Working On My Night Moves

We've all been there. You're at work when you realize the stuff that needs to get done is not going to get done by quittin' time. You look out the window - a full moon is on the rise. That's when you know, you're working late, working on your night moves. I write this as I currently am at work, with nothing to lose, gettin' 'er done while I ponder how funny it is how the night moves. I work at a brewery, and I'm flying solo tonight, so it is at least half way similar to the book In The Midnight Kitchen, except my wiener isn't covered in cookie dough. Oh yeah, and there is plenty of delicious beer to drink cause it's a brewery. This delicious Kelso IPA is the perfect foil to a man and his night moves. I'm living the dream here. It's like my granddad would always say, "if ya enjoy ya night moves, you'll never work a day (or night) in ya life."

The Bitch is Back

The title of this post refers both to the beer I'm discussing and how long it's been since I've contributed to the site (it is also unintentionally my second Elton John reference in as many posts). I had Raging Bitch by Flying Dog for the first time when visiting my mom down in Washington, D.C. My mom, being the awesome lady that she is, bought a six pack for me to drink at my leisure throughout the weekend. She told me in the week leading up to the visit that she bought "some type of dog beer" that two gay strangers recommended at her grocery store. I confess that when she told me this, I assumed the beer would be light and ineffectual. How wrong I was.

You know the movie Crash, where every racist person is confronted with something that challenges his or her beliefs? Raging Bitch was my Crash moment, except replace deep seeded racism with being somewhat unsure about two gay strangers' taste in beer. My situation would make for a much better movie.

Big thumbs up to Flying Dog though, a brewery I've been on the fence about in the past. Raging Bitch is one hell of a beer. For how high the alcohol content is (8.3%), its surprisingly smooth. It is not however an ideal session beer for a Saturday afternoon spent talking with your mom about grad school. Shit gets way more real than it needs to.

Life lesson? Try more beers suggested by homosexual couples your mom meets in supermarkets. Also, Crash is terrible.

Rodenbachman-Turner Overdrive

Lately, I've been a junky for the funky.  Sour beers got something special that daddy need, yet as a reasonable man, I find it hard to justify regularly dropping $40 on a bottle of Cantillon or Drie Fonteinen.  I've found the reasonably priced Rodenbach a great alternative to give me that tart taste I'm after.  While it isn't really the same as a Cantillon (Rodenbach is a Flanders Red ale or Acid ale, much more vinegar-like than the Cantillons, which are lambics, and thus much funkier), it still scratches a similar itch.  That nice little pucker I get from each sip is like a wink from a babe that gets you through the day.  It takes care of business without breaking the bank.

I've always imagined Gaston from Beauty and the Beast enjoying a couple of tankards of acid ale trying to get up the courage to head up to the castle, and take care of business with the beast.  The oak tannins and sour cherry tartness would most definitely get him in shape to sling barbs at the Beast, and convince Belle that it was time to bed.

So, give it a shot. You won't regret the choice - unlike Gaston, who I assume, as he plummeted to his death from the Beast's castle, thought, "I wish I had just stayed in town and laid those three babes!"

-Erich

Come on, Irene!

Several weeks ago, Hurricane Irene descended on the East Coast and gave everyone quite the scare. And when I say, "quite the scare", I'm politely saying, "lost their shit", and when I say "everyone", I'm referring to only those on TV or in elected office. Everyone else just cancelled their plans for the weekend, and made sure they had the numbers of a couple solid delivery places on hand. (I would like to take a moment to thank all the Chinese and Latino immigrants that delivered that weekend. Thanks for steppin' up, fellas. It is for that reason I support immigration. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free", just don't forget to cover them in plastic, stick pizza boxes in their hands, and tell them my address.)

But let's not totally blame the news. People did allow themselves to get stirred up about the storm. I, in fact, fled NYC for Philadelphia, where I figured I'd hold up with The Lady for the weekend as the storm passed. And because of all the doomy predictions, I made sure to grab a couple of special brews from my secret stash that I could enjoy in the event things got ugly. One brew I made sure to bring was Founder's Kentucky Breakfast Stout, a bourbon barrel aged stout that is quite sought after when it is released each winter. I had been planning on saving my bottle for a special occasion, and what could be more special then drinking this dark brew IN THE EYE OF A STORM!

Now as we all know, the hurricane was less than awesome. Things got a little wet and windy around Philly and NYC, but that was about it. One might say that such a mediocre rain storm is hardly an occasion to crack something as rich, dark, and life affirming as a Kentucky Breakfast stout, and right as I put bottle opener to bottle, I considered this very dilemma. Was I wasting this brew on a non-situation? But to take a lesson from the very not beer centric movie Sideways, the special occasion is when you open the bottle. So looking around myself, I realized that getting cozy with my Lady, cooking some dinner together, and generally setting about in the finest of fashions was just as special as having our asses handed to us by mother nature. I said, "screw it", decanted my dark brew into a cactus glass (the Lady's apartment is wanting for proper beer glasses), and cozy'd the-hell-to-the-fuck-up with my Lady as we prepared to weather together. Special stuff.

After the storm, a bunch of folks were complaining about how the storm was a "let down". To that, I just got to say, "hold it right there, bro". We were lucky. We didn't die, and I got cozy. Would you have preferred a big deadly storm? A twister perhaps? How would you have felt if Bill Paxton and his boys had descended on your home or the home of a loved one, ate all your chow, then started shouting about F-5's? And the whole time, Paxton had a chip on his shoulder because he was getting his balls busted by someone who was in it for the money, not the science? Then after that ordeal, you still get taken by the twister. Shit, brah. I'll take the beer in the cactus glass.

-Erich

Jar Jar Drinks

My roommates (one of whom is fellow L.G.A.T. blogger, Christian Hayden) have been jarring shit lately. I don’t understand why, and that’s okay. They’re a couple, and I guess it’s a fun activity for two people to do together. Kind of like the clay pot in “Ghost”, or that fruit in “9 ½ Weeks” (the produce, not Mickey Rourke. HELLO!).

