A carnival of technology

Oops, I guess I have a bit of a backlog now.  The bar where I drank the last of these was pretty dead, so let’s see if I can’t turn some incoherent notes into sloppy paragraphs and catch up a bit.

#41: Smuttynose Hanami

Smuttynose is another brewery whose beers have just recently started showing up on the banks of the Chattahooch’.  They’re from New Hampshire, and I’m pretty sure I sampled some of their wares during  moments of lucidity on that awful New Year’s trip a while back, but I can’t remember which ones.  So for this project I just picked out what looked like the strangest.

Cherries are thought to originate somewhere in the Mediterranean—Italy or Turkey or somewhere in there—but it was the Japanese that figured out that, besides being a tasty fruit, it’s a pretty dang pretty tree, so why don’t we throw a party when it starts to bloom.  Thanks to a century-old gift from Japan, we in the US have our own version of Hanami, the cherry blossom festival in DC.  Appreciating the cherry blossoms got kind of awkward when we started bombing the shit out of each other, but that’s not the kind of thing that just goes away.  For once a year the National Mall is litered not with plastic bottles and burger wrappers, but with pretty pink flowers.  The Smuttynose beer doesn’t have much to do with the flowers; they just used the fruit.

I’m a little wary of cherry-flavored beers, because children’s cough syrup ruined me.  The one I remember best, Lindemans Kriek, I absolutely can’t stand because it makes me think of Dimetapp.   But Hanami won we over in a couple of ways: it’s a cherry-flavored ale instead of a cherry lambic, so the cherries are a flourish and not the focus, and the cherry flavor is more tart than sweet.  Hanami has a sweet barley taste with a little bit of hops, and the cherries add a sour note that it keeps it interesting.  It’s pretty nice.

#42: Ayinger Celebrator

I’m not very familiar with bock beers, so this was something new.  A bock is basically a strong German lager, and a doppelbock is even more so, a dark, thick, powerful product of the Reinheitsgebot that has something to do with goats for some reason.  I got this one in a four-pack, and these bottles have a lot of heft.  They’re thick and brown, and each one adorned with a little plastic ram hanging from a red string.  This beer is certainly serious about whatever it is.

The beer itself is dark brown, and it smells like a dark ale, lots of roasted malts and hops and chocolate.  It’s full of flavor, bready and slightly sour malts, molasses and a big hop bite, but somehow it stays smooth and creamy and very drinkable.  This is a big beer that manages to stay just on the side of subtlety.   And it’s tasty; I like it.

#43: Guinness 250

There’s an old Irish proverb that I’m either paraphrasing or just made up: no matter how far or how long you travel, you can always find a comfort at home.  I took to Guinness pretty early on, and not just because I’m fake Irish.  The small, divey bars throughout Atlanta tend to keep on tap some varieties of Budweiser, and Miller and Coors, and 420 on tap if you’re lucky, or Pabst Blue Ribbon if you’re close to Little 5.  And Guinness, the big, dark-handled tap in the corner with the funny-looking nozzle.  I often drink Guinness, and honestly, it’s not all that good.  There’s a world of difference between Guinness in a can or a bottle—regardless of what kind of plastic they shove into the container—and Guinness on tap, but even then, despite its reputation among those that prefer the Bud, or the Millers or the Coors of being a big, bready meal in a glass, it’s kind of bland, kind of watery.  It’s a fine beer for drinking a lot of beer with some friends over a pizza and a baseball game on the big TV, but if you’re looking for a beer for thinkers and poets, a beer with feeling and a flourish, Guinness isn’t the place to start.

But it’s hard to hate on Guinness.  They too often make the best beer in the bar, those toucan ads make some pretty neat art and are powerful enough that I still, somewhere in the back of my mind think that drinking the stuff is a healthy endeavour, and the head of the brewery in the 1950’s, after he got in a (presumably drunken) argument over some sort of senseless trivia, created the Guinness Book of Records so that bars could keep it on hand and cleanly settle future arguments over ridiculous bullshit.  I guess it’s kind of like Jack Daniel’s: I don’t think so highly of the actual product, but there’s so much storied history in the producer that I can’t help but love them.  Guinness 250 is a milestone in that history, marking the 250th anniversary of Arthur Guinness sigining, at £45 per year, a 9,000 year lease for the brewery at St. James Gate.  I bet that landlord is feeling mighty stupid.

