Man should not live on one beer alone, and in 2016 I found many other exciting, new brews worthy of attention. These are the runners-up for Joe Sixpack’s Beer of the Year.

Slack Tide Bell Buoy: This sweet, zesty, spicy Belgian blond ale is worth the ride down Rt. 9 to the small Cape May County brewery. It also won deserved praise in Inquirer food writer Craig Laban’s annual Brewvitational awards.

Starr Hill Last Leaf Maple Brown Ale: The Virginia brewery ditched its pumpkin ale and introduced this smooth, maple syrup-infused brown ale.

Dogfish Head SeaQuench: Though the Delaware brewery got a heap of publicity for its gimmicky (and quite tasty) scrapple-infused Beer for Breakfast, it was this sour blend made with lime and sea salt that had me reaching for a second glass.

Conshohocken Pumpkin Ale: In a year when so many turned their backs on spicy autumn brews, Conshy utterly nailed the style with a pleasant balance of cinnamon and nutmeg in a wonderfully smooth body.

Firestone Walker Luponic Distortion No. 001: The first in a series of wheat-based ales made with experimental hops was a marvel for both its complexity and utter refreshment.

Troegs Nimble Giant: I thought the Hershey brewery had already gone all-in on the hops with its Perpetual IPA, but this once-a-year specialty amps it up with a smooth-drinking, boozy/fruity double IPA. Look for it in cans again next summer.

Anything from Tonewood and Bar Hygge: About a dozen new breweries opened in the Philadelphia area this year, and these two newcomers impressed me greatly. Tonewood makes expertly crafted styles, including a coffee-flavored porter, that have finish quality you wouldn’t normally expect from a rookie. And Tom Baker (Earth, Bread + Brewery) is just amazing, producing a spectrum of both conventional and unusual varieties, including gruit, smoked beer and saison, at his new Bar Hygge in the Fairmount section of the city.

More noteworthy new beers of 2016
Yards Rival IPA, Troegs Barrel-Aged Troegenator, River Horse Hippotizing IPA, Peak The Juice, Voodoo Man Bear Pig, Penn IPA, Victory Java Cask Rye, Straub Doppelbock.

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‘You wouldn’t know there’s a brewery down Forked Neck Road in Shamong, N.J.

Nestled against the pines of Wharton State Forest and hidden behind a private home, the small, unheralded facility is dwarfed by its big brother, the Valenzano Winery, nearby on busy Rt. 206. There is no tasting room or tours or visiting hours. There is no place to fill up a growler.

If you want to taste its beer, you’ll have drop in at one of the dozen or so tap houses and restaurants in Burlington and Camden counties that take its keg deliveries.

Like I did one November afternoon, when I was stopped by the Blue Monkey Tavern in Merchantville, N.J., and got my first taste of Brotherton Brewery’s Imperial Oatmeal Porter.

By the end of my visit, I knew this would be my 2016 Beer of the Year.

Dark and smooth and creamy, it is a perfectly rounded mouthful of sweet and roasted barley malt whose mild flavor of black cherries and currants and chocolate hint at the complexity that lays, deceptively, beneath this simple and basic brew.

This is not another one of those trendy cult beers that attract lines of whale-hunting geeks. It is not a palate-numbing hop monster or mouth-puckering sour ale or barrel-aged this or that. There are no gimmicks. Instead, it is the product of superb ingredients and expert brewing skills, a beer that demands to be quaffed in long pulls that leave foam on your upper lip and a deep, satisfying ahhhhh in your throat.

Yes, it is brewed in Joisey. You got a problem with that?

The Garden State – especially South Jersey – has lagged far behind the American craft beer renaissance. Though Flying Fish and River Horse have ably held down the fort over the past 20 years, substantial growth was thwarted by costly liquor licenses, incomprehensible licensing regulations and short-sighted Bud-centric tavern owners.

It was only in 2012 when the state allowed breweries to sell beer by the glass in on-site tasting rooms (a visitor attraction that generates much-needed capital) that startups finally began opening their doors in sizable numbers. In 2016, more than 20 breweries opened in New Jersey, mainly in small towns like Medford and Pitman and Woodbury.

And in this case, Shamong.

Oddly, Brotherton Brewery is holding off on the tasting room until it gets a foothold in bars. Owned by family members of the neighboring Valenzano winery, it’s a tidy operation operating out of the same rustic garage warehouse where the family once bottled its varietals. Today, it is equipped with a compact 15-barrel brewhouse with just four fermentation vessels. Brewing twice a week, it’s capable of producing fewer than 3,000 half-kegs (about 375,000 pints) a year.

