To see the world through beer is a blessing, a joy. To share beers from other places is, in fact, to drink from the very waters of that place, to enjoy the essence of what a town, region, or city really is and believes in. That’s why I’ve come to Richmond, Virginia.
I’m here mostly for the beer, but also to say goodbye to a dear friend. Because of him, I already know the city’s beer scene very well, despite the fact that I have only been here once, on a single day several years earlier. I know Richmond’s breweries, its bars, its brewpubs, and its food culture. It’s one of the best beer scenes in the country, and I’m about to revisit it with my friend in mind.
It already feels like spring on a lovely, late winter afternoon in early March. The air is warm and damp. Trees are budding and birds chirp loudly. The symbolism of this regrowth and rebirth of the land isn’t lost on me. It all makes sense for what I’m about to experience.
My first stop is Stone Brewing, where I grab a pint of super fresh and old-school-bitter Stone IPA and head to the balcony. The karaoke host tries to drum up people to sing to no avail, which makes me laugh to myself. I had thought this place would make me sad, and I originally wanted to wallow here and sulk, but the manic karaoke host and the two dozen or so spectators render that impossible. It’s a lovely space, tucked outside of town next to a babbling stream, and it holds special significance for me, since I came here with my friend during my first visit back in 2017. This beer is for him.
This one is for John Stoner.
John Stoner was a stranger first, friend second, and departed soul third. I would call him a beer disciple: Almost like a traveling preacher of old, he shared the gospel of Richmond beer throughout the land. He didn’t work as a brewer or a distributor—he just loved and enjoyed all things beer. He attended every beer festival and every important beer event in and around Richmond. He had friends and even more acquaintances who pretty much only knew him as a man who loved beer, and apparently that’s how he preferred things. When he died in 2021 of a sudden heart attack at the age of 67, most of these people, including myself, only learned about his life outside of beer through his obituary.
“What strikes me most about those we connect with through beer is how little contact we can have when we are so often separated by hundreds or thousands of miles, yet the joy of beer brings us close.”
What strikes me most about those we connect with through beer is how little contact we can have when we are so often separated by hundreds or thousands of miles, yet the joy of beer brings us close. A connection feels natural, even when we just talk about it online or see each other, perhaps just once a year, at festivals or conferences. John and I spent a handful of times together, each encounter lasting two hours or less. Still, I considered him a good friend. Is this normal?
There are people on the internet I have met just once, thanks to our love of beer, and after that one meeting, I consider them lifelong friends. I talk to my husband about beer people like we have grown up together, yet some of my beer friends I have yet to meet in person, or even to hear their voices. It’s a strange contrast to imagine against other hobbyists or professions. Do sneakerheads or music fans have this same devotion to people as beer does? Or am I too friendly and other people don’t see these connections in the same way as me?
John was a special friend for me—even if I didn’t really know him very well. From his obituary and the “about a member” post from John’s local church, I learned that he was raised in northern Virginia by a school librarian mother and federal employee father. He was educated at Rice University, where he majored in political science before studying law at the University of Virginia, later attending the Fuqua School of Business at Duke University, which inspired the use of “Fuqua” as part of his handles on Twitter and Foursquare. He worked as a lawyer in Charlottesville for two decades before moving to Richmond, where he spent the rest of his life doing freelance contract law as well as writing a local beer column. He helped run the beer program at a friend’s restaurant and served as a beer consultant for Wine Warehouse. He attended Battery Park Christian Church where, I learned, he was an active parishioner.
He was also a lover of cats, as I knew personally. I’d never seen anyone spoil their cats like he did, grilling salmon for their meals. When I drew his portrait, he wanted me to make sure at least one cat was in the picture. After his passing, his cats were adopted by his pastor.
I learned a bit more about John by reaching out to friends and family members. His brother said that John was an avid learner, and very proud that he attained the rank of Eagle Scout. Michael Sheard, a childhood friend, recounted that John’s love of beer started early, with their first “beer pilgrimage” to the Hofbrauhaus in Munich back in 1974. I knew that he was ahead of his time with both beers and wine: He’d introduced me to pet-nat way before anyone I knew was talking about natural wine.
