Tough indeed. The wax dip on this bottle was thick but tidy—reassuring compared to New Glarus' thin, melt-prone paste and Three Floyd's flamboyant, un-trimmed hanging wax strands. It seems designed impervious to oxygen, knives, and small arms fire. I check my hands after finally removing enough to get at the cap. Amazingly I am not bleeding, though I would consider this packaging a safety hazard. I try several bottle openers before I find one which can get in between the cap and the rest of the wax, and after a couple of yanks, I remove it to reveal...
A fucking cork. The way this has been sealed, I can only assume it's designed for Sam Calagione's distant descendants to excavate, send to a lab, and attempt to re-create at some craft brewery a thousand years in the future. I don't even have a corkscrew (apparently neither does my roommate, which explains why his bottles of wine haven't been opened), but for some reason I have a 'vintage cork extractor' which is basically a couple of sharp, pointy shivs (my sensitive hands are not out of the woods yet, it seems, and I fear bloodshed) which are designed to remove a cork otherwise in danger of disintegrating by... evidently annihilating it, because it's pretty torn up once I finally get it out. By this point, I could really use a drink, of which this vessel fortunately contains several.
It's still a little hot (and fresh; I should've realized from the packaging that this one was designed to be aged for the long haul). It tastes a bit Scotchy, which it should from the barrel-aging, along with some astringent leather, soy sauce, anise, and chocolate. I wish I had cellared this one longer, but I was celebrating finishing a project, and my storage conditions aren't ideal. For the price (around $1/oz), I probably won't buy another to lay down, though it's definitely good.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Founders - Big Lushious (sic)
Yes, the implication is that the imbiber of this sweet, quaffable libation might be a lush.
Founder's certainly has a way with raspberries, from Blushing Monk to its little cousin, the difficult-to-type-on-a-standard-keyboard Rübæus. They are also no stranger to porters (dark, rich, and sexy), or to imperial stouts (of which they make several, all good).
Founder's certainly has a way with raspberries, from Blushing Monk to its little cousin, the difficult-to-type-on-a-standard-keyboard Rübæus. They are also no stranger to porters (dark, rich, and sexy), or to imperial stouts (of which they make several, all good).
I scored this in a growler which was procured for me by the Growler King at Whole Foods in Richmond.
It smells just like a raspberry-filled milk chocolate bar. This is a lot like what it tastes like, too. This beer is not a triumph of complexity, but of successful experimentation: capturing a flavor profile deftly. Definitely a step up from Double Naked Fish, for instance, though more expensive as well.
All in all, I'm glad that Clinton at Market Street Wine Shop (in Charlottesville) has put my name on a bottle. The West Coast is gonna want to taste this...
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Pike Hive Five
I bought this at Salish Lodge (better known to me as the exterior of the Great Northern Lodge in Twin Peaks). The exact nature of this collaboration (contract brew) is unclear... no I take it back, evidently Salish has their own bees, and this is made with their honey.
Well anyway, the beer for the most part tastes like an adjunct lager. It isn't one; I mean it clearly says 'ale' on the label. And it also says hopped (which I'm sure it is, as most beers are), but don't be afraid—it is by no means 'hoppy' (but it's not sweet either). Initially, it smells kinda bready, but once the head has receded, it does smell kinda like honey. And it's there in the taste, too.
If I had to guess, I'd say that for this project, they wanted to showcase honey from this specific apiary, so they started with a clean blonde base and added the honey... but being so small, I'm guessing they didn't have a whole hell of a lot of honey to put in there. I might've guessed that some of the malt bill was cut with corn, but there's no mention of this on the label, so that's probably my imagination.
Well anyway, the beer for the most part tastes like an adjunct lager. It isn't one; I mean it clearly says 'ale' on the label. And it also says hopped (which I'm sure it is, as most beers are), but don't be afraid—it is by no means 'hoppy' (but it's not sweet either). Initially, it smells kinda bready, but once the head has receded, it does smell kinda like honey. And it's there in the taste, too.
