The birthplace of blues, soul and rock ’n’ roll, Memphis is the musical heart of America. It is home to the Blues Hall of Fame, the Smithsonian-created Rock ’n’ Soul Museum, Sun and Stax Records and — most famous of all — Graceland. For most cities, that would be enough, but Memphis has a growing reputation as a foodie destination. Already well known for its barbecue cuisine, soul food and Southern delicacies like fried catfish, the city has more recently embraced a fusion of flavours, in the process blossoming into a culinary capital of the U.S. South. By all means, visit the storied clubs and bars, the museums and recording studios, but put aside some time to experience Memphis the taste influencer.

It’s pitch black, just after 5 a.m., and my fingers and toes already feel frozen. I am wearing every layer I brought to Nepal, but the early morning Himalayan chill is still seeping through my clothes.

Everything is quiet except for the heavy breathing of trekkers behind me and the ice crunching beneath our boots. A fresh blanket of snow covers the ground, glittering as shards of ice reflect the light of my headlamp, revealing what looks like a starry night sky beneath my feet. My eyes are fixed on the path ahead as I carefully follow in the footsteps of Kami Sherpa, one of our guides. We are ascending Kala Patthar, an 18,519-foot peak in the Everest region. 

We’re paying close attention to the steep ground to avoid slipping. It’s mainly rock, ice and snow, all organic materials in their rightful place. But the light of our headlamps also catches the glint of discarded candy bar wrappers and old water bottles — plastic waste where it shouldn’t be.

It was a simple time. We drank carbonated yellow swill, thinking this is what beer tastes like, as it always has and it always will. Back then, an India Pale Ale meant Alexander Keith’s, which didn’t stray far off in flavour or appearance from everything else. We knew some beers could be smoother or maltier, but all beer was a variation of a theme.  Until something stirred in Portland, Oregon, and beer was never the same again. 

There are more than 1,200 craft breweries in Canada, and probably a few more in the time it took me to write this sentence. Today’s beer drinker enjoys a staggering variety of lagers, sours, stouts, nitros, goses, wheats, porters and haze ales, produced with creativity across the brewing process. Driving south from Vancouver with my beer-obsessed brothers, I asked a pressing question: why Portland? What triggered a historic beverage revolution in this progressive yet politically volatile port city?

In the spring of 1968, Reverend Martin Luther King travelled to Memphis, Tennessee, to support a strike by Black sanitation workers at the height of the American civil rights movement.

In a prophetic address laden with imagery, King implored the U.S. to live up to its ideals and hinted at the possibility of his own untimely death as the emotional crowd clapped and shouted out praise.

“I’ve seen the Promised Land,” King said on April 3, 1968. “I may not get there with you. But I want you to know that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land.”

It would turn out to be the final speech of his life.