Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
A Saint Patrick's Day Miracle
I had written the beer - an Irish red ale I brewed for no reason other than dad told me to - off as yet another near-accomplishment. It tasted fine; grainy up front, a little chocolate, and then the slightest Fuggles underpinnings. But for the past month it had failed to carbonate. Every time a cap gave way to the leverage of my utensil drawer handle, only the faintest of hisses could be heard. Poured perpendicular to the glass, only intermittent and soapy bubbles floated like toad spit on top.
It's a process I am woefully under-read in, natural carbonation (also known as bottle conditioning.) I understand the theory: whatever yeast is still in suspension after the bulk of fermentation is complete begins to metabolize newly introduced sugars under pressure in a capped bottle. The two by-products of this second fermentation are alcohol and carbon dioxide. Now that the CO2 has no place to go (earlier, during the real fermentation, an airlock allows gas to escape but not enter) it stays put, carbonating the beer and creating the bubbles responsible for the prickly feeling on your tongue.
But while I understand what is happening (in those batches that do manage to gas up), I rarely am able to cause carbonation with any degree of consistency. I've used carb-tabs, little pills dropped into individual bottles, but those tend not to disintegrate and then re-integrate with the beer, and instead sits like an impregnable fortress of sucrose at the bottom of the bottle. I've tried priming sugar (sold in baggies and resembling extremely cut dope) which is boiled in water and added to the bottling bucket before racking (brewspeak for transferring) in hopes of a uniform dilution and therefore carbonation. This never happens. Most of the time, three-fourths of the bottles will pour like I've described above, two will sport a nice head with tight bubbles, and the rest are gushers (which, as the name implies, causes me to rush for the sink lest I spend even more money renting a carpet vacuum.)
These beers had done nothing but fail me. I didn't feel confident to give them to any real beer-drinking friends, as the shortcomings of a poorly-carbonated beer are a considerable cause for embarrassment, but most of my non beer-drinking friends (you caught me) wouldn't be drinking them anyway. However, it was St. Patrick's Day, and I had not only an Irish beer, but an Irish beer I had made.
I took the 22 oz bottle out the the fridge, made an about-face towards the counter, and placed the neck at a forty-five under the drawer handle.
Psst.
A haze floated out of the bottle, drifting in whatever draft the kitchen had picked up. I didn't allow myself to believe that I might have a beverage passable for beer. I poured it directly to the floor of the glass, not redirecting it to the wall in an attempt to quell a carbonation that I dared not trust was there.
It foamed. I enjoyed.
It's a process I am woefully under-read in, natural carbonation (also known as bottle conditioning.) I understand the theory: whatever yeast is still in suspension after the bulk of fermentation is complete begins to metabolize newly introduced sugars under pressure in a capped bottle. The two by-products of this second fermentation are alcohol and carbon dioxide. Now that the CO2 has no place to go (earlier, during the real fermentation, an airlock allows gas to escape but not enter) it stays put, carbonating the beer and creating the bubbles responsible for the prickly feeling on your tongue.
But while I understand what is happening (in those batches that do manage to gas up), I rarely am able to cause carbonation with any degree of consistency. I've used carb-tabs, little pills dropped into individual bottles, but those tend not to disintegrate and then re-integrate with the beer, and instead sits like an impregnable fortress of sucrose at the bottom of the bottle. I've tried priming sugar (sold in baggies and resembling extremely cut dope) which is boiled in water and added to the bottling bucket before racking (brewspeak for transferring) in hopes of a uniform dilution and therefore carbonation. This never happens. Most of the time, three-fourths of the bottles will pour like I've described above, two will sport a nice head with tight bubbles, and the rest are gushers (which, as the name implies, causes me to rush for the sink lest I spend even more money renting a carpet vacuum.)
These beers had done nothing but fail me. I didn't feel confident to give them to any real beer-drinking friends, as the shortcomings of a poorly-carbonated beer are a considerable cause for embarrassment, but most of my non beer-drinking friends (you caught me) wouldn't be drinking them anyway. However, it was St. Patrick's Day, and I had not only an Irish beer, but an Irish beer I had made.
I took the 22 oz bottle out the the fridge, made an about-face towards the counter, and placed the neck at a forty-five under the drawer handle.
Psst.
A haze floated out of the bottle, drifting in whatever draft the kitchen had picked up. I didn't allow myself to believe that I might have a beverage passable for beer. I poured it directly to the floor of the glass, not redirecting it to the wall in an attempt to quell a carbonation that I dared not trust was there.
It foamed. I enjoyed.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Relax. Don't Worry. Have A Chicha.
Mi hermano poco y yo caminamos en un cabana-
Lo siento.
My little brother and I walk into a hut, dried earth bricks ascending from a packed earth floor. Purple plastic bags shaped like a flower hangs above the doorway, the universal sign in rural Peru for "welcome Gilliam boys, you've found us." We take a seat at the sole table, and a stout elderly woman in the Andean garb walks out of the adjacent room to greet us gringos.
"Dos chichas, por favor" my little brother Lee says. He's been studying Spanish in Cusco since January, and this is easily the least impressive thing he's said so far (the most impressive was, upon arriving in Cusco, watching him talk a cabbie down from 14 sols to 4 for a ride into the city ["CATORCE? No, vivo en Cusco, cuatro.])
The woman smiles and shuffles into a corner where two 30-gallon earthenware pots sit, one covered with a towel, the other un-lidded. She doubles the towel over itself, unveiling what is undoubtedly to my homebrewer's brain a krausen, the foamy cap that tells a brewer that fermentation is taking place. She takes a ladle (brushed aluminum, a stark juxtaposition to the very homely surroundings) and spoons out two huge glasses. Seriously, something like thirty ounces (I wonder how many milliliters that is?)