The first thing that’s clearly different about Guinness 250 is that there’s no nitrogen.  There’s no downward cascade of tiny bubbles, just a black beer with a fluffy white head, matching the tap handle without any intermediate settling, and rather than staying big and thick to leave a tan curtain down the side of the glass, the head eventually settles into a few thin puddles.  And then there’s the smell, oh my goodness.  There’s a big burnt barley smell with a strong sour edge, and the taste is more of the same.  The roasted malt is something bordering on imperial, and the carbonation lends a big, sharp kick.  It’s a straightforward beer, but it’s big and crisp, and it tastes like a stout ought.  It’s really a shame that this is only a one-time thing.

#40: Beamish Irish Stout

Food pairing: a pizza.

Beamish is one of the “big three” dry Irish stouts, the others being Guinness and Murphy’s, and like the other two it uses the technology first thunk up  by the thinkers at St. James Gate.  My previous beer post neglected to mention an instance when a can is better for the drinker than a bottle: the ntiro can.  Before sealing the can, they toss in a plastic ball full of liquid nitrogen.  When the can is opened, the drop in pressure causes the nitrogen to come out into the beer through a small hole, filling the beer with tiny bubbles that give it a smooth, creamy texture without the bite of a beer that’s only carbonated.  The widget is too big for a bottle opening, and a bottle would probably pop under the pressure anyhow, so we instead have a can that’s meant to be poured into a glass.

And pour it into a glass I did.  It starts out with that creamy-brown cascade of downward-flowing bubbles so familiar from Guinness, and after half a minute or so settles into a jet black with a big white head.  It’s hard to avoid comparisons with Guinness, since that’s what I’m so familiar with, and this is a lot like it.  It smells and tastes of bitter, roasted malts and has a creamy texture, but everything seems a little a bit more.  It doesn’t feel quite as watery as a Guinness, and there’s more of a sour malty taste, and more of a sweet taste.  It’s simple but drinkable, and of the three I like this one the best.

Whenever someone says to you, “but it’s a dry heat”?  It’s bullshit.  Effective sweating also means that anything over 90° feels like the inside of an oven, and regardless of temperature this weekend has been an attack on my mucous membranes I will not soon forget.  I don’t think I could live in any climate zone that doesn’t have “humid” in its name.  I quite honestly prefer the sensation of drowning in the air that one meets in a southeastern summer.  Both situations are going to require some external aid, either simply for cooling or to prevent dehydration after the natural process of cooling, but at least with one you know what you’re getting into.

Much like bars, I prefer casinos when it’s late at night and they’re full of sketchy drunks.  The flow of money doesn’t even matter; it’s just such a relaxed, inviting atmosphere.

I do not understand the appeal of slot machines.  Gambling of any sort can be distilled into a set of numbers in the house’s favor, but slot machines remove all of the comfort of interaction.  Push a button, don’t win any money.  It takes away the abstraction of the game, the decisions that fool you into thinking you can win if you just try a little harder, leaving only naked mathematics and some bleeps and bloops and flashing lights.  I have never liked the idea of slots, and now I can say that with the authority of experience.  I like roulette.  It’s a guaranteed loss and a fascinating array of ways to get there.

I will abandon my principles for a double-double.

Fifty ounces is a heckuva lot of beer.

Vegas is just another bullshit town.

There’s a unique joy in getting drunk before noon outside of an airport.

Nevada is on Pacific time, not Mountain.  This only strengthens my notions of Mountain Time as the empty time zone, a place that is home to Ted’s buffaloes (maybe?) and little else.  And maybe El Paso?  I can never remember.

Like the lady at the cashier counter said, “It can’t be all that bad.  You’re still smiling.”

So that was Vegas.  Congratulations to Chris on his upcoming martitals.

# 39: Oskar Blues Ten Fidy

Canned beer has kind of a bad rep, some of it undeserved, kind of like screw-top wine bottles.  If packaged right, there’s no difference in quality from cans and corks and metal caps, but still, it just doesn’t seem as classy.