The man at the helm is Steve D’Eva (above), a 31-year-old who is not exactly a familiar name among local brewing circles. He started his career as a cook (Tinto, Amada) and was the original executive chef at Tired Hands Cafe in Ardmore.

“I wanted to brew the whole time I was at Tired Hands, but that just wasn’t going to happen,” D’Eva said. “I really wanted to brew in the Philadelphia area, but there were not many jobs open where you didn’t have to start at the very bottom, scrubbing out kegs for two years before they let you touch the brew kettle.”

D’Eva told me his story while we sampled beers in the 44-degree chill of Brotherton’s cold box. Swapping out sixtel kegs and pouring fresh ales into plastic cups, he told me that he wrangled his first brewing job at Grand Canyon Brewing in Arizona in a long-distance phone call without even a single visit. He learned the ropes, but quickly discovered that “brewing mainly pilsner and amber ale six days a week was soul-crushing.”

Seeking more creativity, he moved onto Urban Family Brewing in Seattle, a well-established beer town where competition is fierce. He earned a few medals for his saison before being lured back East. At Brotherton, D’Eva expects to have the freedom to brew a wide variety of ever-changing styles with no real flagship brands.

“Hopefully, if we can produce beer of high quality, that will help shepherd along a top-quality beer scene in the area,” D’Eva said.

That’s a worthy ambition; given the South Jersey beer-making scene has been stagnant for so long, any new brewery seems like progress. Just open the taps and the people will belly-up to the bar, right? Wrong. The locals are not noobs; they know a bad beer when they taste it, and they’ve already begun calling out some of the lamer local efforts. (A porter from one Burlington County newcomer, for example, was not-inaccurately described in an online review as tasting “like it was filtered through a new shower curtain.”)

I’m inclined to give startups a chance to hit their stride. But there’s no reason to wait for Brotherton. Its Imperial Oatmeal Porter is the real deal.

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It’s only 4 p.m. and already there’s 100 or so outdoor folding chairs that line the sidewalk on Cricket Terrace, a short, yet winding street in Ardmore.

The chairs—and all their vibrant colors—face the street as if awaiting a parade snake for a block, then turn a corner and continue down an adjacent street.

Almost all of them are empty.

Nearby, a handful of guys stand in a small group, waiting.

“You should’ve seen it last week,” says one, in a wool cap. “It stretched all the way up to Lancaster Avenue, then back into the parking lot. Must’ve been 600 of them.”

“Eight hundred,” says his friend.

Just another Wednesday afternoon outside Tired Hands Fermentaria, the trendy Main Line brewery. The seats are set up by hardcore beer enthusiasts—both locals and out-of-towners who drive all night to get here, drawn by the brewery’s once-a-week sale of canned one-offs. At exactly 5 p.m., the brewery’s rear door opens, and the throng will eagerly shell out up to $24 for a four-pack of Tired Hands’ notoriously cloudy, hops-heavy pounders.

“Yeah, I guess it is a little crazy, I’m not going to lie,” says Ashley Clemas, 32, of Manayunk, who heard about the release from a Beer Nerds Facebook group. “But it’s my hobby and something I love to do.”

Even if you’re familiar with the practice of standing in line for special beer releases, the scene around Fermentaria is unique because—until that back door opens—you’re likely to find few people actually in the line. Instead, starting around noon but sometimes earlier, they claim their spot with a cheap folding chair, then wander off. Some head into the brewery’s restaurant for an extended liquid lunch; others stay warm in their parked cars, juicing up their iPhones; others go home, leaving behind a buddy to watch the chair.

“I bring my laptop and spend all day in the restaurant, writing computer code,” one 47-year-old tells me. “One time my whole company was in here. I get more work done here, waiting for the beer, than in the office.”

One or two neighboring businesses have complained about the chairs, but Tired Hands sends out workers to keep things orderly, and for the most part Ardmore seems to take the whole thing in stride.

More curious to me, though, is how it is that Tired Hands draws this crowd. The fans in line will tell you that it’s because the beer inside the small brewery are so good, it’s worth the hassle.

“Their IPAs are incredible,” Clemas says. “I, personally, sway that way: The hoppier, the better. “The quality, the flavor—there’s just nothing else like,” adds Bo McClain, 35, of Skippack.

Yet, in truth, other local breweries do make beer that’s every bit as good, every bit as hoppy.

But they’ll never draw lines like this.