Beer Camp in Twin Peaks
I realize I'm going to drive right past Twin Peaks, so I stop by for a slice of pie and a room at the Great Northern. It turns out to be out of my price range so I book a room at a motel instead and head down to the grocery store. I'm still pretending I'm a rich person on vacation, so I get smoked salmon for breakfast tomorrow and notice 12-packs of Sierra Nevada Beer Camp available. I had been ignorant as to what this actually was, expecting a variety of abrasive, hoppy northwest styles, but it turns out it's a pack of 12 different beers, each a collaboration with a different brewery. Some clearly brewed on the collaborator's system, because the packaging differs (this year's included two cans in with the bottles). Must be incredibly labor intensive to collate and package.
Anyway, I was out of room and didn't really want to buy 12 beers, but then I remembered that the aim here was to be as gamey as possible, so next minute I'm booking it around the corner with the thing under my arm.
Editor's note: I didn't drink these all in one night. I'm not that kind of hedo-masochist.
Myron's Walk: Fizzy and yellow with a big head and a smell like sourdough bread. Taste is kinda bitter, but with Belgian yeast and some tropical fruit flavor. Coriander too. Not sure if I ethically approve of the 'Belgian IPA', but this instance is tasty enough. Apparently brewed with Allagash.
Torpedo Pilsner is a balanced, light treat that tastes better than it smells, and it doesn't smell bad. The finish is hoppy, but not overall bitter. This one begs to be paired with food. Brewed with Firestone Walker.
Tater Ridge is delicious, smelling like autumnal malts and with a taste that is also malt-forward, but definitely reflects the sweet potatoes. Not overly sweet, and the malt counters the yamminess in a way that makes this even more palatable than sweet potatoes alone. Of course, it is also beer. That could be why I enjoy it more than sweet potatoes.
Electric Ray is a tasty, citrusy IPL, really leveraging that clean yeast flavor profile to make something that tastes like an herbal, hoppy lemonade. Almost exactly the kind of beer I don't like, and I like it.
Double Latte is a big bold coffee stout, a little bitter (though tempered for being a milk stout), but otherwise kinda similar to a Terrapin WNB.
Canfusion Rye Bock could be a hopped-up bock, I guess, but maybe the spicy bitterness on the finish is the rye.
Yonder Bock is strange in that it is a maibock with a little somethin' extra going on... I'd say passionfruit (the yogurt I ate this morning should make me an expert on that flavor) which I'm guessing came from a specific hop varietal. Strange in that lagers (maibocks included) tend to have very clean flavor profiles and taste of (if anything) faint applejuice. Maybe the point is that the clean base shows off the extra flavor. Smells fun too; I would not recommend drinking straight out of the can as I did. A brief glance at the back of the can tells me I'm mostly right, but the tropical medley is coming from three hop strains, one of which doesn't even have a name yet.
Chico King is the Three Floyds collab. Thick foamy head and a smell that might be yeast. Taste is pretty hop-forward with maybe coriander, though that doesn't really make sense. A balanced pale though, for sure. Kinda steely aftertaste.
Maillard's Odyssey boasts a thick texture and a massive leathery flavor that I didn't quite expect. I'm trying to remember what Black Note tastes like (it's a Bell's collaboration, so that's why it came to mind) to draw comparison. Kinda high IBU balanced with massive malt and a hint of smoke on the first sip. Maybe like a more hopped Hair of the Dog Adam? Reminds me of something, but it's kind of hard to pin down. Easy to like, though.
Yvan the Great is the Russian River offering, and it comes out pretty crisp due to a healthy dose of coriander. Not quite a coriander bomb, but it's very much there in the smell and taste. Beyond that, it's light, heavily carbonated, and a decent blonde.
Alt Route is a solid alt, true to the style, which makes sense as the Victory collab, because their German styles are very authentic. Dryish and with a clean flavor profile. Reasonably hopped, and with a smooth body that tastes kinda like caramel.
There and Back claims to refer to the relative distance between New Glarus (the collaborator) and Sierra Nevada's California and North Carolina facilities, but I'm almost positive it's a Hobbit reference. The beer itself is good, making me wish I'd actually visited New Glarus instead of just passing through town. As appropriate for an English bitter, it's not very bitter even at 40 IBU. Mild English hops linger on the finish, which is pretty clean and otherwise a bit nutty.
Anyway, I was out of room and didn't really want to buy 12 beers, but then I remembered that the aim here was to be as gamey as possible, so next minute I'm booking it around the corner with the thing under my arm.
Editor's note: I didn't drink these all in one night. I'm not that kind of hedo-masochist.