For two sols apiece (about seventy cents) Lee and I cup massive glasses (really, these put the Taphouse to shame) of a lukewarm drink resembling a yeast starter. It kind of looks like a beer; it has a substantial head on it, although not from carbonation, but rather the yeast still metabolizing whatever had been mashed (my guess is corn or maybe chocle, which is a massive corn.) It takes a moment for both of us to summon the courage to taste this, and I take the quiet before the storm to sniff.
Tangy. Yeasty. Not at all like any beer I've ever wanted to try. I feel around with my olfactory, trying to push past the deep sour edge to find anything floral, grainy, or bitter. No such luck.
Oh god, this beer is horrid. I want desperately to enjoy this, but as it explodes down my gullet in a mushroom cloud of tepid greenness, I can't help but wonder if this was a good idea. I have to channel Mr. Papazian (there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer, there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer, there are no known pathogens...) to calm myself.
Lee is watching me. I hold a thumb up, trying to hide the grimace peeking around my fist, and gulp a bit before telling him "try some, it's good." He does not seem convinced, but pinches his nose and takes a sip.
"Pah-guh-pih-suh-pap" come the noises that are the Gilliam signal for "this is something foul." We giggle. I tell him not to pinch his nose, that he needs to really appreciate it. He does not take another sip.
I begin to gulp the starter (which is beginning to settle out, though the krausen is still bubbling) in a manner that would make a frat boy proud, although I can't imagine any polo shirts leaning against dried mud bricks. I feel smug satisfaction at my ability, my experience.
Lo siento.
My little brother and I walk into a hut, dried earth bricks ascending from a packed earth floor. Purple plastic bags shaped like a flower hangs above the doorway, the universal sign in rural Peru for "welcome Gilliam boys, you've found us." We take a seat at the sole table, and a stout elderly woman in the Andean garb walks out of the adjacent room to greet us gringos.
"Dos chichas, por favor" my little brother Lee says. He's been studying Spanish in Cusco since January, and this is easily the least impressive thing he's said so far (the most impressive was, upon arriving in Cusco, watching him talk a cabbie down from 14 sols to 4 for a ride into the city ["CATORCE? No, vivo en Cusco, cuatro.])
The woman smiles and shuffles into a corner where two 30-gallon earthenware pots sit, one covered with a towel, the other un-lidded. She doubles the towel over itself, unveiling what is undoubtedly to my homebrewer's brain a krausen, the foamy cap that tells a brewer that fermentation is taking place. She takes a ladle (brushed aluminum, a stark juxtaposition to the very homely surroundings) and spoons out two huge glasses. Seriously, something like thirty ounces (I wonder how many milliliters that is?)
For two sols apiece (about seventy cents) Lee and I cup massive glasses (really, these put the Taphouse to shame) of a lukewarm drink resembling a yeast starter. It kind of looks like a beer; it has a substantial head on it, although not from carbonation, but rather the yeast still metabolizing whatever had been mashed (my guess is corn or maybe chocle, which is a massive corn.) It takes a moment for both of us to summon the courage to taste this, and I take the quiet before the storm to sniff.
Tangy. Yeasty. Not at all like any beer I've ever wanted to try. I feel around with my olfactory, trying to push past the deep sour edge to find anything floral, grainy, or bitter. No such luck.
Oh god, this beer is horrid. I want desperately to enjoy this, but as it explodes down my gullet in a mushroom cloud of tepid greenness, I can't help but wonder if this was a good idea. I have to channel Mr. Papazian (there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer, there are no known pathogens that can survive in beer, there are no known pathogens...) to calm myself.
Lee is watching me. I hold a thumb up, trying to hide the grimace peeking around my fist, and gulp a bit before telling him "try some, it's good." He does not seem convinced, but pinches his nose and takes a sip.
"Pah-guh-pih-suh-pap" come the noises that are the Gilliam signal for "this is something foul." We giggle. I tell him not to pinch his nose, that he needs to really appreciate it. He does not take another sip.
I begin to gulp the starter (which is beginning to settle out, though the krausen is still bubbling) in a manner that would make a frat boy proud, although I can't imagine any polo shirts leaning against dried mud bricks. I feel smug satisfaction at my ability, my experience.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I should have worn a wire (and Matt is my alter-ego)
Sometimes he wondered about his drinking, whether it was funny or embarrassing. While his roommate told him "...and then you tried to put Claire and Molly in a chokehold at the same time" his soul cringed, but with a stupid, satisfied grin on his face.
"Yeah, they yelled at you for awhile, so you left."
"I don't even remember Claire"
"You were probably on your third barleywine by the time she showed up." That would have been after a scotch ale and an oatmeal stout, two twenty-ounce glasses lacking foam or good decisions.
"So how many people did I put into chokeholds?"
"Everyone? I don't know. A lot."
He had woken up this morning to the acidic smell of tomato sauce and hops, regurgitated in his sleep in a fanned-out pattern from his mouth to the bedspread, his phone slid out to text-mode on the floor beside the bed.
Of course he had texted people too late at night; texts with no grammar or spelling or, in some cases, with any semblance of language at all. He looked at his alarm clock, and for a full fifteen seconds panicked over being an hour late for work at the airport, before realizing this was a Tuesday, and he didn't need to be sober for another six.
He stripped the bedspread, which was clean relative to his post-birthday morning, and downright spotless compared to the morning after Barack Obama became President-Elect, and balled it up (tomato in the center) into his clothes hamper. The pillow would need replacing, but this too he tossed in with the spread.
He couldn't be bothered with making a new bed, and he couldn't stomach sleeping on something that smelled so sharp. His attention turned to his phone, upside down and foreboding.