Odder still, more than a few beer experts grouse that Tired Hands’ beer is not all that great. It has never won a major judging competition in five years of operation, some of its unfiltered one-offs have been known to go bad within weeks, and many purists deride its cloudy, sediment-filled IPAs—no matter how tasty—as “snow globes.”

Yet, the hype is undeniable.

Last spring at the Craft Brewers Conference held in Philadelphia, I watched in amazement when professionals lined up 20-deep for a small plastic cup of the brew. Though the keg was running slow and foaming like crazy (a sign something might’ve been wrong with the beer), and even though lines were open for two other excellent beers from Yards and Troegs, they waited—and waited—for Tired Hands.

Back on Cricket Terrace, some of those in line acknowledge they’re fishing for “whales”—hard-to-find brews that serve as trade bait for other impossible to find brews. McClain, who joins the line at least twice a month, says a can of Tired Hands can easily attract the likes of Tree House or Trillium, a pair of New England breweries whose IPAs are especially popular these days.

At the head of the line, Eric Everett, 32, is sacked out in a folding chair, holding a place for a friend. “We got here around noon,” he says. “We get lunch, hang out. I’m mostly doing my buddy a favor because he’s the one who likes the beer.”

How about you? I ask.

“Honestly, not that much. The others in line make fun of me, but I’m more of a Coors Light guy.”

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Not to harsh your mellow, but beer is suddenly getting some serious competition from cannabis.

Seven states and Washington, D.C., have legalized recreational weed, and 20 others allow its so-called medical use. An estimated 40 million Americans now enjoy marijuana on a regular basis.

And I do mean “enjoy,” in the same way that people enjoy a good brew. Which means that responsible adults are increasingly torching, vaping, dabbing and munching marijuana instead of cracking open a cold one.

That’s right: This bud’s for you.

In a sobering presentation at last week’s Brewbound craft beer industry gathering in San Diego, beverage, tobacco and cannabis analyst Vivien Azer warned attendees that their customers are already toking up.

Her blunt assessment: “I think it will negatively impact alcohol consumption.”

Sales of cannabis in legal states have topped $6 billion a year. This pales in comparison to beer, which is worth $100 billion in annual sales.

First, marijuana consumption is no longer simply a matter of rolling a joint with ordinary skunk weed. Just as craft beer brewers have attracted new enthusiasts by diversifying a stale, old commodity with appealing new flavors and styles, cannabis growers are broadening their market with new strains that induce a range of buzzes.

But weed is just getting started, with flavors like kush being the new IPA.

Compared to alcohol abuse, the long-term health impacts of marijuana are inconsequential and cannabis is increasingly viewed as being safer than beer. There are no hangovers. Thanks to new smokeless delivery devices that include vape pens, edibles, ointments and even transdermal patches—cannabis can’t even be called harsh.

And with legalization, marijuana smoke is publicly seeping into quarters that were once the domain of suds. For example, check out the tailgate scene outside the appropriately named Mile High Stadium before a Denver Broncos game and you’re apt to see fans toking up, thanks to a half-dozen dispensaries within walking distance of the parking lot.

In short: marijuana has lost its deviant stigma. It is on the verge of becoming a mainstream consumer product that can compete on a level playing field with alcohol.

This comes as booze consumption among millennials is on the decline. A study commissioned last winter by Heineken showed that three-quarters of people between the ages of 21 and 35 (prime drinking years) now limit their consumption on most occasions in which they drink.

That’s mostly because, according to the study, they don’t want to lose control in a social setting—a finding that suggests young people aren’t necessarily switching from beer to pot.

Nonetheless, the threat is real.

“I wouldn’t say it’s time to panic, because the anemic volume trends have been in place for a long time,” Azer said, as beer has long faced even bigger competition from spirits and wine.

The beer industry seems uncertain what to do about it, responding with a mixed message at best. For years, big beer fought cannabis with political contributions to conservative lawmakers and heavy-duty lobbying against legalization. More recently, craft beer has welcomed it with gimmicks, including playfully subversive brand names (Magic Hat hI.P.A., Sweetwater 420), a hop-forward ale with distinctively dank aroma.

Azer suggests beer makers can fight back by focusing on underserved markets, especially Hispanics and women.

My suggestion, brew masters?

Focus on what cannabis can’t offer, that classic but distinctive beer flavor that will always pair well with good food.

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IMAGINE THAT, 40 years ago, Coors brewed a beer called Down With Queers. Or that 60 years ago Falstaff had a beer named Whites Are Supreme.