Beer cans had a very bad start.  The first beer cans weren’t the convenient pop-top aluminum cans of today, but more like the cans of pinto beans and pumpkin pie filling that are gathering dust in the back of your pantry.  The American Can Company, partnering with Gottfried Krueger Brewing of Newark, produced the first canned beers, “keg-lined” with an enamel coating to keep the beer from reacting with the steel.  They were lighter than glass bottles, more durable, stackable, but required special tools to open.  All a bottle needs is something with a lip—a belt buckle, a door handle—and the leverage is already there, but these thick steel monsters demanded a church key in every kitchen and tackle box.  American ingenuity and spunk eventually overcame this problem, producing first the pull tab, bane to barefoot beachgoers, and eventually the attached tab on a thin aluminum can we still use today, just in time for hair metal and the New Romantics.  But convenience is still its downfall.  Canned beer is meant to be, or least most often is, drunk from the can, so even though the inside was coated from the very start, sticking your nose and lips right into that metal top can give beer the metallic taste that everyone was always looking for.  Just pouring it out first fixes that, but who’s going to pack pint glasses along with the folding chairs and cooler full of cans?

So I was a little surprised to see an imperial stout in a can.  “Pack it in, pack it out” suggests that Oskar Blues feels that campers deserve fancy beers, too, and that seems like a nice sentiment.  I’m not camping, so I used a glass.  It came out thick and tarry black, hardly any carbonation, and it smells like super-roasty malts and coffee.  The taste adds some cherry-like fruitiness, and some vanilla.  It’s huge and creamy, and all the flavors blend together nicely on top of a base of roasted malts, big and charred and bitter but not overwhelming.  This is a pretty nice beer, not as complex as some imperial stouts, but a solid and tasty take on the style.  I’m still a little weirded out by the can, though.

This beer thing is getting difficult.  It’s not that I no l longer enjoy drinking the beers—I do enjoy drinking beer—it’s just become increasingly hard to write about them.  Like last night, I couldn’t scratch together two hundred words for one of the best beers I’ve ever had, and easily the best that’s less than $10 for a six-pack.  The problem I’m finding is that it’s hard to write about good beers unless they’re also really weird beers, and I burned through too many weird beers early on.  I need to either pick up something I know I’m going to hate (Arrogant Bastard?); something with enough of a story, innate or potential, that I can spend a post talking about that instead of the beer itself, or something just completely off the wall.  Something to kick me out of my funk  Somethng to make notable the usual aspects of usual beers.

I’m stuck in a rut.  After a particularly bad store-bought meal last night, I shouted my woes into the æther and joked that, since I seem to mostly eat pasta when I cook for myself, I need to find another country to fixate on.  Some took this as a call for suggestions, and Mexico and Thailand were presented.  I am grateful for that; they both give me some ideas for future meals, and in the short term it made tonight taco night.  But then I thought some more: what would be the best drink for tacos?  Mexico brews some beers, of course, and most of them are pretty bland.   The cheap Mexican beers that get imported tend to taste like cheap American beers, the biggest difference being that people like sticking limes in Mexican beers for some reason.  But there’s something else curious about Mexico and beer, something I learned about from the Americans.

The last place I lived was in a Latino neighborhood, and, since it was near the highway and had only recently citied up, there were billboards everywhere.  One in particular, the one over the taqueria, unfolded the tale of American beers trying to tap into a new market.  It started fairly simple: Budweiser added lime, which I guess saves a couple of steps and the risk of cutting a finger.  Then Miller added lime, but they called it Miler Chill.  Isn’t there a Spanish word for that?  Couldn’t they have gone with Miller Fresca or something like that?  Whatever, it’s their beer.  Maybe they’re really trying to market to white people who like tacos.  But there was one part of the inappropriately-English tagline that stood out, “chelada-style.”  Huh?  I didn’t think much of it, though, until Budweiser raised the stakes with their own “chelada,” Budweiser & Clamato (?!).  Ok what in the hell, that sounds gross, something’s going on.

The chelada of Bud and Miller is short for michelada, a sort of a beer-based Bloody Mary.  But while adding clam juice to the tomato juice is something that only crazy people do to a Bloody Mary, clamato seems to be norm for this Mexican drink.  Tomato juice and clam juice and beer sounds just awful, but maybe I’m just being too uptight.  I don’t know what clamato tastes like, just that I think clams are gross (they’re a filter).  So why not try something new, right?  You only live once.

Digging around on the Internet revealed only chaos, a cacophony of michelada recipes, each one more horrid than the last.  Some demanded Worcestershire sauce for authenticity, some used Maggi seasoning for the same reason.  There were shouted disagreements over the fruits, the spices, what brand of hot sauce to use, but, tellingly, never over the beer.  I decided to base my attempt around a basic Bloody Mary formulation.  I took a picture of what ended up in the drink, along with whatever else I didn’t feel like moving off the counter.

