Trusty Springfield

When it comes to accepting food and drink recommendations, I have trust issues. There’s nothing worse than taking someone’s advice on a drink, restaurant or dish, having it blow, and spending the night thinking, “This evening would have been pleasant if SO AND SO hadn’t FUCKED ME. Fool me once, shame on So and So. Fool me twice, well, that won’t happen. This person is out of my life forever.”

That being said, I do have a select group of people in my life whose taste I trust implicitly, and I look to them for guidance before making choices that involve leisure. This group includes close friends, fellow Taste bloggers, and other people I know hated the movie “Crash”… A new person was added to that list a few weeks ago: my sister.

I’ll admit it: this was long overdue. My sister, who is three years my junior, has proved time and again that she has very good taste in very many areas. In fact, I was with her when I saw “Crash.” That afternoon, there was not one, but two McLaughlins yelling, “THIS IS STUPID!!! FUCK YOU!!!!!!!” at the family TV set. The reason for her only recent addition to the list isn't that she used to have bad taste and now, suddenly, has good taste. It’s just that, well, I’m an older brother. I’ve always been the one showing her shit. I turned her on to The Beatles and The Replacements. I showed her “L.A. Confidential.” I took her to her first Ryan Reynolds movie -- oh wait, that wasn’t my sister. That was my worst enemy.

For a long time, I think I just had trouble getting used to her showing me something that I didn’t know about already, because I was so used to the opposite. Well, all that changed a couple weeks ago in Boston, where she lives. I learned the hard way. When we went into a bar on my first night there, she ordered the Pretty Things Jack D’Or and suggested I do the same. I ignored her and ordered some other thing I hadn’t heard of. Mine blew. Hers was great. I was the So And So who ruined my night. I screwed up badly. I even thought about punishing myself the next day by walking in the rain without an umbrella, or eating at Subway.

It's a special saison -- on par with that special French one, Dupont, that Gerard Depardieu drank too much of and sprayed all over an airplane out of his wiener. We got dinner the next night at Audubon Circle on Beacon Street and The Jack D'Or was on the menu there. We got a big bottle of it for 8 bucks, perfect to split. It was essentially a $4 special beer for each of us. I had a great beer. I had a great meal. I learned to trust my sister. What more could I have asked for? Being wrong but drinking good beer is almost as good as being right.

Side note: I fell in love with the waitress we had at Audubon. She was ravishing and very pleasant. I’ll love her until the day I die, and beyond. Unless she likes “Crash.”

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