It never happened because, though both breweries held some strong political views, neither advertised them on beer cans.

Which is why the widely publicized campaign against North Carolina’s anti-transgender law by a group of Tar Heel breweries is a remarkable step down an uncertain path. For, while brewery operators – like any business owner – hold personal opinions, they typically don’t wear their politics on their sleeve.

Or, in this case, the label.

But that’s what 40 small breweries did in April when they jointly brewed a beer called Don’t Be Mean to People: A Golden Rule Saison. The beer was named in protest of HB-2, the North Carolina law that discriminates against gay and transgender people by prohibiting them from selecting public restrooms based on their gender identity.

“We just felt it was something we wanted to do to show the rest of the world we’re not all like that in North Carolina,” said one of the protest organizers, Erik Lars Myers, CEO and head brewer at Mystery Brewing in Hillsborough, N.C.

For Myers, the decision to protest the bathroom law was a no-brainer. As he and co-organizer Keil Jansen of Ponysaurus Brewing in Durham wrote on a fundraising website, “We didn’t feel like the law that was passed represented us as constituents, entrepreneurs, or business owners. We wanted to do something in response. But what? What do two brewers talk about doing when faced with a world in which they want to make a change? ”

Now, brewing a beer in support of a liberal cause might not seem like much of a stand in a niche industry where experts say the majority of the producers and the consumers lean to the left.

But Myers said that not every like-minded colleague was ready to take a public stand when the pair approached them to join the protest.

“I heard from a lot of people who support this,” Myers said, “but they told me they couldn’t because of where they’re located in the state – that not all of their customers would support them. ”

Indeed, North Carolina is a sharply divided so-called “purple state,” with liberals in blue corners in Asheville, Charlotte and Raleigh, and red-staters in wide, rural swathes.

But the state’s demographics are hardly unique. After all, the majority of Americans now live within 10 miles of a brewery, and if you hadn’t noticed, we’re not exactly all on the same page.

So, when a businessperson takes a political stand, an opponent will almost surely threaten a boycott.

In Wisconsin, for example, New Glarus brewery owner Deb Carey was lambasted as a “raging libtard” when right-wingers noticed her sitting with Michelle Obama at the president’s State of the Union address in 2013. Some bar owners refused to buy her beer.

The same year, labor leaders called for a boycott of Yuengling after owner Dick Yuengling urged the state to enact a right-to-work law that would make it more difficult for unions to organize.

Coors was hit with boycotts in the 1980s because of its family’s right-wing politics (Joseph Coors founded the conservative Heritage Foundation think tank) and employment discrimination against women, gays, Hispanics and blacks.

In the 1950s, Falstaff faced a boycott from segregationists who charged the brewery was supporting “the mongrelization” of America when it purchased a membership in the NAACP for one of its salesmen. Falstaff immediately backed down and repudiated its support of the civil rights group.

But none of these breweries, as I mentioned above, put their politics onto a beer label.

That’s changing in 2016.

A handful of small breweries have named beers in protest of Donald Trump’s White House candidacy. Meanwhile, Budweiser temporarily renamed itself, “America” – an act that many viewed as an attempt to climb on Trump’s “Make America Great Again” bandwagon. Anheuser-Busch said it was merely being patriotic.

So far, the pushback against the North Carolina breweries has been minimal, Myers said. That’s probably because of its touchy-feely “Don’t Be Mean To People” label; I mean, who’s going to protest kindness?

“We wanted to keep our message positive,” Myers said. “That’s why we didn’t go with the original name for the beer. ”

And that was?

F.U. HB2.

Goodbye, Joe

Twenty years ago this summer, I pulled the greatest scam in Daily News history by convincing my editors they should pay me to write about beer. If they thought I’d run out of ideas soon enough, well, they underestimated my thirst.

But it’s time to move to a new bar stool. Starting next week, you’ll find me at JoeSixpack.net and in community newspapers produced by Broad Street Media.

Before I go, though, here’s a tip of the glass to my beloved People Paper and the characters who have populated its pages. To Phantom Rider, the Marquis of Debris, Millennium Man, Hydro Cop, and Buck the Bartender: Next round’s on me.

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If there is a local amateur breeding ground for the professional brewers of tomorrow, it could be the six-year-old South Jersey home-brew club with a catchy name.

Barley Legal Homebrewers can lay claim to producing no fewer than a dozen full-time brewers in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, including several who have opened their own breweries.

