"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.