Another childhood friend, John Fowler, hailed John’s depth of knowledge about drinks. Whenever Fowler tries a new beer today, he says, he always asks himself, “How would John describe this beer?”
There is plenty to describe, in terms of beer and otherwise, on this trip through the town in which he lived. For dinner, I walk to Triple Crossing Brewing’s taproom in the Fulton Hill neighborhood at Richmond’s east end, the sky a beautiful twilight rainbow hue. For a medium-sized city of about 227,000 people, this area is relatively quiet, with the sounds of rushing water from streams dumping into the James River as birds finish their daily songs. It feels homey and pleasant, and I can really see Richmond’s appeal.
Triple Crossing’s tasting room lies down a quiet street. It’s a sparsely decorated room with a large patio and a cavalcade of beer options, from Best Bitter to Rauchbier, including their popular Hazy IPA, Falcon Smash. I meet beer writer Dave Infante at a hightop table where we each order a pint of Falcon Smash and a pizza as part of their pizza and pint happy hour. Between sips, I explain my goal to see Richmond through John’s eyes, relating a few stories about John and how I knew him.
John and I met as a product of the 21st century: In 2011, he supported my first and only self-published book, “Beercation,” donating $50 to a Kickstarter campaign. He started following my website, Pints and Panels, on April 27 of that year, according to the notification email I received at the time, less than a year after I launched it. He emailed me directly in 2013. We met face to face later that year, and after that I usually saw him biannually.
After Infante and I finish our beers, he gives me a nighttime drive through Richmond before dropping me back at my Airbnb. I’ve noticed that both day and at night, the town seems sleepy and quiet, like it’s hiding a secret that no one wants to tell. With empty storefronts, there is something slightly depressing—but also nostalgic—about the downtown, with its brownstones and vintage signs from businesses that ceased to exist. It seems to be in love with its past and not wanting to let go, no matter how much the present pushes it to conform. I can see why John would be enamored with Richmond—like himself, the city feels like an old soul with newfangled tastes.
“I can see why John would be enamored with Richmond—like himself, the city feels like an old soul with newfangled tastes. ”
The next morning I go on a walk through the city, first stopping for a delicious pastrami sandwich at Perly’s, which has a line out the door even though it’s that awkward time between breakfast and lunch. The well-worn, late-morning streets are again quiet. I walk around Richmond’s Old Town near the Capitol Building, with its cobblestone roads and brownstone houses, before visiting the American Civil War Museum, which has a unique bent, since Richmond was the capital of the Confederacy. This visit feels incredibly relevant, given the current state of affairs in America, with our “blue state” vs “red state” politics. Afterwards, I stop on a ridge just above the old Tredegar Iron Works that now houses the museum and admire the view of the city skyline, with its mix of old dark brick buildings and modern skyscrapers.
In the late afternoon, I meet Andy Howell in Scott’s Addition, a neighborhood that ranks as a local beer mecca, with multiple breweries and restaurants within easy walking distance of each other. Howell is a jovial fellow whose very senior dog, Rita Mae, follows him everywhere. I really appreciate his company: Howell was the one who first messaged me to tell me about John’s death. He and John shared beers almost weekly, in addition to working together, with John curating Howell’s beer menu at his now-closed restaurant, Camden’s Dogtown Market.
We drink and talk about John at three spots he loved: Ardent Craft Ales, Strangeways Brewing, and The Veil. Somehow our conversation never veers towards the morbid, happily sharing memories of John. Maybe a naturally-occuring joy of being with beer people doesn’t let you have time to be sad.
At almost all of our stops, I buy beer to share with friends: a four-pack of Light Lager at Ardent, cans of Helles at Triple Crossing, New England IPA at The Veil, plus some Väsen Lager on the way back to Howell’s car, since we don’t have time to stop for a pint there. I want to return to New England the way John would have: with a trunk full of beer to dole out to friends, in my own attempt to carry on John’s legacy of selfless sharing. Every time I saw John, he would hoist a huge box of beers into my arms, gleefully talking about each label and giving me tasting notes. He never asked for anything in return.