Think of it as the Silicon Valley of brewing, with malt instead of microchips. Surely other home-brew clubs have their success stories, but I can’t name another that has had such a vital, immediate impact on a region’s beer scene. Consider:

The trio of partners behind Third State Brewing in Burlington City met at Barley Legal. Same goes for Vince Masciandaro and the late Rich Palmay, who opened Village Idiot in Mount Holly.

John Companick and Scott Reading won one of the club’s biggest contests before joining with Mike Oliver to open Spellbound Brewing in Mount Holly.

Together, they’ve helped transform South Jersey’s brewery scene overnight.

And they’re not the only pros. Evan Fritz, who runs the brewhouse at Manayunk Brewing, got his start at Barley Legal. So did Dan Neuner of Neshaminy Creek, Chris Vaughn of Flying Fish and Mark Graves at Cape May Brewing. How is just one club sending so many brewers to the pros?

To get to the answer, you have to go back to one year before the club’s founding in 2010.

At the time, South Jersey didn’t have much of a craft-beer scene. The state’s brewery regs were so onerous, it was nearly impossible for a small brewery to open without going deeply into debt. If you wanted a good, small-batch beer in Camden or Gloucester Counties, you probably drove over one of the bridges to Philly.

That started to change in 2009, when Iron Hill Brewery & Restaurant opened its first New Jersey brewpub, in Maple Shade. Its head brewer was Chris LaPierre, who quickly noticed homebrewer flocking to his bar, a veritable oasis in the middle of a craft-beer desert.

He introduced Masciandaro and Fritz and others, hosting them in a back room to talk about brewing. At first, there were just a half-dozen, but attendance grew quickly. “Most of them had stuck to themselves or learned from the internet,” said club president Ryan Cochrane. “Well, it wasn’t long where we had 60 people. When you get that many people together, you’re bound to have some knowledge exchange. “

Frequently, the club’s members pair up and meet at each other’s homes to brew together.

“Imagine how much you can learn when someone comes over and coaches you or teaches new techniques,” said Fritz, a founder. “Before long, everybody was brewing together. On Friday nights, I could have 15, 20 guys showing up at my place. “

The sharing continued, and as the state loosened brewery laws in 2012, several members started talking about opening their own places. Masciandaro and Palmay were the first, and as Fritz said: “People saw Village Idiot and said, ‘Why not me? ‘ “

Just six years later, there is a craft beer scene in South Jersey.

“The thing about most home-brew clubs, I think, is that they’re just a bunch of guys getting together and drinking and socializing,” said Jay Mahoney, of Third State Brewing. “But Barley Legal focuses on brewing skills by sharing ideas and knowledge. “

Barley Legal meets the first Tuesday of the month at Spellbound Brewing, 10 Lippincott Lane, Mount Holly. Membership, $20 a year. Info: barleylegal.homebrewers.com.

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“BREAKING: SIX-PACKS APPROVED FOR SALE AT PENNSYLVANIA GAS STATIONS!” – Headline on Gov. Wolf’s blog.

With that, Pennsylvania, your beer laws have finally entered the 20th century.

And, yes, I do mean last century, for despite the screaming CAPS, the approval is both meaningless and illustrative of the small thinking that accompanies liquor regulation in this state.

For starters, the approval applies only to 9 gas stations statewide, and most are in the boondocks, so… next time you’re in Mahanoy City, fill ‘er up!

And the approval came only after it was forced on the state Liquor Control Board by a lawsuit that has been appealed all the way to the state Supreme Court.

That didn’t stop Gov. Wolf from claiming – complete with a grade-school quality logo – that he had something to do with “freeing the six-pack.” All he did was write a letter to the board – an act that the blog, “Why the PLCB Should Be Abolished,” called “nothing but shameless self-promotion.”

Pennsylvania – a state where you must visit two different stores to buy a case and a sixpack, and neither of them sell wine or whiskey – has a long way to go before it can enter the 21st century. Here’s a few suggestions.

        Truly free the sixpack.

Selling beer at a gas station is a step in the right direction, but look closer and you’ll see little has changed.

Gas stations can sell beer by the sixpack only if they classify themselves as restaurants. That means they must provide food and a seating area for 30 people, presumably to accommodate the many, many folks who enjoy dining at their local Sunoco.

If the Governor really wants to free the sixpack, he could start by legalizing their sale everywhere, from the Wawa to beer distributors. Get rid of the silly seating rules. Get rid of the 12-pack minimums.