Why did he always text his second cousin Ben whenever he'd had too much to drink? It was as if he wanted the engineering grad student (with a scholarship, provided he work for the navy at something like 60k a year after graduation) to know exactly how much better he was than Matt. One of the texts simply said "footboallz"
Scanning through messages he found that he had sent one to his parent's land line, a couple to girls he hadn't seen in months (one message utterly unintelligible, the other expressing to the girl how much he didn't need her anymore) and dozens to Molly. He shouldn't have done that.
He knew better than to think that as the day wore on he would get a clear picture of what had transpired. He had glimpses. Chokeholds. Talking to (but what about?) a gay couple. Wiping a little tomato sauce on Molly's jeans. Several instances of stealing her hat and mashing it onto his head. Apologizing to a guy that had directed what was to be Matt's final play for being such a whiny, unprepared bitch.
As he lay on the couch, unable to nurse his hangover with any efficacy, he realized that he would be in a self-imposed seclusion for at least a week before he went out again.
"Yeah, they yelled at you for awhile, so you left."
"I don't even remember Claire"
"You were probably on your third barleywine by the time she showed up." That would have been after a scotch ale and an oatmeal stout, two twenty-ounce glasses lacking foam or good decisions.
"So how many people did I put into chokeholds?"
"Everyone? I don't know. A lot."
He had woken up this morning to the acidic smell of tomato sauce and hops, regurgitated in his sleep in a fanned-out pattern from his mouth to the bedspread, his phone slid out to text-mode on the floor beside the bed.
Of course he had texted people too late at night; texts with no grammar or spelling or, in some cases, with any semblance of language at all. He looked at his alarm clock, and for a full fifteen seconds panicked over being an hour late for work at the airport, before realizing this was a Tuesday, and he didn't need to be sober for another six.
He stripped the bedspread, which was clean relative to his post-birthday morning, and downright spotless compared to the morning after Barack Obama became President-Elect, and balled it up (tomato in the center) into his clothes hamper. The pillow would need replacing, but this too he tossed in with the spread.
He couldn't be bothered with making a new bed, and he couldn't stomach sleeping on something that smelled so sharp. His attention turned to his phone, upside down and foreboding.
Why did he always text his second cousin Ben whenever he'd had too much to drink? It was as if he wanted the engineering grad student (with a scholarship, provided he work for the navy at something like 60k a year after graduation) to know exactly how much better he was than Matt. One of the texts simply said "footboallz"
Scanning through messages he found that he had sent one to his parent's land line, a couple to girls he hadn't seen in months (one message utterly unintelligible, the other expressing to the girl how much he didn't need her anymore) and dozens to Molly. He shouldn't have done that.
He knew better than to think that as the day wore on he would get a clear picture of what had transpired. He had glimpses. Chokeholds. Talking to (but what about?) a gay couple. Wiping a little tomato sauce on Molly's jeans. Several instances of stealing her hat and mashing it onto his head. Apologizing to a guy that had directed what was to be Matt's final play for being such a whiny, unprepared bitch.
As he lay on the couch, unable to nurse his hangover with any efficacy, he realized that he would be in a self-imposed seclusion for at least a week before he went out again.
Monday, February 15, 2010
No amount of inspiration is going to to get me through this post.
I've resigned myself to the idea that, without persistence, this will be a short-lived blog. And how can the nine of you properly express interest in my life if I can't properly express my life's interests? It's called a quandary.
So which beer would be most fitting to signify this uphill battle I'm currently engaged in?
(Pregnant pause.)
It could be Dubbel. Certainly I had to make a concerted effort to enjoy it, with its dried fruits, funky yeast, and low hop profile. I had been on an IPA/DIPA/IIPA/DEA bender, although less in the sense of puking-blood-loss-of-eight-days-consiousness, and more in the sense of I-can't-get-enough-lupulin-on-my-tongue. Oh alpha acids.
But that isn't good enough, because after I quit my predisposition towards the beer, and probably just as much after the IBUs I'd inhaled had a chance to lose their grip on my palate, I enjoyed it. Hell, I'm planning on drinking this when I get off work in ten minutes.
It can't be anything with wheat as a majority of the grist, because... fuck wheat.
Faster.
Dogfish 120 Minute isn't a bad idea; it's impossible to drink one in less than an hour. But god, isn't that kind of passe? I don't know how many people (of the dread-locked, Birkenstock variety) have told me the beer was "complex" (one.)
I'm sure you feel that way, Grateful Dead. Does it open up with some Hindu Kush, leading to AK-47, finishing with a deep edge of Cinderella 99? Or do you just know that complex is a positive term to use when describing a beer?
This shit is dank - I mean, complex. bra.
So which beer would be most fitting to signify this uphill battle I'm currently engaged in?
(Pregnant pause.)
It could be Dubbel. Certainly I had to make a concerted effort to enjoy it, with its dried fruits, funky yeast, and low hop profile. I had been on an IPA/DIPA/IIPA/DEA bender, although less in the sense of puking-blood-loss-of-eight-days-consiousness, and more in the sense of I-can't-get-enough-lupulin-on-my-tongue. Oh alpha acids.
But that isn't good enough, because after I quit my predisposition towards the beer, and probably just as much after the IBUs I'd inhaled had a chance to lose their grip on my palate, I enjoyed it. Hell, I'm planning on drinking this when I get off work in ten minutes.
It can't be anything with wheat as a majority of the grist, because... fuck wheat.
Faster.Dogfish 120 Minute isn't a bad idea; it's impossible to drink one in less than an hour. But god, isn't that kind of passe? I don't know how many people (of the dread-locked, Birkenstock variety) have told me the beer was "complex" (one.)