The point is, they’ve been making things like salsa and marmalade and jarring them to create a long-lasting stash, and as a result, they’ve bought all these mason jars. There are a few jars that haven’t been used yet, and I’ve taken to drinking my beers out of them. The inspiration first struck me last Friday night -- and when I say “inspiration,” I mean that all of our beer glasses were dirty and I didn’t feel like washing one. I started with a Great Divide Rumble Oak Aged IPA, and it was love at first taste. Not the beer -- it was good, but I didn’t love it (I prefer the Hercules, 17th Anniversary and Fresh Hop). No, it was the jar.


It’s hard to explain why I love it so much. The shape… The bumpy texture… The way the glow of a hoppy brew shines through and makes it look like a Dickensian street lantern… Or maybe it's the old timey feeling you get when you drink from it, like you’re a shyster in the 1920s gathering with your buddies to iron out the details of a big, life-ruining sting. “You ever play the big con, kid?! Refill my mason jar and I’ll tell you about it! Do you like my tiny mustache?”

These jars have their hooks in me. The last few beers I've had out of them have been Sixpoint tall boys*. All that’s left to do is relax, have a taste, and enjoy the ride. Or, as The Beach Boys once said, “It’s fun, fun, fun -- ‘til my roommates decide to jar some chutney.”

*Yes please!

- B

The Real Grateful Type

About a month ago, a good thing happened to me. I got a new job, a new job making beer. Being paid to make beer is a goal I've worked towards for several months, so accomplishing it called for celebration. I celebrated with friends (as Christian documented a couple of posts ago), and I had my own celebration. A darker celebration. A celebration that I thought would fill a hole, but instead left me empty inside. I celebrated by cracking open a fat chick.

Now, before I go any further, allow me to clarify. The fat chick I cracked open wasn't a big human female (oh god, can you imagine how dark THAT would

have been?) The fat chick I cracked open was a Three Floyds' Big Behemoth Barleywine. I had heard about the Behemoth. She has a reputation for being bigger, fatter, and wetter than most you'll meet. I picked her up while on a short trip to Chicago with LGAT's good friend Mike "Gracious" Leikin (in case you're wondering, he's the real gracious type). Now if there is one thing I've learned about fat chicks, it's that the more you disregard them and pretend they aren't there, the more they try to impress you. So wanting her as wet as possible, I figured I'd throw this nasty girl in the closet for a couple of years, and see how she liked it.

So put yourself in my shoes. I had just landed my dream job, my balls were hangin' like a king's, and I was thirsty as all heck, so this fatty was just the feast that a young alpha wolf like me needed.

But bad news, guys. I had let this fat ass sit for too long. I knew there was trouble when the wax seal around her neck was cracked. Looks like mother nature got to her first. Oxidized her - tore her the heck open. She tasted like a dusty cardboard box. Moral of the story? Don't let your fat chicks sit around. There is nothing worse in the world than a dusty old fat chick.

-Erich

Campaign for 'real Ale

Marta and I went to Montreal recently. It’s a killer city. Good food (surprisingly good bagels), cool architecture, and nice people – which is weird, since they speak French. You sort of have to re-train your brain to not think of all francophones as assholes. We were loving it, and we had this we-could-really-live-here epiphany.* We started to look at McGill for grad school.

But then…


We went to this place Brutopia at a friend’s recommendation. We weren’t really having many beers for whatever reason, but I like to sample some local color when I’m in a new city. Brutopia, we could see from their walls, was voted Montreal’s best beer for several years running. So this was it.


It was fine. Perfectly mediocre. We had their Vanilla Cream Ale and their Chocolate Stout. The latter was pretty good, but even Brooklyn Brewery makes a better CS. The former was two shades away from vomit-worthy. We had a couple others, too – all perfectly, pleasantly, boringly, why am I here since this is nothing special fine.

And this was the best it got, apparently.** My ardor for the city serious cooled. Could I really live in a city without an awesome beer scene? Is it kind of sad that I don’t think I can?

*To be fair, we do that with practically every city we go to.

**We heard some good things about this three gods place though, so maybe not all hope is lost.

Tecate Get You Into My Life

I was hot. The beer was cold. It was there. So was I. It was left at my place after a party, by a friend who didn’t like the idea of spending too much money on beers he wasn’t going to be drinking by himself. I sliced a lime, used a wedge of it, and let the rest sit until it rotted and I threw it out. The beer was free, and when I sipped it, so was I. All in all, I’m glad I let it climb my fence and steal the other beers in my fridge’s jobs for a night.

-B

Curmudgeon Conundrum

Recently we were at a local watering hole celebrating a friend’s accomplishment. This friend is Erich, and his accomplishment is that he achieved his dream: he is now being paid to make beer all day, every day. This is essentially what Erich does with all of his available free time, so his being paid for at least half his weekly beer-making is quite the accomplishment.

An odd thing happened in the midst of our celebration. I got a round for Marta and myself (her only instruction being to ‘get [her] something dark’; I ignored it and got a her a beer that I wanted to drink). I selected a Great Divide 17th Anniversary Wood-Aged Double IPA and got Marta a Founder’s Curmudgeon Old Ale. Both good breweries, both exactly the kind of style and alcohol content that I like.


Here’s where it got weird. When we sat down and started comparing, I noticed (and by ‘noticed’ I mean ‘was bludgeoned in the face with’ this): the beers tasted identical. Not similar, not stylistically reminiscent…identical.


So how did this happen? They have a similar ABV and they’re both aged in wood (which was the predominant flavor, along with delicious alcohol). But they’re not even the same style (the 17th Anniversary should have been bitterer, which it wasn’t). I was confused and sad and scared.

They were fantastic, too, and complex. This is not like Keystone and Natty Ice tasting the same. These were beers of the finest quality. IT DIDN’T MAKE SENSE.

Then I realized that the bartender probably just poured me two of the same beer.

Like a Harpoon to the Throat (Part 2)

I know I’ve kept you all in nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat suspense for the past week. I apologize. It ends here.

So where did we leave off? I was with friends and loved ones at the Friendly Toast in Cambridge’s Kendall Square. Jake and I split a bottle of Dogfish Head’s Fort (an excellent, excellent beer that I’ll have to devote another post too sometime). We moseyed over to Cambridge Brewing Co. and drank a tower of their beer (which was meh). Things did not get too crazy.


At around five the next morning, however, I awoke with the feeling that my chest and throat were onefire. I felt as if someone had poured kerosene down my gullet it and set it alight. I felt like I had been disemboweled and my throat replaced with a steam pipe. I also felt the need to vomit.