If a business has a liquor license, it should be able to sell beer, wine and spirits, in all shapes and sizes. Then we could end the farce of forcing Pennsylvanians to troop all over town just to properly stock a backyard party.

Allow distributors to sell more than just beer.

Now that grocery stores can sell everything from sixpacks and sushi under one roof, the same privilege should be extended to beer distributors.

Under current law, these mostly mom-and-pop businesses are limited to about 50 specific items. For example, they can sell frozen pizza but not hot, freshly baked pizza. They can sell beef jerky but not roast beef sandwiches. They can sell paper cups but not glass mugs.

They can, however, sell pickled pigs feet and rock salt.

Allowing distributors to sell more products will help small businesses compete against the likes of Acme.

        Allow us to buy mail order beer.

Among the lesser-noticed provisions in the historic wine reform bill signed last month by Gov. Wolf is one that allows Pennsylvanians to purchase directly from out-of-state wineries. For wine aficionados plagued by the State Store’s abysmal selection, this is very good news.

However, the same provision should be extended to beer.

It’s true that Keystone State beer drinkers really don’t have a lot to complain about when it comes to selection. We have world-class local breweries and an incredible wealth of imports and out-of-state brands.

But that’s no excuse. Direct sales would not only allow local beer geeks to track down unique, small-batch bottles that are not widely distributed, it would also pave the way for direct, out-of-state sales for Pennsylvania brewers.

        Legalize beer auctions.

The new law allows certain non-profit organizations to raise funds by auctioning off bottles of wine. Again, there’s no such provision for beer, which has just as many rare brands and vintages as wine.

By the way: I see this as a massive loophole that will further degrade the State Store system. It won’t be long till some sharp operator opens up his own “non-profit” wine store with hourly “auctions.”

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“Joe Sixpack” is written by Don Russell, executive director of the Garden State Craft Brewers Guild. Follow him on Twitter @beer_radar or sign up for his weekly e-mail update at www.joesixpack.net. E-mail: joe@joesixpack.net.

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You remember your father’s beer, don’t you?

Piels, Schmidt’s, Ortlieb’s. When I asked friends on Facebook recently to name their pop’s favorite, they had no problem recalling those days gone by.

“Löwenbräu dark for fancy occasions and Budweiser for every day,” said Rebekah Nault.

“Every Friday afternoon, when I was a kid, a truck would deliver a case of Schmidt’s for my parents, and a case of Frank’s Soda for me and my brothers,” said Joe McDonnell.

“Colt 45. Dad had soul and said it had ‘More Flava!’ ” said Jeff Wells.

On Sunday, Father’s Day, millions of sons and daughters will reconnect with their fathers over a cold one, savoring a sip, affirming their bond, enjoying a moment. It is a simple yet meaningful act of sharing – a gesture that you might be tempted to enhance by offering your father a sixpack of the beer he used to drink when you were growing up.

Don’t do it!

With all due respect to your moment of Rockwellian nostalgia, don’t waste your money on one of those insipid, factory-produced cans of fizzy, yellow water that smells like a belch.

Think about it: Your poor father had to suffer through the worst era of beer in the history of mankind, when American conglomerates shut down regional breweries and dumbed down the sauce till it tasted – in the memorable words of Chicago newspaperman Mike Royko – like it had been run “through a horse. ” If your father is between 70 and 90, his prime drinking years were at a time when every single beer tasted exactly the same. If he’s between 50 and 70, the best he can say is that they watered it down and turned it into light beer.

Buying your father a sixpack of Schlitz or Schaefer or whatever retro beer is gathering dust at the back of your local distributor is the equivalent of fixing him a sandwich with store-brand peanut butter and Wonder Bread.

Here, Dad: You grew up in the Great Depression. Let’s celebrate Father’s Day with a nice, steaming bucket of gruel.

Yes, I know, you think you’re honoring your father by offering him something from his youth. Or, as an Esquire writer blithered a few years ago: “By polishing off a sixer of Bud Light or Miller High Life, we’re tacitly admitting we’re more like our dad than we ever thought we’d be. Perhaps by having a few Genny Creams we’re actually admitting that we’re finally adults, because, to us, dad was always an adult. “

Uh, no, what you’re doing is being ironic. Especially if you’re wearing a trucker hat.

Either that, or you’ve got daddy issues.

