reviews. Yup. Many experiences just like ours on the threads and in comments and for reviews. It's quite enlightening.
While outside, we go over our ticket purchase for the beer and discover that the tip has been included in the purchase price. A tip. A TIP. I hate to point out the obvious, but no one waited on us. Not one person was put out at all nor actually helped us, nor interacted with us in this experience beyond our insistence that someone help us. This is an entirely hands-off experience run by human automatons who cannot pour a decent cup of beer. I could tap a keg better at age fifteen than these yoyos can with expert Tree House training.
Red flag number ten - because I am sick of tipping (or paying for bags) when I'm the one doing the self-checkout shopping work. I'm the one who should be getting a tip.
As we leave, another young hipster is now manning the door (that we've had to find because the EXIT is actually roped off -- big surprise -- and it is literally a labyrinth in this place). I figure he is young, he grew up in the computer age, he has always had Internet access.
"Hey," I say, "how does this place think it will survive as an Internet-based operation if it doesn't have any Wi-Fi?" He smiles a bit embarrassingly, shrugs his shoulders, and agrees with us. "I'm not trying to be a dink here," I continue, "but, son, this is like saying you're opening an all-American burger joint but you don't have any meat to serve. If Wi-Fi is the base of your business model, why wouldn't you actually have Wi-Fi?"
Red flag number eleven because having a business model that essentially doesn't exist in your actual business is not a model at all. It's a flaming disaster. It's the Titanic of business models.
Since I've no desire to return to the seven rings of Dante's Tree House Inferno until Beelzebub actually calls for me, beer in hand or not, I'm going to pass on ever again visiting this brewery.