I'm sure you feel that way, Grateful Dead. Does it open up with some Hindu Kush, leading to AK-47, finishing with a deep edge of Cinderella 99? Or do you just know that complex is a positive term to use when describing a beer?
This shit is dank - I mean, complex. bra.Maybe it's the beer I haven't had, the beer that can't inspire because it hasn't been tasted. I like that idea; there's always something I haven't had yet, and there's is always a source of inspiration.
How's that for a tidy ending?
How's that for a tidy ending?
Friday, February 12, 2010
I Can't Stop Talking About Wheat Beer
I'm ready to eat words now. No, my own please.
Thanks.
I spent an afternoon recently expounding on the sins of drinking wheat beer all year, smugly sipping on an ESB or other comparative low-alcohol, all-barley beer (coincidentally, the replacement of wheat for barley, a different yeast, and about a million other miniscule variables; you've got a hefe.) I stand by that. I don't believe that any (beer drinker's) life would be complete simply drinking a cloudy, citrus-laden beer (which may or may not be integral to the taste of said beer.)
However, upon both not re-reading the post and having a rather astounding (wheat based!) beer, I've decided that there was snobbish tone to it. I don't hate all wheat beer. I don't hate any wheat beer, unless it isn't any good (in which case I hate it.)
I'm currently enjoying a Leipziger Gose (and man, I don't know if that's right; there are about twenty names on this thing) and damn. Just. Damn. There's a tartness that doesn't quite make your jaw hurt (like this one) but smacks of intense sourdough bread. It's bone dry, highly carbonated, and scrubbed the shit out of my tongue as I ate some of my roommate's chili. Which you said I could have, Sean. I'll buy some more tortilla chips. And some trash disposal strips.
THIS IS WHY I HATE WHEAT BEER. Sorority chicks come in to the shop (more on that LATER!) and won't freaking shut up about how good Starr Hill The Love is. I don't care that you like phallus shaped fruit and clove cigarettes. I don't want your review on how easy it is to have five of them and then give head to the nearest guy (intriguing as the story was, Corrinne.)
I don't give one damn how cute the label is, no matter how cute you are. And you really are cute.
(This was a wee-bit ramble-y.)
Thanks.
I spent an afternoon recently expounding on the sins of drinking wheat beer all year, smugly sipping on an ESB or other comparative low-alcohol, all-barley beer (coincidentally, the replacement of wheat for barley, a different yeast, and about a million other miniscule variables; you've got a hefe.) I stand by that. I don't believe that any (beer drinker's) life would be complete simply drinking a cloudy, citrus-laden beer (which may or may not be integral to the taste of said beer.)
However, upon both not re-reading the post and having a rather astounding (wheat based!) beer, I've decided that there was snobbish tone to it. I don't hate all wheat beer. I don't hate any wheat beer, unless it isn't any good (in which case I hate it.)
I'm currently enjoying a Leipziger Gose (and man, I don't know if that's right; there are about twenty names on this thing) and damn. Just. Damn. There's a tartness that doesn't quite make your jaw hurt (like this one) but smacks of intense sourdough bread. It's bone dry, highly carbonated, and scrubbed the shit out of my tongue as I ate some of my roommate's chili. Which you said I could have, Sean. I'll buy some more tortilla chips. And some trash disposal strips.
THIS IS WHY I HATE WHEAT BEER. Sorority chicks come in to the shop (more on that LATER!) and won't freaking shut up about how good Starr Hill The Love is. I don't care that you like phallus shaped fruit and clove cigarettes. I don't want your review on how easy it is to have five of them and then give head to the nearest guy (intriguing as the story was, Corrinne.)
I don't give one damn how cute the label is, no matter how cute you are. And you really are cute.
(This was a wee-bit ramble-y.)
Monday, February 8, 2010
No Wonder We Won the Revolution: A Narrative on Strong Ale (or: [anguish])
Maybe this is evolution, progression. Maybe this all a situation of relativity. Maybe this is just a country boy speaking plain.
But maybe this is an irrefutable, even "self evident" American truth: English Strong Ales are weak.
Let's imagine the last few sentences didn't happen, that instead you show up at a bar, and the barkeep (the kind with just enough jiggle to his belly to convey a slight joviality, and complete trust for the evening) asks you if you want to taste the new cask. "It's a strong ale" he says,
and you think "oh, gird my loins and beat my chest, I become a man tonight" as you steel yourself for the impending torrent of fusels, hot alcohol dissipating directly into your blood stream.
Then you have your first sip, eyes squinted against the pain that you imagine will leap to your jaws and cheeks at any moment, and instead of shivering off the wave descending your esophagus, you slump, muttering to yourself "Strong Ale?" You motion to your glass with a brow furrowed not in pain but in consternation. "Strong Ale?" you say again, this time to the barkeep, that Sentry of the Tap in which you find your trust wavering. Maybe he has the wrong handle.
"Strong Ale" he nods in agreement.
You leap from your stool as if Providence itself gave you flight, talon-fingers clutching to the Keep's throat. He screams "why?!" as you grip harder into his voice, which becomes raspy and breathless with your pressure. That this Arbiter of Ale should lie, proclaiming strength where you only find rich weakness, has sent you into fury, a fierce patriotism that will not abide musty yeast or fruity esters. You need and expect hops so bitter they flirt with pain, alcohol that loses all pretensions of warming and builds a fire in your chest, and just enough malt to cover the torment forming on your palate. Anything less is found wanting of passion.
Men fling their arms around your shoulders, but no one can keep you from justice, to speak nothing of the pursuit of happiness. You feel the life leaving him as you begin to cry, muttering to yourself "strong ale."