I can’t help but remember ex-Denver quarterback Peyton Manning, after the 2014 AFC championship game, declaring that he wanted nothing more than a Bud Light. He took a lot of heat for shilling for Anheuser-Busch, and then defended his choice by saying: “My father taught me a number of things, one of which being that Bud Light is the preferred beer of the Manning household. “

To which my California beer-writing colleague Jay Brooks replied: “My only question is this: Peyton Manning is 37 years old. He’s also married with two children, and presumably no longer lives at home but has his own household. At what age did you stop doing everything your father told you? “

Wake up: Your father drank crappy beer made with corn and rice and even formaldehyde because he had no other choice. In the 1970s, there were fewer than 100 breweries nationwide, compared to more than 4,000 today. There was no such thing as “craft” beer or microbreweries. There were no growlers-to-go or imperial stout or beer week. No one talked about hops, except to say you couldn’t taste them.

Indeed, your father didn’t drink his favorite because he liked its flavor. He bought it for one of two reasons: It was the cheapest, or it had the best TV ads.

The nicest gesture you could make toward your father this weekend is to bring him a case of your favorite beer.

You’d not only be showing him something new (though I’d guess he’s already onto craft beer), but you’d also be sharing something you love, and that’s a damn nice gift to give your father.

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NOW IS NOT the time to slow your celebration of America’s best beer-drinking city, for the final four days of Philly Beer Week feature some killer drafts and some typically incomprehensible entertainment.

For example, turtle races.

You have not experienced the thrill of sport until you’ve witnessed two-inch hard-shells in a mad dash across a piece of felt. The glory, the sheer athleticism, the …

Oh, what the hell am I talking about? The third annual Turtle Races at Drury Beer Garden (1311 Sansom St., midtown) tonight at 6 are just a silly excuse to drink lots of Terrapin beer in the urban outdoor square.

Which is not a bad thing, right?

But if that’s too much excitement for you, well, here are my picks for the best events of Philly Beer Week’s second half:

Today

Captain Lawrence Simpsons Did It IPA Launch, Barcade (1114 Frankford Ave., Fishtown), all day.

With the beer-centric focus on Philly, it’s no surprise breweries use Beer Week as a platform to launch new brands. New York’s Captain Lawrence will unveil its pineapple-flavored India pale ale. Yes, other breweries already make fruit-flavored IPAs; perhaps that’s why they named this one after the classic South Park episode that comically proved The Simpsons had already done it.

Hangin’ with Hitachino, Tria Taproom (2005 Walnut St., Rittenhouse Square), all day.

Kiuchi Brewery, which started in 1823 as a sake brewery, was the first Japanese craft brewery to export to America. Its Hitachino Nest label is well-known for uniquely flavored styles. Try five of them at Tria’s taproom just off Rittenhouse Square.

Friday

Doorway to Norway, Khyber Pass Pub (56 S. 2nd St., Old City), all day.

Yes, Bjørn drinks beer – but mostly it’s low-alcohol, fizzy, yellow water. That’s because it’s almost impossible to find the really interesting small-batch brews from icy boondocks such as Grimstad, Drammen, and Stavanger.

One of the city’s original craft beer bars is conveniently bringing Norway’s best to Philly? Don’t miss Hesjeøl, a traditional Norwegian farmhouse ale from HaandBryggeriet that’s made with smoked malt and fermented with wild yeast.

Saturday

Deschutes Brewery Street Pub, Headhouse Square (Second above South Street), all day.

Longer than a football field. Louder than a Sunday afternoon at the Linc. Enough bartenders to handle a rowdy Eagles crowd. And it’s pouring 60 taps of Bend, Ore.’s, Deschutes beer.

This is the bar of your dreams.

The traveling 402-foot pop-up bar makes its return to Philly, serving dishes from local restaurants and entertaining the neighborhood with live music. It’s crowded, raucous, and a helluva lot of fun – plus it raises big bucks for the Vetri Community Partnership, to cover costs for preparing healthy meals in Philly public schools.

Barks & Brews, Devil’s Den (1148 S. 11th St., South Philly), noon-5 p.m.

Man’s best friend gets his day with a selection of dog-themed brews, including Lagunitas Dogtown Pale Ale, Thirsty Dog Citra, and, of course, Flying Dog Raging Bitch. The event raises money for Morris Animal Refuge.

Craftsman Row Saloon (112 S. 8th St., Center City) will pour Yuengling and raise bucks for PAWS, while the Whole Foods beer cafes in Devon and Glen Mills will donate a buck to animal-protection groups for every pint they sell.

Florida Jawn, Bru Craft, & Wurst (1318 Chestnut St. Center City), all day.