I did so. And the result was…not ideal (‘ideal’ and ‘vomiting’ are two concepts who are not well-acquainted). It was a torrent of blood. All right, it wasn’t a torrent – more like a mouth-full. But that’s enough to freak you out. Esp. if you’re me, who does not suffer jarring physical ailments well.

The internet said to go to the hospital, as hematemesis is considered a medical emergency. I wasn’t too keen on that, being away on a small vacation of sorts. What I did do, though, was not eat for the entire rest of the day (this was extra disappointing given that our trip to Boston had been a sort of tour of our old culinary stomping grounds).

My doctor advised me immediately that the intake of certain foods was verboten. Fried food, citrus…and alcohol. I was devastated, as you can well imagine. She (my doctor) also passed me off onto a gastroenterologist, who gave me an endoscopy. This whole thing took about a week. I was beerless…but not tearless.*

The endoscopy reported that I had (have, really), a hiatal hernia. What this means is that my stomach has slipped the surly bounds of my lower abdomen and is pushing its way into my chest cavity. This sounded pretty serious to me, but the doctor only shrugged. I guess it’s not a big deal if your organs aren’t where they’re supposed to be? I don’t know.

Anyway, the hernia caused the vomiting, which in turn was violent enough to cause a Mallory-Weiss tear in my esophagus. It looks like this:


It had healed by the time they did the endoscopy, so that’s cool.

A week after the initial incident I had my first beer. It was an Allagash Black, consumed with Erich at the Brooklyn Public House. It was fucking delicious. I might be biased – I can’t even really remember that much about it – but damn. It was so good to be back.


*That was terrible. I can’t believe I’m leaving it in.

Like a Harpoon to the Throat (Part 1)

I love brewery tours. I worked at Sam Adams’s brewery for a while giving tours and tastings in Jamaica Plain, MA. JP is a great neighborhood for a brewery tour because it fulfills one of the requirements that make them great: they have to be in a neighborhood that you would have otherwise no reason to go to.

Harpoon, also in Boston, fulfills that same requirement by being near the harbor in Southie. Despite living in Boston for five years and working at Sam*, I had never been to their brewery tour before last weekend. But, in Boston with Jake and Marta and other assorted close friends, I decided to go.

The tour was fairly standard; a pretty simple whirl around the brewery with plenty of free samples and not too many jokes. Plus some of the server girls were Boston-
hot**, which is more than Sam has going for it.

The best part of any tour is, of course, the free beer they give you. Harpoon starts you off early with a nice Harpoon IPA taste right at the beginning of the tour and then at various spots along the way they refill your glass. It’s a great strategy. Then, at the end of the tour, they give you free rein of their taps for about 30 minutes: as much beer as you can guzzle and get from the tastemasters. This is the second best set-up of its kind I’ve ever seen behind only the Abita brewery, where they put you in a room with a tap and a stack of cups for an hour. I’m not kidding.

Anyway, we got some solid and rare Harpoon brews, including a Rye IPA they were doing as part of their Hundred Barrels Series and a couple of Leviathans. I’ve been a huge fan of that line for a couple years now – they seem to knock all of them out of the park – and it was nice to try some things I hadn’t in a while. Namely the Harpoon Leviathan Uber-Bock (pictured, poorly), which was sweet and comforting and made me want to curl up in a corner of the brewery forever. " />



After seven or nine glasses of these, my friends and I wandered around Boston’s North End before meeting friends in the antiseptic Kendall Square Neighborhood. A good time was had by all.

But then…the following morning...disaster struck. Continued in Part 2.

*Or maybe because of working at Sam. Those two have a weird rivalry that you probably don’t realize unless you work there.

**Boston-hot is when a girl is hot by Boston standards, which…well, I’ll let you puzzle that out.***

***Lest I be accused of being anti-Boston, let me assure you that Boston-hot is way hotter than Philly-hot.

"And I’m gonna be hiiiiiiigh as a kite by then..."

Like George Clooney's character from Up In the Air, I enjoy flying. Unlike Clooney's character, this isn't because I'm trying to avoid deep human connections. It's also not because I like giving motivational speeches about packing light and not having friends (honestly, people paid him for that?)

What I do like about flying is the novelty and the exclusivity. It's novel in that I only do it once or twice a year, and its exclusive in that unlike the Chinatown bus, homeless people can't afford it. When I'm in an airport, I feel I can partake in any indulgence I would normally limit, like fast food, candy, and closeted gay men's magazines (I'm looking at you, Esquire. Actually, I'm looking at Bradley Cooper's winning smile on the cover... WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!) Yet for some reason I have always avoided the pre-flight beer. I'm not much of a day drinker, and the idea of being drunk on a plane sounds terrible, but I have always looked with envy at the travelers wetting their whistles before taking to the skies.

Last week, a three hour flight delay gave my friends and I (heeeey Christian and Marta) ample time to stop in a Sam Adams bar and get a taste. I have always liked Sam Adams. Though my tastes have changed over the years, I find their lager among the more consistently refreshing and safe beer choices (side note: I am also a strong advocate of being adventurous, so the Sam Adams commercial from a few years ago when the tourist is in a German bar and he is told they have over a thousand beers, and without even looking at the huge dusty menu placed in front of him he says "I know what I want. I'll have a Sam Adams". Like, what the fuck dude? You spend all this money to go to Germany and you get an easily obtainable American beer? Did you also insist that you and your friends only eat at Sonic drive-ins? When in Rome, you bitch). Since this bar had a number of different Sams on tap, I went for the Summer Ale - nothing groundbreaking but overall a nice beer. I also took a sip of Marta's Cherry Wheat which was gross. I did end up getting a mild buzz from the large glass of beer (24 oz. I believe), but I had more than enough time to sober up and remember that, despite my earlier statement, airports fucking blow.

Hell or High Watermelon

Here at Let’s Get a Taste we all have our individual relationships with variety. Some of us love to enjoy the same set of time-tested brews over and over again. Others prefer to search high and low for new styles and new permutations of current styles. I’m judging neither – I would say I fall somewhere in the middle.