See what I mean about the pasta?

The beer is Dos Equis Lager Especial, and it will be mixed with Clamato, lime juice, Tapatío and Pickapeppa sauce.  I’ve come to terms with clam juice, but I’m still going to let Worcestershire sauce squick me out.  Quit putting seafood in things, all of you.  It came out looking like this:

Pasta sauce this time, being used to hold the rest of the cilantro

Anyway, it doesn’t smell fishy, so maybe it won’t be so bad.  The first couple of cautious sips go ok, but as I drink a little more it tastes like something’s wrong.  It’s not even the clam juice (or least not all of it’s the clam juice).  There’s a vinagery sourness to the whole thing that I really don’t like.  I made another attempt with some different ratios and ingredients—less lime, normal tomato juice, lots more spices—but no, same problem.  I just can’t imagine a situation where I’d think mixing beer and tomatoes would be a good idea.

Oh well, now I know.  So how about just the beer, instead?

#38: Dos Equis Lager Especial

It’s really not bad.  It has a good bit of a grassy, hoppy taste, but there’s also a sweet flavor to it, and it’s a little bit flowery.  The sweet taste makes it feel less crisp and clean than a usual Pilsener, but at least there is some flavor, and it’s a welcome chaser to a big mouthful of hot sauce.

Ok, enough of those American Belgians.  Tonight I am having a stout.

#37: Dominion Oak Barrel Stout

I was curious to see how Old Dominion makes a beer when they’re not celebrating their birthday.  The barrels mentioned are used bourbon barrels, and this stout is additionally flavored with vanilla and some hops and some actual chunks of oak.  The smell reminds of Heath bars: there’s a big caramel aroma, and toffee, and vanilla.  And there’s a whiff of something sharp and acidic, like the smell of a porter.  The taste starts out with a big, bready flavor and a litte bitter twinge that moves into the chocolate and candy, and behind that a light woody taste and just a hint of bourbon.  The sourness from the smell flits in and out and ends up sticking around on the finish.  This is a fantastically complex stout.

#35: Abita Abbey Ale

This one is from Louisiana.  My only other encounter with Abita has been their Purple Haze, a raspberry beer that I don’t much care for, so I’m a little apprehensive about how they plan to make a dubbel.  It pours a slightly-murky brownish orange with a big head, though not nearly as big as that one from Allagash.  This is a normal kind of big head.  There’s a very strong fruity smell, like sweet cherries, and cloves and bready malts.  The taste is smooth and fruity, lots of malt and sugar and fruitiness and spice, and it finishes with a kind of lemony sourness.  There’s not a lot of subtlety to it, but it is mighty tasty.  I like it.

#36: Avery: The Reverend

This is another beer from Colorado, and the bottle goes a bit heavy with a kind of rockabilly religion, namedropping “The Reverend Luther Tucker” and talking about the eighth day on a background of funky stained glass.  There’s an ingredient list as well, and it looks like they aim to make a quadrupel with only the basic tools: water, barley, candy sugar, yeast and hops.  Using a tulip glass again (really this whole thing was just an excuse to get those out), it comes out orange with a big, fluffy head.  I don’t smell a lot of fruit in this one, and the crazy belgian yeast smell, though there, is very subdued.  Mostly it’s a sweet barley smell, and as I inhale deeper I catch a pretty solid whiff of the alcohol as a soft, dry burn.  Bodywise this beer is almost on the easy-drinkin’ side, with just enough of a syrupy feel to slow you down and give you a chance to remember that it’s 10% ABV.  It’s bready with a bit of a taste of cloves, vanilla and orange, and there’s a little hop bite that hides the alcohol’s heat.  This beer is pretty good, a strong, sweet ale deconstructed and presented without embelishment.  I’d rate it better than the Allagash, maybe not as interesting as the Abita.

So it looks like I’ve gone right through week number 5.  Country count-off!

• EE. UU.: 17
• Belgium: 5
• England: 3
• Canada: 2
• France: 2
• Scotland: 1
• Jamaica: 1
• Lithuania: 1
• Ireland: 1
• Germany: 1
• Denmark: 1
• India: 1

And I don’t even know how to sort these styles anymore.