It's all any witnesses ever hear you say. It's all anyone ever hears you say ever again.
But maybe this is an irrefutable, even "self evident" American truth: English Strong Ales are weak.
Let's imagine the last few sentences didn't happen, that instead you show up at a bar, and the barkeep (the kind with just enough jiggle to his belly to convey a slight joviality, and complete trust for the evening) asks you if you want to taste the new cask. "It's a strong ale" he says,
and you think "oh, gird my loins and beat my chest, I become a man tonight" as you steel yourself for the impending torrent of fusels, hot alcohol dissipating directly into your blood stream.
Then you have your first sip, eyes squinted against the pain that you imagine will leap to your jaws and cheeks at any moment, and instead of shivering off the wave descending your esophagus, you slump, muttering to yourself "Strong Ale?" You motion to your glass with a brow furrowed not in pain but in consternation. "Strong Ale?" you say again, this time to the barkeep, that Sentry of the Tap in which you find your trust wavering. Maybe he has the wrong handle.
"Strong Ale" he nods in agreement.
You leap from your stool as if Providence itself gave you flight, talon-fingers clutching to the Keep's throat. He screams "why?!" as you grip harder into his voice, which becomes raspy and breathless with your pressure. That this Arbiter of Ale should lie, proclaiming strength where you only find rich weakness, has sent you into fury, a fierce patriotism that will not abide musty yeast or fruity esters. You need and expect hops so bitter they flirt with pain, alcohol that loses all pretensions of warming and builds a fire in your chest, and just enough malt to cover the torment forming on your palate. Anything less is found wanting of passion.
Men fling their arms around your shoulders, but no one can keep you from justice, to speak nothing of the pursuit of happiness. You feel the life leaving him as you begin to cry, muttering to yourself "strong ale."
It's all any witnesses ever hear you say. It's all anyone ever hears you say ever again.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
You Really Plan to Drink That?
So one of my things to do this year is keep people from always drinking wheat beer (hefeweizen, weiss, hefe, bunchaotherspellingsingerman.) Let's go ahead and cross that one off the list.
-The glass. You look like a real no-nonsense kind of idiot carrying this around.
Carry this around and there will be no nonsense, idiot.
Incidentally, have you ever tried hand-washing a hefe glass? It's like going fist-deep into the mutual destruction of shattering glass and lacerated wrists.
- Wheat beer simply does not go with every type of food. Enjoy that tuna salad sandwich, because it's about the only thing you can while gulping down your orange slice-laden cloudy beer.
Steak? Stew? Human flesh cut directly from the spit? You're going to need something with a bit more oomph for all of these if you want your beer to pair. This is a great beer for braising a human thigh.
-Way back (in the day) wheat was rationed (death panels!) for brewing, because so many people wanted wheat beer that there was a shortage on bread. Think about that for a second. We almost starved to death because we couldn't get enough Blue Moon.
Not pictured: craft beer.
Five Reasons Not to Drink Wheat Beer all Damn Year
-The glass. You look like a real no-nonsense kind of idiot carrying this around.
Carry this around and there will be no nonsense, idiot.Incidentally, have you ever tried hand-washing a hefe glass? It's like going fist-deep into the mutual destruction of shattering glass and lacerated wrists.
- Wheat beer simply does not go with every type of food. Enjoy that tuna salad sandwich, because it's about the only thing you can while gulping down your orange slice-laden cloudy beer.
Steak? Stew? Human flesh cut directly from the spit? You're going to need something with a bit more oomph for all of these if you want your beer to pair. This is a great beer for braising a human thigh.
-Way back (in the day) wheat was rationed (death panels!) for brewing, because so many people wanted wheat beer that there was a shortage on bread. Think about that for a second. We almost starved to death because we couldn't get enough Blue Moon.
Not pictured: craft beer.-I got your sister drunk one night on Franziskaner... and now the connection will make you barf.
-There are so many different styles of beer. This is probably the best reason.
So what if hefeweiss is your favorite style of beer; I'm sure there are others that can satisfy your mis. Didn't your dad drink Budweiser all his life? Didn't you swear to "get off this goddam plot of earth he's always tilling, and experience life."
Then do it.
-There are so many different styles of beer. This is probably the best reason.
So what if hefeweiss is your favorite style of beer; I'm sure there are others that can satisfy your mis. Didn't your dad drink Budweiser all his life? Didn't you swear to "get off this goddam plot of earth he's always tilling, and experience life."
Then do it.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
She Was Cute, Not Interested.
I'm snowed in at my other job at the airport. Again.
Last month I got snowed in at the airport, and I vowed not to find myself in the same situation again. I'd call in sick, I said. Tell the boss my car just wouldn't make it, and hang up the phone before a word of refutation could be uttered (been reading John Adams, and the 18th century-speak is creeping into my vernacular.)
Instead I'm wasting away what could be a beautiful day for drinking. What's better than an (actual, because "she dumped me/I dumped her/I took a dump on her" doesn't count) excuse for drinking mid-day? Grab some buddies that can't get to work (most people don't get up at 4am to get yelled at, but we can't have it all) head over to your nearest bottle shop (might I suggest this cozy place?) and grab a few bottles that'll tide you over to warmer weather.
These are my suggestions:
-Start off with something big, since it's so damn cold - but not overly hoppy because you wouldn't want to ruin your palate on the first beer (so none of this.) An English Barleywine,
perhaps? If you can find an '09 bottle of Legend Barleywine (which, if you haven't bought one already, you can't) then drink it. It may be better in a few years, but with global warming, this very well may be our last snow day on Earth.
Then we'll have to drink Corona.