My girlfriend Marta might be the beer-drinker I know who most desires variety. She has exactly one beer that she drinks on a regular basis (Browar Witnitsca’s Black Boss Baltic Porter, which is really fucking good); beyond that she can be trusted to go for the weirdest beer on the menu (in other words, the one she’s least likely to see again). Ginger Rye Ale, Marta? Don’t mind if I do! Smoked-salmon Stout, Marta? Yes, please! Sulfur and Vinegar Lager? Why not!*

Most of the time her love of variety leads to a bad end. Sometimes, though, she gets it right. This weekend, after whipping up some panko-encrusted tilapia with a fennel-sea salt rub, Marta settled into a 21st Amendment Hell or High Watermelon Wheat. It was the kind of beer that I would make fun of her for buying. In fact…I already had.

But I was wrong to do so. 21st Amendment (great name for a brewery) gets it totally right. The watermelon lingers just far enough in the back for you to say, ‘oh yeah, there it is…’ but not so conspicuous that you think you’re drinking fermented watermelon juice.** It does exactly what a fruit beer should: make you taste the fruit while never forgetting that you’re drinking beer.

Next time someone cuts up and orange or lemon and tosses it into a hefewiezen, I’m going to glare at them, pull out a watermelon, cut it, and throw that in instead.

*I made all those up.

**Is it possible to ferment watermelon juice? That seems like fermenting regular water.

LBLAT One Out

To be honest, I've felt a little out of the loop recently, and a little down. It's been a busy start to the summer, and I haven't had the chance to hang with the fellas for a couple of weeks. So on Sunday, B and I finally got it together to grab an LBLAT (laid back late afternoon taste) down at Brooklyn Public House. And was it ever! I went deep with a Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale (a rarity on tap in these parts), and B got some Nectar IPA. Two rich brews for two men about to go deep. Pretty quickly after getting there, we said something about squirters, and a babe gave us a dirty look. Welcome to our world, sweethaaht!

The world we created with entirely our own. We always try not to let things get out of hand, but hey, this was a long overdue LBLAT we are talking about here! We had to make it count. We knew we had to say what we pleased, and burn it to the ground like we had nothing to lose. It's always kind of hard to let loose in public though. People have such a low tolerance for that kinda stuff these days. You say "tits", that's it. You say "ass", that's too crass. You say "vagina", people want you to tow the va-line-a. It's like they're 3 years old.

I must say though, beside getting on some folks' last nerve, the whole afternoon really perked me right up. It's what was missing from my life for those couple of weeks. I think a man needs this type of release - downing some beers, and taking the filter off. I'll have to keep this kinda release in my life well into my old age. In fact, I think it will get better the older I get. People tolorate this kind of stuff from an old guy a little better than from a young whippersnapper. Instead of babes giving you dirty looks, when you're an old man, babes sit on your lap, and people look at you and say, "look out for that old guy. He'll get ya into trouble!" Then the bartender sends you over a free round. I'll nickname the bartender "Squirter". I'll have paid my dues by then. I'll have earned the RIGHT.

-Erich

Cream Of The Hop

I’ve never been an ice cream guy. By that I mean that ice cream is nowhere near the top of my list of favorite indulgences. I don’t mean that I’m not a guy who drives around serving ice cream (even though I’m not). That would be an ice cream man. Part of why I know this stuff, besides it being common knowledge, is that my dad put himself through college working as an ice cream man. To this day, he has difficulty passing an ice cream truck without stopping for a nostalgia-tinged cone, both because the taste takes him back to a simpler time, and because he likes to stand around and bullshit with the ice cream men -- to cultivate a feeling of solidarity with his fellow dairy-peddlers. An ice cream man is a guy who sells ice cream. An ice cream guy is someone who enjoys eating it. My dad is both.

For me, ice cream is pretty easy to resist. I’d much rather have a good cup of coffee or beer that doesn’t blow, hence this blog. But last week during an afternoon stroll, I came across something rare: an ice cream I couldn’t refuse. It was called “Beer Chip.” It was being served at an outdoor ice cream stand that sets up camp during the summer outside of The General Greene, a nice restaurant in Fort Greene, Brooklyn.

Like my father, I suddenly found the thought of experiencing a creamy treat impossible to pass by. I didn’t stand around talking to the ice cream server though. In fact, I might have walked away while he was still talking to me. I was busy*.

It was beer flavored ice cream with chocolate chips in it. I can’t say I’ve ever seen that at a 31 Flavors before. I also can’t say I’ve ever called Baskin-Robbins “31 Flavors.” Also, what a shit hole that place is!

If I’m being honest, this shit was just all right. The idea of it sounded better than it tasted. You could definitely taste the beer in the cream, but something stopped me from loving it for some reason. It lacked a flavor that was interesting enough to make me say, “It’s the middle of the day, I’m eating pure shit, and I don’t regret it!” In other words, it wasn't beef jerkey.

Maybe I was a little underwhelmed because the beer used to flavor the cream was Kelso. Not to be dick hole, but I have yet to try a Kelso that I’ve been wowed by. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t Kels-blow. It’s just Kel-so-so. It doesn’t make me say, “Kels-Oh-No!”, but I wouldn’t Kels-go out of my way for it – especially if I was feeling Kels-low. Again, it wasn’t that bad. Sorry to bore you with my tale of Kels-whoa.

Or, maybe it was because I'm not an ice cream guy, ice cream man, ice cream boy, or ice cream girl -- or a babe who's on her period.

Anyway, next time I’ll just get a beer.

*No I wasn’t.

Pint Taken

Obama recently imbibed a pint of Guinness in Ireland, which gave the right-wing media another thing to bitch about. You know, if I heard that 100+ of my constituents were dead, I’d have a fucking pint too.



I’m not here to talk politics, though. In conjunction with Obama’s mocking-the-dead-by-not-being-in-the-exact-place-they-were-when-they-died, Slate ran this article: http://www.slate.com/id/2295487/.

