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