-Slow down the pace there, buddy, 'cause it's a long day (especially if you'd got up at 4, then decided that the roads were too bad like you were supposed to.) If you've got some mucus-ey buildup (you dirty boy) from the Barleywine, then it's Dry Irish Stout. Beats the pants off of Guinness. If you still need some viscosity in your life, then THIS. Seriously, one of the best beers I had in 2009.
-Now you can step up the hop profile, because your tongue is probably getting close to shot. Pale Ale is a good bet, maybe something on the sweeter side. If you're feeling brave, you could have a Tripel. This one is a winner because it's so damn tasty, and at something like six bucks a bottle, it's one of the cheapest representations of the style.
-You've earned it. Time to pleasure/pain your tongue with a shitton of lupulin. While everyone has an opinion on the best IPA/DIPA/IIPA/BigAsHellHoppyFuckingBeer, I kind of like this one. So much hop, so much much malt. So much going on that at this point you wont appreciate it.
Of course, you'll probably just guzzle this crap all day. Fucking hipster.
Last month I got snowed in at the airport, and I vowed not to find myself in the same situation again. I'd call in sick, I said. Tell the boss my car just wouldn't make it, and hang up the phone before a word of refutation could be uttered (been reading John Adams, and the 18th century-speak is creeping into my vernacular.)
Instead I'm wasting away what could be a beautiful day for drinking. What's better than an (actual, because "she dumped me/I dumped her/I took a dump on her" doesn't count) excuse for drinking mid-day? Grab some buddies that can't get to work (most people don't get up at 4am to get yelled at, but we can't have it all) head over to your nearest bottle shop (might I suggest this cozy place?) and grab a few bottles that'll tide you over to warmer weather.
These are my suggestions:
-Start off with something big, since it's so damn cold - but not overly hoppy because you wouldn't want to ruin your palate on the first beer (so none of this.) An English Barleywine,
perhaps? If you can find an '09 bottle of Legend Barleywine (which, if you haven't bought one already, you can't) then drink it. It may be better in a few years, but with global warming, this very well may be our last snow day on Earth.
Then we'll have to drink Corona.-Slow down the pace there, buddy, 'cause it's a long day (especially if you'd got up at 4, then decided that the roads were too bad like you were supposed to.) If you've got some mucus-ey buildup (you dirty boy) from the Barleywine, then it's Dry Irish Stout. Beats the pants off of Guinness. If you still need some viscosity in your life, then THIS. Seriously, one of the best beers I had in 2009.
-Now you can step up the hop profile, because your tongue is probably getting close to shot. Pale Ale is a good bet, maybe something on the sweeter side. If you're feeling brave, you could have a Tripel. This one is a winner because it's so damn tasty, and at something like six bucks a bottle, it's one of the cheapest representations of the style.
-You've earned it. Time to pleasure/pain your tongue with a shitton of lupulin. While everyone has an opinion on the best IPA/DIPA/IIPA/BigAsHellHoppyFuckingBeer, I kind of like this one. So much hop, so much much malt. So much going on that at this point you wont appreciate it.
Of course, you'll probably just guzzle this crap all day. Fucking hipster.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tasting Note (Inspired) by Holden Caufield
Of course they would switch the wines on me. Of course, this week, when it's my week, they'd pull a switch-up and mess with things. No continuity. But people never notice anything.
What I like about these beers is that they don't give you a bunch of horse manure about what a great beer it's dad was. No one cares that they come from a long line of Helles lagers, and beers that brag on it are just phony.
Delicate, that kills me. Those lagers are about as delicate as a toilet seat.
What really knocks me out is when you're finished with a beer, and you wish the brewer was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him on the telephone whenever you felt like it. -hc
Ommegang Three Philosophers (Cooperstown, NY) 9.8% abv
I can't believe you're reading this, but I guess the first thing you want to know about this beer is that it's a dark, strong, abbey stylebeer like the monks used to make in Belgium. It kinds of gets me, that there aren't monks making this beer, but what do monks care about beer anyway? The beer is so terrific, it makes me sad that it's kind of phony. They added cherry juice to it too.
Smuttynose Barleywine (Portsmouth, NH) 10%abv
Another case of phony; this isn't wine.
What I like about these beers is that they don't give you a bunch of horse manure about what a great beer it's dad was. No one cares that they come from a long line of Helles lagers, and beers that brag on it are just phony.
Delicate, that kills me. Those lagers are about as delicate as a toilet seat.
What really knocks me out is when you're finished with a beer, and you wish the brewer was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him on the telephone whenever you felt like it. -hc
Ommegang Three Philosophers (Cooperstown, NY) 9.8% abv
I can't believe you're reading this, but I guess the first thing you want to know about this beer is that it's a dark, strong, abbey stylebeer like the monks used to make in Belgium. It kinds of gets me, that there aren't monks making this beer, but what do monks care about beer anyway? The beer is so terrific, it makes me sad that it's kind of phony. They added cherry juice to it too.
Smuttynose Barleywine (Portsmouth, NH) 10%abv
Another case of phony; this isn't wine.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
For Want of Tryptophan
(Ok, I lied. This one is from a Thanksgiving tasting. )
I'm a southern boy at heart (look, I can't help the way I grew up anymore than you can help buying cheap wine every week) so my favorite holidays are ones centered around a meal. My ma's brothers and their families all live within a half mile of each other, on a bendy road in the part of Fluvanna we're hoping gets looked over (there aren't any lines on it yet, anyway) and, come next Thursday, we'll be eating, talking, and then falling asleep like families do. The ones where I come from, leastway.