It pissed me off. Not because it’s inaccurate – in fact, it cleared up some misconceptions I had, like that Guinness draught is brewed in Canada (it’s not. It’s all brewed in Dublin). Not because it didn’t make sense – it did. After all, beer that travels 20 miles is going to taste better than beer that travels 3,000. That’s fair. And it’s not even that I disagree – though their test was obviously biased (what kind of beer expert is going to say he prefers the Guinness in America? That’s like saying you prefer the Coca-Cola in Europe…oh wait, Coca-Cola is better everywhere else in the world that’s not America including Mexico yes there is actually an instance in which one would say I wish I were in Mexico instead of America and that instance is when one is drinking Coca-Cola. Sorry Mexico I know you’re going through a rough patch and I shouldn’t make fun of you and I’m sure there are other instances in which one would prefer to be in Mexico over America; for example if one wanted to be beheaded. Dammit sorry I did it again).

Back to Guinness. The reason this pisses me off is because it’s just begging for more culturally retarded American tourists to come back from a trip to Ireland, sit with their friends at their local bar, order a Guinness, take one sip and say: “You know, the Guinness really is better in Ireland.” I hate this because it’s such a fucking cliché, up there with “You know, swimming is the best form of exercise”; one of those things that everyone’s heard one thousand times before and will hear one thousand times again before they die. And the speaker – the cliché dispenser – has no conception of whether or not that’s true. Ten-to-one they couldn’t taste any difference between the two, but they either fooled themselves into thinking they could or they just no know one’s going to disagree with them.

When I went to Dublin, I got off the airport bus, walked into the first pub I saw and ordered a Guinness. It was bar none the worst Guinness I have ever had. It was completely flat, it had none of that renowned Guinness head), and it smelled like a horse. I drank it because I was in fucking Ireland. I left disappointed and went to another bar that was more touristy but poured a much tastier Guinness.

My point is that lots of people went to that right-off-the-airport-bus pub, and lots of them had vomit-inducing Guinness. And lots of them went back home and told their friends the Guinness was better in Ireland.

While I’m ranting, let me say one other thing: Guinness is kind of a shitty beer. I’m a little ashamed to admit this, because considering that it’s a mass-produced product of a massive beverage conglomerate it weirdly gets a pass from most beer lovers. I think this because a) everybody loves Irish people, b) it was many people’s first beer that had any kind of flavor at all, and c) everyone loves doing car bombs. But drinking it now I realize that it’s basically the blandest stout in existence, and it has a helluva lot of body for what’s essentially no flavor. It pours well – I’ll give it that. And, of course, it makes a great sound when it’s opened.

Can-gali Tiger!

Well, a lot of people were disappointed that the world didn’t end last week. The fact that we’re all still here, livin’, lovin’, and tuggin’ got a lot of people questioning their faith. Well, I say, “Hey you nuts! I got proof of the almighty right here in my hand: Sixpoint in cans!” Sixpoint Bengali Tiger IPA to be exact. I drank this one on the roof of my apartment building - the beer delicious, the experience novel.

Sixpoint has been a favorite of mine since they opened. I have watched them mature as a brewery, and have seen the beers go from solid to phenomenal. I remember the first time I had a Sixpoint. It was 2007 at Soho Park, a great place that sells large exceptional burgers that you eat while listening to fun techno music, DJ’d by a pleasant person, at a reasonable volume (to get a true sense of Soho Park, please imagine the opposite of what I have just described).

Never having seen this particular beer before, I ordered a Sixpoint Sweet Action. They had the Righteous Ale, and the Bengali Tiger, but I was drawn to the Sweet Action – damn, the name was just so sexy. So sexy you could almost impregnate a waitress just by ordering one. Well, long story short, I almost became a father four times that long thirsty night. That’s right, I had three beers…and made a small mistake (let’s just say that Sixpoint in cans isn’t the only thing I’m glad is available at the 24 hour Duane Reade. Hello!)

-Erich

A Street-bar Named "Brewsire"

This is my second steet-fair beer blog post. What can I say? I find an unexpected beer offered on the side of the road irresistible. It’s like lemonade stand, minus the being a stupid waste of space. You stop what you’re doing, put your journey on hold for a moment, and take an opportunity to make things all about you. It’s a nice thing to stop and smell the roses sometimes -- or, if you live in Park Slope, lesbians. I treasure those moments, where you have nothing to do, nowhere to be, and no one to say, “Hey, watch it there, Mr. Joel."

The beer I went for after stumbling upon outdoor festivities last weekend was a Sixpoint Harbinger. It’s a Saison, and it’s, as the English say, “rawthah niiiice!” It was so good, that I didn’t feel like stopping to take a picture of it while I was drinking it. That’s why I was left with such a disappointing visual element this post. An empty cup. An empty seat. An empty kebab foil. Oh yeah, I had a kebab…

Cinco De OH NO!!!

On May 5th, my girlfriend Lindsay and I fulfilled our duty as upper middle class white people living in Brooklyn to go out for Mexican Food. As UMCWPLIB (if I get that shirt made will anyone buy it?), we understood it would somehow be "offensive" if we went to Taco Bell or Chipotle, so we took a gamble on a neighborhood Tex-Mex place called Lobo.

Mexican food is kind of like sex - when it's good, it's really good, and when it's bad, you get terrible diarrhea. The food at Lobo was closer to the former - not remarkable by any means, but far from sickness inducing.

The star of the night was the Michelada, a cocktail that Christian introduced to me about a year ago. Michelada is essentially beer with Bloody Mary ingredients. As a huge Bloody Mary fan, Michelada is the only beer cocktail I've ever had, and the only one I really care to try (normally I'd be all, "get this shit out of my beer"). The recipe calls for a Mexican beer as the base - generally Negro Modelo, which now that I think of it I have never had NOT in a Michelada - along with lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, hot sauce, black pepper and salt for the rim. Add ice to remind yourself you're not in Mexico, breathe a deep sigh of relief for your good fortune and enjoy.

If you haven't had one of these before, give it a try. Even if you aren't nuts about Bloody Mary's, you'll still find these surprisingly refreshing. Michelada's are also great drinks to bust out at dinner parties which, if you're a UMCWPLIB like me, you'll be attending at least one of this week.

Frei Beer

As part of a personal experiment for my other blog (self-promotion: http://30daysofselfdenial.tumblr.com/), I have not had any alcohol for the entirety of this month. As you might expect, that has made me a poor contributor to the blog (sorry, B, E, Jake). Rest assured that this debacle is almost over and soon I’ll be drinking, photographing, and blogging about more beers than you can shake a stick at.

In the meantime, though, I come to offer you a defense.