The only time Howell and I get really contemplative is at John’s favorite brewery, The Veil. We sit around the corner from the tasting room counter, with Rita Mae lounging silently under Howell’s feet.
“It’s an absolute honor to have anyone enjoy Veil beer so much that they share it with their loved ones and make it a part of their life,” Dustin Durrance, co-owner of The Veil, shares via email. “We are so fortunate and incredibly thankful for John and those like him who lift us up to the world.”
That evening, Howell and I attend a party thrown by Jacob Brunow, who knew John from his own career in beer distribution, and An Bui, owner of the celebrated Mekong restaurant and beloved brewpub, The Answer. A crowler of The Answer’s Mosaic Session IPA was probably the best beer John had ever gifted me. I still think about that beer.
When Howell and I arrive, a small group stands chatting around the back of the restaurant’s very crowded bar. At 6 p.m. on a Wednesday, the place is bumping, drawn by one of the best beer lists I’ve ever seen. An undeniable sense of happiness and exuberance fills the air.
“Although someone at the party calls it a second wake, it isn’t sad. People tell fun stories of John’s love of taking anything free from tables at beer festivals, regardless if it had any value.”
Although someone at the party calls it a second wake, it isn’t sad. People tell fun stories of John’s love of taking anything free from tables at beer festivals, regardless if it had any value. We mainly talk about the beer while Bui strolls by to shake hands and serve us a handful of dusty bottles pulled up from his cellar—all dating from 2012, with some in truly great condition like Scaldis Prestige, a Belgian Dark Strong Ale that tastes like liquid raisins. It’s the happiest memorial I have ever attended.
Brunow has a few bottles of Hardywood Park Craft Brewery’s Out Like a Lion Flemish Red to share with the group. Over glasses, we all make a toast to John. This beer feels like the right thing to drink, although we can’t remember if John even liked Flanders Reds at all.
Our small group sits down to dinner after a few beers. I’m sandwiched between two of John’s best drinking buddies, Chuck Cook and Larry Schimmels, who drink and talk merrily while eating dumplings. Cook produces a bottle of 4 Hands Brewing Company’s Imperial Stout from a bag. I’ve brought a magnum of Fox Farm Freckled Fields Farmhouse Ale as a gift for Bui, which is already chilled, just in case. Cook pours the Imperial Stout as a nightcap. John fully believed that beer is all about sharing.
With the beer flowing, conversations genial, and everyone remembering the good things about our departed friend, there’s no time to be sad. That’s probably the strangest thing about this trip: I kind of wanted to come here to wallow, recalling someone I cared about who was plucked from earth too soon. But while I’m here, I’m happy. I never once cry or feel grief. We can miss people while still being happy, a weird side effect from the many sides of loss.
The next morning I leave Richmond feeling like I’ve fulfilled what John would have wanted for me to see, having felt a guiding hand while walking the streets of his city. I leave with my trunk brimming with beers for friends and family. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I thought I could feel a presence in Richmond.
When I arrive at my aunt and uncle’s house in northern Maryland later that day, I walk my aunt through the trip. I look out over the rolling hills of Maryland and into Pennsylvania as I recall the beers I drank in Richmond.
Sitting there, I’m suddenly reminded of the last time I saw John. It was the summer of 2021, and we were meeting at New Park Brewing in West Hartford, Connecticut, on John’s journey home after visiting his relatives in Vermont. We were discussing beers he’d brought for me, and he was gleefully explaining each beer and label. And the last thing he ever said to me face to face was this: “The ethos of beer is to share what you have.”
Jokingly, I told him that I was going to steal his line, but he said it was mine to use. And in fact it ended up as the inscription of my second book, “Hooray for Craft Beer!” when it came out in 2022.
Somehow, I know John would like that.
Words + Illustrations by Em Sauter