Somewhere in Africa a child is crying, fatty.Dupont Saison 6.5% abv
We've tasted this before, sometime in the summer when I had first decided it was my favorite beer (and there's really no better way to while away an afternoon on the porch.) Perfect with "horse durves" (ok, nobody in my family actually says that) with high carbonation that scrubs the palate between crab cakes and cheese and those little hot dogs you have to poke out of the crockpot (you guys do that too, right?)
Unibroue Terrible 10.5% abv
After you're as stuffed as the poultry in front of you, and been told to quit burning rolls over the candles (that's it Charlie, no more candles for the chaps table!) and are trying unsuccessfuly to watch a football game that you don't care about, open this one. I promise that if you can get Aunt Lissa to have a glass she'll forget your pyromaniac tendencies, and you'll like that game a lot more.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Ten Things for 2010 (or, I Can Smell the Splenda from Here.)
(This'll be the first post not out of wine shop tasting notes, hopefully the last one prefaced with parenthesis.)
At the end of the year tasting at the wine shop where I work (seriously, more to come later) I did a "Ten Things I Learned in 2009" because 2009 was a big year for my palate. It was the year I learned that a west coast hop profile is not the be-all and end-all of beer. I even learned to love Belgian Dubbels (and lets face it, anyone can like a beer like Duvel, it takes a slightly [only slightly] broader view to enjoy Ommegang Abbey).
However, I still can't abide fruit beers. Seriously - get that framboise away from me.
I figured I'd start (officially) this blog off with a "Ten Things for 2010." Things I'd like to learn, things I'd like to be reality by the year's close, things I'll put in as a joke for filler.
10. Geuze. I don't ever want to fall in love with a sweet lambic, but if I can learn to appreciate these almost-spoiled, blended sour ales, this year will be a success.
9. Brew every week. I was doing so well with this New Year's Resolution, up to the third week...
8. Beer is good; however, more beer is not necessarily better.
7. Start wearing a small recorder whenever I go to a bar, to a tasting, or to a brew session that'll have plenty of beer (RDWHAHB, right?) Ties in to number eight.
6. Come up with something for number 6.
5. Keep people from drinking wheat beer year-round. Every single one of them. There has to be at least one of these that hasn't a chance in hell of happening, right?
4. Go to Belgium. Seriously, flight benefits, income that's nothing if not disposable, and I still haven't made it anywhere except for that quickie weed-run to Amsterdam last Christmas? Shame on you, Charlie.
Shame on you.
3. PBR is like reverse beer snobbery, but you have to drink shitty beer.
2. This is not mine and I have a problem with that.
1. Don't even bring that inside my home, unless you plan to sleep with me. The smell of it is giving me diabetes.
At the end of the year tasting at the wine shop where I work (seriously, more to come later) I did a "Ten Things I Learned in 2009" because 2009 was a big year for my palate. It was the year I learned that a west coast hop profile is not the be-all and end-all of beer. I even learned to love Belgian Dubbels (and lets face it, anyone can like a beer like Duvel, it takes a slightly [only slightly] broader view to enjoy Ommegang Abbey).
However, I still can't abide fruit beers. Seriously - get that framboise away from me.
I figured I'd start (officially) this blog off with a "Ten Things for 2010." Things I'd like to learn, things I'd like to be reality by the year's close, things I'll put in as a joke for filler.
10. Geuze. I don't ever want to fall in love with a sweet lambic, but if I can learn to appreciate these almost-spoiled, blended sour ales, this year will be a success.
9. Brew every week. I was doing so well with this New Year's Resolution, up to the third week...
8. Beer is good; however, more beer is not necessarily better.
7. Start wearing a small recorder whenever I go to a bar, to a tasting, or to a brew session that'll have plenty of beer (RDWHAHB, right?) Ties in to number eight.
6. Come up with something for number 6.
5. Keep people from drinking wheat beer year-round. Every single one of them. There has to be at least one of these that hasn't a chance in hell of happening, right?
4. Go to Belgium. Seriously, flight benefits, income that's nothing if not disposable, and I still haven't made it anywhere except for that quickie weed-run to Amsterdam last Christmas? Shame on you, Charlie.
Shame on you.2. This is not mine and I have a problem with that.
1. Don't even bring that inside my home, unless you plan to sleep with me. The smell of it is giving me diabetes.
Shoo, Better Fill 'er Up
(Yes, I'm posting stuff I've written for tastings at my job [more on that later?] but since a good portion [all] of you haven't read it, it's new to you!)
I spent the past few days (back in October) in Portland, Oregon visiting some friends and enjoying some fruits of our microbial friend, the yeast cells', labor (I have a swollen ankle to prove it.) There's the big conception that everyone on the west coast loves hops, or precisely, loves MORE hops. My first beer (at a bar called East Burn, they have hammock chairs to drink in) was a red ale called Devestation, and it did nothing to disprove the idea. Big, juicy hops followed by a smidge of caramel followed by bigger, juicier hops.
So now I'm back on the east coast and I can't taste a thing. My lips feel like leather. My tongue is coated in humulone. I looked around the beer room, thinking "there has to be SOMETHING brewed on the east coast that can compete with such bitterness." And though I'm not sure if
we'll ever catch up to our buddies across the yard (and to be honest, I don't know if we should) I think I've found a few beers that can at least stand up and say "taste me, and destroy your palate."
I know what you're thinking. "But Beer Guy, I'm into malt, I much prefer a Scotch ale to an IPA." Tough shit. We all have to do things we don't want to sometimes - It's life. I will tell you that if you look (taste) hard enough, you'll find a sweetness in any bitter beer.
Starr Hill Northern Lights (Crozet, Va) 6% abv,
I've had this beer a few seperate times, each leaving me with a different impression. Today however, NoLights (as I am sometimes apt to call it) pours a hazy, honey color, that hints at least a small part of its smell. Mostly the nose is full of citric, bordering on harsh, hops, with a little
honey graham cracker in the back.