Let me explain. In an attempt to approximate the glorious, glorious experience of drinking beer, I have recently been sampling…non-alcoholic beers. I had no expectations that non-alcoholic beer would in any way replicate actual suds. I thought of it as being as near to beer as one of those Japanese body pillows is to a real woman.

I started with the Paulaner Alkohol Frei. There were notes of sadness and self-pity. The body looked like rabid piss. I almost gagged at the first sip. Well, I tried, I thought. They can’t say I didn’t try. I planned to throw it away. But you know…it was there in front of me. So I took another sip. And another. And even though I kept telling myself to throw it away, eventually I drank the entire bottle.

That’s when I had a revelation. The reason people hate non-alcoholic beer so much is because they expect it to be beer. They expect the taste of beer, when in reality this is a completely different beverage. It’s like when you expect a woman and get a Japanese body pillow.

But the JBP is soft. It’s a nice shape. It fits well in the crook of your arm. This alkohol-frei beer is the same way. It’s not incredibly shitty beer – it’s a decent sugarless apple cider. It’s really not a bad taste. It’s like if you thought you were biting a chocolate cupcake but you bit into a parsnip instead. Parsnips are super delicious, but you’d be like, damn, that is one shitty cupcake.

Let me say one more thing about n/a beer. This was made by Paulaner. Paulaner itself is a really shitty, boring helles. How can they make a good non-alcoholic beer if they can’t make a good alcoholic beer? Plus, why is all n/a beer a helles/pilsner lager style? Why can’t we get an n/a Oatmeal Stout or IPA?

I’m not trying to convince you to buy n/a beer. Instead, buy real beer. I’m just trying to say the poor stuff gets a bit of a bum rap. Also, I’m in love with a Japanese body pillow.

Free Hat

A riddle: If Magic Hat does not make good beer, and I've never purchased Magic Hat it in my life, why does it appear in my fridge?

The answer is that Magic Hat has cornered a very niche market - it is the beer that people who don't know a lot about beer bring as a gift for people who do. The labels are bright and eye catching, the names are goofy, and because you never see it advertised it avoids being placed in the same class as Budweiser, Miller and Coors.

Magic Hat is probably best known for its English Ale, #9, an apricot infused beer generally preferred by... cider drinkers, I guess? Tonight though I had their Spring seasonal offering called Vinyl. Vinyl is a watery lager with notes of - actually, I think watery lager about sums it up.

I do tip my regular hat to Magic Hat for their unique presentation. I originally thought to describe Magic Hat as the Ben & Jerry's of breweries, but that title belongs to the more adventurous and vastly superior Dogfish Head. A more apt comparison might be that Magic Hat is to beer what Urban Outfitters is clothes, in that they both repurpose alternative/hipster titles and slap them on lackluster products for hot chicks who don't know any better. Vinyl Lager is the beer equivalent of seeing Mischa Barton in a vintage Bruce Springteen t-shirt (or as Mischa Barton would say, Bwoose Sprwingsteen).

There are Blumpkins I Remember...

I brew my own. And I brew a lot. I've brewed countless batches (34 countless batches to be precise). This blurry photo above, however, is a picture of a special batch, batch numero uno, a little pale ale famously named Blumpkin IPA. To be honest, the sole reason I decided to try my hand at brewing my own was my desire to name a beer Blumpkin IPA. Silly, I know. The idea popped into my head one day walking home from class, and I thought it was pretty funny. Thinking about it now, this kinda bums me out because I wish my brewing origin story could be a little more inspiring like some others I've heard. I can hear it now, "Jeff Lebesch, brewmaster at New Belgium brewery? He was inspired to brew after a life changing bike trip throughout Europe. Vinnie Cilurzo of Russian River? He was inspired to brew after becoming frustrated with the time it took to make wine. Erich Carrle? Oh, that guy just thought blumpkins were funny."

Now the beer was a solid effort for a first go. It tasted like beer (which is pretty much the most important criteria for declaring someone’s first batch of homebrew successful), and you can imagine how siked I was to get those “Blumpkin IPA, ‘Tastes so good, it’s like getting a…’” labels on the bottles, but after all was said and done, the thing that I enjoyed the most from that first batch (and here is where things get wistful), was seeing some of my close friends crack em open and go deep over my suds. We drank these beers in McCarren Park on a sunny spring day. It was the first nice day in a while, and a bunch of people came that I hadn't seen in a while. And well, damn! Just look at this mirth I created! (See photo of mirth at right) That shit was insane!

So I saw the photo on my computer, had a moment (queue The Beatles, "In My Life"), and thought I'd share. I guess now if I'm ever to rise to the top of the brewing heep (I'm about it start a job at a local brewery), I hope my origin story is remember in light of the mirth I created. Hopeful it will stack up next to others. "Sam Caligione of Dogfish Head? He was inspired to brew in order to push the boundaries of what beer could be. Erich Carrle? Oh, that one always makes me cry. That guy started brewing after he realized he loved giving his friends *wipes tear, sniffles, voice falls to emotional whisper* blumpkins in the park." Now that's more like it.

-Erich

Thank You Friends -- And Hops

Anyone who knows me knows which beer I almost always lean towards -- the IPA. I like a beer whose hops make their presence known, like a divorced father at his son’s baseball game. So you can imagine how happy I was on Saturday night when I walked into a Brooklyn watering hole, Hot Bird in Fort Greene, and found one of my favorite hoppy brews on tap: Dogfish Head’s 60 Minute IPA. And as is often the case with when one happens upon a special beer, a special moment soon followed.

The last time I had been to Hot Bird, it was for my friend Gracious’ going away party, a few nights before he left New York behind for a job in New Orleans and living with his babe. One of the many high points of our friendship was him introducing me to the band Big Star. In fact, I had seen Big Star with Gracious two years before at the Brooklyn Masonic Temple, a few blocks from Hot Bird. So, I went to Hot Bird on Saturday night knowing I would think of Gracious and Big Star when I got there. Then, when I walked into the bar, the song that was playing was one that I recognized instantly. It was “Feel”-- the first song on Big Star’s first album. Needless to say, I felt.