If you’re a Phillies spring training trekker, you already know Florida’s craft beer scene, especially in the vicinity of Tampa, is in full throttle. If not, well, this tap lineup will introduce you to the likes of Coppertail, Saint Somewhere, Due South, Saltwater, and the always inventive Funky Buddha.

Sunday

Russian River Sunday, Local 44 (4333 Spruce St., West Philly), all day.

Cult fave Pliny the Younger – available just once a year in early spring – gets all the ink, but beer lovers know northern California’s Russian River Brewing is far more than just an intensely hopped triple IPA. Here’s a chance to enjoy the complexity of Supplication, a sour beer aged on cherries; and Damnation, a strong, spicy Belgian-style golden ale. The Younger won’t be there, but his father, Pliny the Elder, a superb double IPA, will be pouring, along with some of this West Philadelphia bar’s favorites from Tired Hands, Pizza Boy, and more.

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Pucker-faced sour beer lovers can’t get enough gose, Berliner Weisse, fruit lambic, and other distinctive varieties. But if all you’re doing is drinking the stuff, well, you’re missing one of the great joys of these special ales.

Because cooking with sour beer adds a whole other flavor dimension to your favorite recipes.

That’s something I came to learn after cracking open the first beer book I ever bought: Michael Jackson’s Beer Companion, the British beer writer’s outstanding 1993 guide to beer styles around the world. Tucked in the back is a handful of recipes for dishes he encountered in his travels, and one plate caught my eye: carbonnade flamande.

It’s basically a beef stew of the sort my mother made for family dinners on Tuesday nights. Occasionally, she’d splash in a cup of beer, which she said helped tenderize those cubes of chuck roast she’d picked up at the A&P.

But Jackson’s recipe – well, it’s not even his; he credits it to the romantic-sounding Madame Rose Blancquaert of the café De Mouterij in Oudenaarde, Belgium – showed how sour beer could transform even the most simple dish.

Instead of a mere bottle of lager, Jackson advised using Liefmans Goudenband, a Flemish brown ale that comes wrapped in tissue paper because it is, in fact, that special.

Its painstaking fermentation includes a year of aging in cellar casks to produce a tart, lactic flavor before it is blended with younger, sweeter beer. The finished product is spectacularly complex, with the light, sweet caramel flavor of dark malt mingling with a palate-cleansing, cherrylike sourness from lactobacillus, a bacterium that is the signature of this old-world style.

Added to carbonnade flamande, Goudenband gives a simple peasant dish the special sweet-and-sour quality so typical of Flemish fare.

In the years after experimenting with that recipe, I encountered the flavors time after time in travels to Belgium:

At Restaurant In’t Spinnekopke, an old, subterranean spot in Brussels, they serve a plate of rabbit cooked in lambic, the spontaneously fermented ale brewed mostly just southwest of the city in the Zenne Valley. The rustic brew complemented its meaty, savory flavor with a sharp, vinegary bite.

At Den Dyver, a stylish restaurant along one of Bruges’ scenic canals, they once noisily whipped up a dessert of sabayon au gueuze. Similar to the classic Italian frothy dessert made with egg yolks, sugar, and marsala wine, this one had the added barnyard aroma of gueuze, a blend of old and young lambics.

At 3 Fonteinen in Beersel, heart of the lambic region, delicate lamb chops and local vegetables were served with a sauce made with kriek, the cherry-flavored lambic.

And at almost every restaurant in Flanders, mussels were steamed in locally blended sour ales.

Meanwhile, in America, cooking with sour beer is still in its infancy. Though sours – especially gose and Berliner weisse – are suddenly trendy, I haven’t encountered many restaurants or cookbooks incorporating these brews into their recipes.

For example, author Stephen Beaumont offers just one sour beer recipe in his latest release, The Beer & Food Companion (Jacqui Small). Not surprisingly, it’s for carbonnade flamande, made with a Flemish red ale instead of a brown.

And author John Holl offers just one in his newly released The American Craft Beer Cookbook (Storey), for a superb vinaigrette made with kriek.

Mostly, he and other cookbook authors echo what I see in craft beer circles these days: Sour beers are better as an accompaniment to favorite meals, not as a critical ingredient. Thus Holl, for example, suggests pairing a fresh watermelon-and-tomato salad served over endive leaves with a sour. I tried it with Free Will Kriek Lambic, brewed in Perkasie, Bucks County, and his advice was accurate enough: The sour contrasted nicely with the melon’s sweetness.

But I took it one step further at dessert, with my own Philly specialty: Kriek à la Breyers. My old friend Michael Jackson would’ve loved it.

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