BIG bitter hops splash against the tongue, which is followed by some caramel and some toast, and is finished with citrus hop.
Blue Mountain Full Nelson (afton, Va) 5.9% abv, 12.99/6P
Touted as a "Strong Pale Ale," this one isn't fooling me; it's pure India. Nomenclature aside, Full Nelson pours clear amber with a thick head that subside to a thin layer of lacing.Hops take a back seat to bread crust and biscuit, but that doesn't mean we don't get any. Blue Mountain grows some of their own hops, as do I. The cascade vines my father and I harvested smelled like Thai peppers, and I'm getting a vague spiciness that I wouldn't be surprised if it was attributed to Virginia terroir.
Up front there is a floral quality, which gives way to breadcrust, which gives way to an acidic burst, finishing on toasted malt.
I spent the past few days (back in October) in Portland, Oregon visiting some friends and enjoying some fruits of our microbial friend, the yeast cells', labor (I have a swollen ankle to prove it.) There's the big conception that everyone on the west coast loves hops, or precisely, loves MORE hops. My first beer (at a bar called East Burn, they have hammock chairs to drink in) was a red ale called Devestation, and it did nothing to disprove the idea. Big, juicy hops followed by a smidge of caramel followed by bigger, juicier hops.
So now I'm back on the east coast and I can't taste a thing. My lips feel like leather. My tongue is coated in humulone. I looked around the beer room, thinking "there has to be SOMETHING brewed on the east coast that can compete with such bitterness." And though I'm not sure if
we'll ever catch up to our buddies across the yard (and to be honest, I don't know if we should) I think I've found a few beers that can at least stand up and say "taste me, and destroy your palate."
I know what you're thinking. "But Beer Guy, I'm into malt, I much prefer a Scotch ale to an IPA." Tough shit. We all have to do things we don't want to sometimes - It's life. I will tell you that if you look (taste) hard enough, you'll find a sweetness in any bitter beer.
Starr Hill Northern Lights (Crozet, Va) 6% abv,
I've had this beer a few seperate times, each leaving me with a different impression. Today however, NoLights (as I am sometimes apt to call it) pours a hazy, honey color, that hints at least a small part of its smell. Mostly the nose is full of citric, bordering on harsh, hops, with a little
honey graham cracker in the back.
BIG bitter hops splash against the tongue, which is followed by some caramel and some toast, and is finished with citrus hop.
Blue Mountain Full Nelson (afton, Va) 5.9% abv, 12.99/6P
Touted as a "Strong Pale Ale," this one isn't fooling me; it's pure India. Nomenclature aside, Full Nelson pours clear amber with a thick head that subside to a thin layer of lacing.Hops take a back seat to bread crust and biscuit, but that doesn't mean we don't get any. Blue Mountain grows some of their own hops, as do I. The cascade vines my father and I harvested smelled like Thai peppers, and I'm getting a vague spiciness that I wouldn't be surprised if it was attributed to Virginia terroir.
Up front there is a floral quality, which gives way to breadcrust, which gives way to an acidic burst, finishing on toasted malt.
Quick Honey, Get the Cold Filter!
(For those of you acquainted to my weekly beer write-up for that wine shop tasting, this isn't new. Also, somehow it's kind of fitting that the first post for savingales should be on lager. Nowhere to go but up! Oh zymurgy.)
I'm going to own up. I like light lager. Not only do I like light lager, I think it's my favorite style of beer. Light lager was my(and I'm sure many of your) first beer; it was what turned me on to beer. I like nothing better than to sit down in front of the fireplace with Dan Brown's latest attempt and a warm lager in a wide-mouth chalice, mulling over all its intricacies (both the beer's and the novel's.)
And yes, I'm kidding. I'm in no danger of getting into an argument over whether I like my beer to be triple-hopped or beechwood aged, but I do respect the brewer that can make a beer with almost no taste. I've tried, and my beer was a yeasty, hoppy mess. The thing about light lager is that there are no big, stand-out flavors to hide any flaws. Unlike a roasty, boozy Imperial What-Have-You, the brewer needs to be meticulous in every part of the brewing process. Didn't sanitize properly? That bacteria infection is going to be really evident. Mash temperature to high? Be ready for an overly sweet, under-attenuated beer.
It's not easy to brew, and some might claim that it isn't even satisfying when it's done right, but remember that a real beer geek likes all beer, and realizes that there's a situation even for a lowly lager. Just not in front of a fireplace (and don't encourage Dan Brown.)
I'm going to own up. I like light lager. Not only do I like light lager, I think it's my favorite style of beer. Light lager was my(and I'm sure many of your) first beer; it was what turned me on to beer. I like nothing better than to sit down in front of the fireplace with Dan Brown's latest attempt and a warm lager in a wide-mouth chalice, mulling over all its intricacies (both the beer's and the novel's.)
And yes, I'm kidding. I'm in no danger of getting into an argument over whether I like my beer to be triple-hopped or beechwood aged, but I do respect the brewer that can make a beer with almost no taste. I've tried, and my beer was a yeasty, hoppy mess. The thing about light lager is that there are no big, stand-out flavors to hide any flaws. Unlike a roasty, boozy Imperial What-Have-You, the brewer needs to be meticulous in every part of the brewing process. Didn't sanitize properly? That bacteria infection is going to be really evident. Mash temperature to high? Be ready for an overly sweet, under-attenuated beer.
It's not easy to brew, and some might claim that it isn't even satisfying when it's done right, but remember that a real beer geek likes all beer, and realizes that there's a situation even for a lowly lager. Just not in front of a fireplace (and don't encourage Dan Brown.)
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