One of my greatest memories of the Big Star show I saw occurred during the song “Thirteen.” Hearing the opening chords of their sweetest and most iconic number was a huge thrill, especially since no one was sure if they’d play it. But the moment that sent tingles up my spine and through my nozzle came right after the singer, cult figure/songwriter Alex Chilton sang the song’s opening line: “Won’t you let me walk you home from school?” Hearing the song’s intro was pretty fuckin’ cool, but nothing could prepare the crowd of hundreds of white people and one black person for the most memorable line from the most memorable song from one of the most memorable bands of all time. The place just went crazy.

Now, up until this moment, Chilton, the man everyone was there to see, had been pretty stone-faced. Everyone expected as much. He had always been known for a particular brand of mysterious, stoic aloofness that led to a unique fascination among his fans, including Paul Westerberg (believe it or not, The Replacements’ “Alex Chilton” changed my life before I even knew who the fuck Alex Chilton was).

Anyway, after he sang that line, and the place went crazy, something strange happened. He smiled. The legendary Alex Chilton broke his infamous cool and let out a genuine, unexpected, kind of sly grin. It was the smile of someone who’s just made a room full of people’s pussies explode. It was great to see. A couple months later, Alex Chilton died. Gracious and I had seen one of his last shows. I’ll never forget that smile.

I had walked into Hot Bird late on a Saturday night for one last drink before going home to jerk off, and I got much more than that. When I got home, instead of jerking off I watched the following video --

and I thought about friends. The way they come into your life, make it better, then go off in their own directions, on their own journeys, while you’re left to continue on yours... I thought about the things you give to each other, take from each other, and the things you share that no one else will ever come close to being able to understand. Then, I jerked off.

-B

Smells like Teen... Beer-it

My relationship with Brooklyn Brewery goes back as long as I've been drinking beer for pleasure. I credit the company for introducing me to non-mainstream beers during college, but as my palette has matured since then (there is no way to say that without sounding like a huge asshole and/or pussy, I checked), Brooklyn now seems a bit... simple. Safe. Bland. At least compared with the endless array of craft beers in the market. It probably didn't help that Brooklyn's beers were so readily available in the shitty gas station next to my post college apartment.

In a way, Brooklyn Brewery is to beer what Nirvana was to music in the 90s. They both brought an "alternative" product to the mainstream, and they both dealt with a similar backlash as a direct result of their success. Maybe if Brooklyn Beer committed suicide, people would have more respect for it. Its 27th birthday isn't too far off...

Don't get me wrong, I like Brooklyn. Yes, they make a tame beverage, but they make a solid one too. There are plenty of nights where solid is exactly what I'm looking for, and tonight was one of those.

Despite the stigma against beers named after the season for which they are brewed (many people see this to be a lame marketing ploy, which I'm sure it is), I do have a soft spot for Brooklyn Summer. It's a pretty simple beer - light and citrusy, it makes me feel like rooftop BBQs and chafed taints are just around the corner.

A Noble Spirit Embiggens the Smallest Pils

This photograph was taken in southern New Jersey at a Famous Dave’s Barbecue Restaurant. When my brother ordered a Sam Adams Noble Pils, the rotund waitress leaned in and said, “Are you sure you want that one, hon? It’s pretty hoppy.” When she waddled away, we had a good laugh at New Jerseyites and their unrefined palates.

There’s nothing wrong with the Sam Adams Noble Pils. It’s a perfectly cromulent beer, and Sam Adams has a solid history with the style (their Imperial Pilsner is one of the best American examples). But…I just can’t do it.

I spent a year living in Prague. When I left, I was big into huge, experimental beers. You couldn’t put enough hops, fruit, or alcohol into a beer to satisfy me. The weirder the ingredients, the more I loved it. People kept telling me I would love the Czech beer. “Best in the world!,” I kept hearing.

But when I went over there, I found out there are essentially two types of beer in the CR – dunkel and pilsner. What is this shit, I thought as I hammered Budvar. It’s glorified MGD!

As the year went on, however, two things happened. First, I discovered Czech brewpubs, which are producing some truly wild shit (Nettle beer, anyone? Haha, I’m kidding, it’s fucking terrible). Second the whole pilsner thing began to sink in. I don’t remember exactly when, but one day I got home from a long 5-hour work day and thought, damn. A Bernard would be perfect right now. And after that I couldn’t get enough. I guess when you’re having seven a day, you grow accustomed to them, but I like to think that my own unrefined palate matured to the point where it could appreciate a more subtle style.

Which brings me back to Sam and to America. Ever since I returned, I can’t drink non-Czech pilsner. Hell, I couldn’t even drink other European pilsners (Munich was wasted on me). I just can’t do it. And people don’t understand. They take me aside and ask me quietly if I’ve tried Victory Prima. Sigh.

So I apologize, Noble Pils. I want to like you but I just can’t. When it comes to pilsners, I’m like that Hemingway character who returns from WWI and can’t find pleasure in any of life’s normal activities. Which one was that again? Oh, that’s right – all of them.

Ribbed For My Pleasure

Have you ever had beer or food that was reminiscent of other things? For example, this beer that I had last night, Butternut Farms Pork Slap pale ale, with the delicate flavors of citrus and straw. Or these ribs that I had last night with notes of spice, smoke, and....back alley pussy?

Bare with me guys, and read my pussy loving lips - "These ribs tasted like pussy!" At first I wasn't sure. But after I thought about the ribs' fishy, funky, stanky quality, I made the connect. I inquired to the waiter what ingredients might impart the ribs with such a quality ("Hey bro! These ribs are giving me a stiffy! **points to crouch** What gives?") He said the answer was simple, Asian fish sauce. Now, those ribs were damn good; the pussy sauce not just a novelty ingredient, but truly bringing something more to the ribs. The one qualm that I had with my meal was that the ribs overpowered the beer a bit (Yo bro! This beer is clashin' with this pussy! **stands up with boner** What say you?). Which led me to the question, "what beer pairs nicely with pussy ribs?" I already suspect I know which beer pairs with pussy, the one that she's buying! Hello!