#34: Allagash Grand Cru

This is Allagash’s winter beer, but I chose to drink it out-of-season for a different reason.  From the bottle (emphasis mine): “We brew this deep-golden colored Belgian-style ale each year in limited quantities.”  Belgium is home to some really out-there strains of yeast and a lot of beer-oriented history, which most famously culminates in rich, strong, complicated ales with little or no hops, probably some spices and a whole lot of flavors good for sippin’ and thinkin’.  So of course we in America think we can do the same thing.  There are a lot of ales brewed in the New World claiming to be “Belgian style” or “abbey ale,” so I think it’s time to survey some of these attempts, find perhaps some hubris, perhaps some genius.  Let’s see how the Mainers did.

Things certainly start out promising.  The beer is a slightly-cloudy orange with a huge head that smells malty, a little musky, a little boozey, and like funny-shaped fruits from dusty, foreign lands.  Hurray, I think Allagash imported the right yeasts.  It tastes thick and sweet, and seems to have some cloves, some orange, and something peppery.  The musky smell turns into a musky taste that has a bit of a rubbery, astringent edge.  Maybe they didn’t import all the right yeasts.  There’s more alcohol heat than I expected for something in the 7ish percent range, and a lot of tickly carbonation, which together have something of a numbing effect.

Allagash gave it a good try.  It’s not perfect.  I’d rate this beer as a solid OK.

1977.  A mustached Georgia actor, a country singer and the Flying Nun unleash upon the world the greatest American movie ever made.  It’s about big trucks and fast cars, about serendipitous love, about power-mad country sheriffs, and about beer.

It’s easy to forget, but there was a time when Coors was an uncommon delicacy.  The various twists and confusions of the liquor law and distribution of the time kept Coors west of the Mississippi, giving it a rarefied air in the east, especially in the southeast.  Of course Coors is available nationwide now, finally permitting this so sought pairing of blue mountains and red necks, but alcohol distribution is still a byzantine thing.  In Georgia two beers in particular seemed to take up the mantle, discussed in whispered rumors and smuggled home from carefully chosen vacations.: Yuengling, a lager with history and about on par with Coors in terms of taste, and the other a fancy microbrew from the land of Coors, Fat Tire.  Both are now available in Georgia.  We’re losing our Coorses, and that’s fantastic.

#33: New Belgium’s Fat Tire

This Fat Tire came in a special bottle noting the various struggles and pitfalls of moving beer across state lines: “1st (legal) distribution commemorative: Georgia on My Ride.”   It claims to be an amber ale of 5.2% ABV and best served at 45°F.  There’s a little diagram of what looks like a snifter, so hey why not.  It pours clear copper with a big white head, sturdy and fluffy, and it smells sweet and citrusy.  There’s a sort of thickness to the taste, but not that sort of syrupy thickness in beers that go nuts with the malts and sugars, just a sweet solidity that stays on the easily drinkable side.  It’s a little lemony, and there’s a little bit of a hoppy bite, and that’s about it.

This was a nice beer, but I think the name of the brewery made me expect something that it isn’t: this isn’t a Belgian.  It’s somewhere between a sipping beer and something that can be pounded back, it doesn’t taste like they raided the spice cabinet, and there isn’t that crazy yeasty taste of alien fruits grown by mad monks.  It’s just a nice, easy-going, comfortable beer.  And I’m glad I can get it in Georgia.

La Chouffe

Gesundheit.

This little 33cL bottle tells a tale of the beer-brewing gnomes of the Ardennes, which I’m guessing is something the brewery just made up themselves.  If not, this doesn’t appear to be a Galloway legend sort of thing: there’s no claim to ancient secrets or odd ingredients, it’s just a nice little golden ale, and gnomes are pretty neat, don’t you think?  All hiking through the mountains in their funny hats, brewing their beers, tiny and odd and just keeping to themselves.  How could anyone not like a gnome.

I don’t have the recommended La Chouffe glassware, so I used a snifter.  It’s a cloudy, golden beer, and it smells right away like a Belgian, thick yeast and citrus.  The taste is a little more crisp than I expected.  It’s got a bit of a bitter bite to it, and some sharp spices milling about in the malty, yeasty base.   I’m bad at playing guess-the-spices, so I’ll just say it tastes orangey and peppery, and there’s a witbier kind of taste as well, so coriander and maybe clove are also likely suspects.  It’s a pretty nice beer, and, like the sight of a gnome, gone all too fast.