Twelve-Ounce Measures of Success in America.

Right next to the Thai restaurant was a popular dive with a few interesting craft selections. My wife wanted Thai food, so I lost the vote.

Then the 1-year-old rescued me. With a knowing wink, Thirsty Jr. dropped his little baby spoon on the floor. It was while walking back to the men's room to clean the spoon that I saw the tall, distinctive beer tap behind the counter. Emblazoned on it were three magical letters: I, P and A.

Not knowing or caring how Red Hook's Long Hammer found its way into this rather run-of-the-mill Thai place, my wife and I both ordered glasses of the stuff. Partnered like a dream with my drunken noodle pork and her tofu whatever.

And it occurs to me that neighborhood places like this are the real front lines of craft beer. Not the geekery, not the five-course beer dinners, and not the pricey rare releases. Those would be more like the captain's quarters where all the officers are chummy and there's a fellow in the corner playing violin. To carry the metaphor entirely too far.

No, the trenches are in the dives, the airport bars, and the restaurants where the wife and kids want to eat.

And where do you suppose the battles are won and lost?