-Erich

I'm Working on the Man in the Mirror Pond

So I just got back from a little vacation to Portland, OR with the lady. And great time was had by all. And of course, being in a beervana as they call it, I drank a lot of special beer. In fact, procuring special Oregon beer was the first thing I did in Portland – first stop: supermarket, second stop: hotel. The flight landed real late, so the lady and I decided to ordered a pizza, and settled into our hotel room with our six-pack to recoup from the travel. The beer we chose – Deschutes Mirror Pond pale ale, a damn fine and sessionable pale ale that holds a legendary status over there in the Pacific Northwest. I believe doctors even found this beer in Cobain’s system after he killed himself…OH WAIT….THAT WAS HEROIN! This beer would have definitely been too much fun for that guy.

So we each had a couple of brews, threw the left over two beers in the fridge (the hotel room had one) and forgot about them for the rest of the trip. The hotel we stayed in was rather nice – nice amenities, good location, and clean. And it got clean because of what seemed to be the only housekeeper employed by the hotel. This one gentleman seemed to handle all the cleaning duties for the ENTIRE hotel (the hotel was on the smaller side so it wasn’t like he had to clean 100 rooms, but still). He also looked exactly like this guy (right). But instead of a burger in his mouth and a helmet on his head, he had sweat on his brow and a vacuum in his hand. And also he was a white guy. Poor bastard.

Every day I saw him walking around the hotel grounds, sweatin’, cleanin’, and generally suckin’ wind. This guy was being worked to the bone! Here I was, on vacation, enjoying the fruits of this incredible city, gettin’ laid, and this poor shmuck had to clean up after my drunken gluttonous shagfest. I don’t know about you, but my mother taught me my heart should go out to the poor shmucks in my life that have to clean up after my DGSs. And it did.

So otherwise, the lady and I had such a fun time that the rest of the trip unfortunately passed pretty quickly. Along the way, we had sampled much delicious (and cheap) food, sweets, coffee, and beer (the show Portlandia is right, Portland really is the place that young people can go to retire). I had also picked up a couple special bottles of beer that I planned to bring back with me. The night before our early morning flight home, I was delicately packing the bottles strategically in my bag (as any traveling beer geek invariably does at end of their trip) when I came across the two leftover bottles of Mirror Pond from the first night. Now there wasn’t enough room in the bag for those two bottles too, so I figured, “Nightcap!” I was just about to crack the bottles when there was a knock on the door. It was the housekeeper, come by at 9pm to clean the room. I had seen him arriving at work that morning, already covered in sweat (or perhaps it was the early morning dew of Portland) and start cleaning the rooms on the top floor of the hotel, and just now was he getting down to our room (on the bottom floor). He had been at it ALL DAY! I told him not to bother, that we were leaving the next day, and wished him good night. He nodded to me as he wiped sweat from his brow (or perhaps it was the late night dew of Portland) and walked to the next room. I closed the door, and looked back at the beers. The lady had grabbed the bottle opener and was about to crack one of the brews. I thought for a moment, then I asked her to give me the bottle opener…

We left the next morning, leaving behind those two bottles of beer. As I got into the cab for the airport, I saw the housekeeper arriving at work, and I looking back at him, I shouted “I left two in the chamber, in case you ponderin’”, and then drove out of his life. I didn’t really say that, but it would have been pretty badass if I did, and also he would have immediately realized that I was referencing The Wire season 3 Omar to Brother Mouzone, and that I must love it just as much as him, making our bond stronger. Regardless, I hope the bastard enjoyed his “on-the-clock” taste.

-Erich

The sun ain't the only thing risin': Sunrise Ruffalo Saison

Here we have a homebrew creation from Erich and myself named Sunrise Ruffalo Saison. The beer was brewed during an Oscars red carpet pre-show, where Mark Ruffalo and his oddly named wife were interviewed by some sexy idiot. The name immediately stuck out to us as being perfect for a beverage or something nasty to try out while dewin' it. Since we had a new beverage in the works and didn't feel like figuring out what a Sunrise Ruffalo would be on eachother, our beer child was named.

Full disclosure, credit for the creation of 'SunRuf' belongs entirely to Erich. He came up with the recipe and did most of the heavy lifting during the lengthy brew-making process. However, much like the non-creative producers who awkwardly end every Oscar night by taking the trophy for Best Picture, I get to take the victory lap since I paid for the shit that made it.

I'm not too familiar with saisons so I can't tell you how Sunrise compares with others of the style, but I can tell you it tastes great. Some floral notes, a little citrus, sweet but crisp with a smooth finish. It's the perfect spring beer to drink after work while I watch baseball and pretend I care about what's happening, before giving up and masturbating to pictures of Mark Ruffalo's wife.

I Am The Free Cheese

I first tried this beer a few months ago at the Great Divide brewery when I was in Denver for a wedding. It was one of several beers that I tried in what turned out to be a lengthy tasting session. The beers were fresh, and the people were so friendly you’d think they were trying to have sex with you.

I decided to revisit it months at a place in my neighborhood that serves free cheese on Sundays. The beer went great with free cheese. But then again, what doesn’t? Hello!

- B

Here Comes Irregular

This is an Atlantic Antic Amber, a special brew created by Six Point specifically for the yearly Brooklyn street festival from which the beer takes its name. I drank this beer at about 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday after being awake for only 3 hours, and spending most of that time drinking coffee and watching videos on my computer. By the time I stepped out of my apartment around 2:30 (for the sole purpose of being able to say that I did that), I think I’d had about four cups of coffee. To say that this beer tore through my insides would be an accurate statement, but it would be neglecting the similar effects that the coffee had on my system that morning, and also the beers from the night before… Basically, this beer couldn’t been better timed for making a man feel weird – about his life, and about his guts.

My center of gravity was thrown off, and I became dizzy. I made my way to the exit, only to be informed by a burly enforcer that I was required to stay within a designated, roped-off area until I had fully consumed my brew. This was bad news, as I had hoped to walk off the nausea that had overtaken me, and I was already feeling weird about drinking this afternoon beer by myself.

Just then, something caught my eye on the other side of the roped-off beer den: it was a man wearing a t-shirt bearing the cover of the album, Stereo by Paul Westerberg. In that moment, only one thing was clear in my mind: I had to know this man. I fought my way through the crowd, which involved much stumbling, dizziness and several spilled ounces of Amber mead. But just then, something occurred to me: no man talking to three attractive women wants a man he doesn’t know to come up and tell him how much he appreciates his t-shirt – especially if there’s a chance that man might shit himself while doing so.

- B