Myron's Walk: Fizzy and yellow with a big head and a smell like sourdough bread. Taste is kinda bitter, but with Belgian yeast and some tropical fruit flavor. Coriander too. Not sure if I ethically approve of the 'Belgian IPA', but this instance is tasty enough. Apparently brewed with Allagash.
Torpedo Pilsner is a balanced, light treat that tastes better than it smells, and it doesn't smell bad. The finish is hoppy, but not overall bitter. This one begs to be paired with food. Brewed with Firestone Walker.
Tater Ridge is delicious, smelling like autumnal malts and with a taste that is also malt-forward, but definitely reflects the sweet potatoes. Not overly sweet, and the malt counters the yamminess in a way that makes this even more palatable than sweet potatoes alone. Of course, it is also beer. That could be why I enjoy it more than sweet potatoes.
Electric Ray is a tasty, citrusy IPL, really leveraging that clean yeast flavor profile to make something that tastes like an herbal, hoppy lemonade. Almost exactly the kind of beer I don't like, and I like it.
Double Latte is a big bold coffee stout, a little bitter (though tempered for being a milk stout), but otherwise kinda similar to a Terrapin WNB.
Canfusion Rye Bock could be a hopped-up bock, I guess, but maybe the spicy bitterness on the finish is the rye.
Yonder Bock is strange in that it is a maibock with a little somethin' extra going on... I'd say passionfruit (the yogurt I ate this morning should make me an expert on that flavor) which I'm guessing came from a specific hop varietal. Strange in that lagers (maibocks included) tend to have very clean flavor profiles and taste of (if anything) faint applejuice. Maybe the point is that the clean base shows off the extra flavor. Smells fun too; I would not recommend drinking straight out of the can as I did. A brief glance at the back of the can tells me I'm mostly right, but the tropical medley is coming from three hop strains, one of which doesn't even have a name yet.
Chico King is the Three Floyds collab. Thick foamy head and a smell that might be yeast. Taste is pretty hop-forward with maybe coriander, though that doesn't really make sense. A balanced pale though, for sure. Kinda steely aftertaste.
Maillard's Odyssey boasts a thick texture and a massive leathery flavor that I didn't quite expect. I'm trying to remember what Black Note tastes like (it's a Bell's collaboration, so that's why it came to mind) to draw comparison. Kinda high IBU balanced with massive malt and a hint of smoke on the first sip. Maybe like a more hopped Hair of the Dog Adam? Reminds me of something, but it's kind of hard to pin down. Easy to like, though.
Yvan the Great is the Russian River offering, and it comes out pretty crisp due to a healthy dose of coriander. Not quite a coriander bomb, but it's very much there in the smell and taste. Beyond that, it's light, heavily carbonated, and a decent blonde.
Alt Route is a solid alt, true to the style, which makes sense as the Victory collab, because their German styles are very authentic. Dryish and with a clean flavor profile. Reasonably hopped, and with a smooth body that tastes kinda like caramel.
There and Back claims to refer to the relative distance between New Glarus (the collaborator) and Sierra Nevada's California and North Carolina facilities, but I'm almost positive it's a Hobbit reference. The beer itself is good, making me wish I'd actually visited New Glarus instead of just passing through town. As appropriate for an English bitter, it's not very bitter even at 40 IBU. Mild English hops linger on the finish, which is pretty clean and otherwise a bit nutty.
Friday, October 31, 2014
You think you can do what I do?
As far as my associates know, I've spent the last three weeks traveling cross-country on the Oregon Trail, in search of a new life in the off-world colonies. And not, as might also be supposed, living in my car and working out of a studio somewhere in West Virginia, Photoshopping myself into various national monuments and writing inane blog posts about beer and cheap motels.
Without confirming or denying these allegations on either side, if this sort of adventure appeals to you, here's a brief guide to your options in how to get from point A to point B when those points are over 3000 miles apart.
1. Decide the nature of your trip. This will by necessity be the product of your circumstances, to some extent. For instance, if you have a full-time 'job,' three weeks of vacation may not be feasible. If your employment is flexible, you may choose as I did to work 'from the road.' If you have sufficient liquid capital saved, you may choose to forgo employment and treat your 'slow travel adventure' as a vacation.
Be advised that the most economical way to relocate yourself and your belongings is undoubtedly to liquidate as many of your possessions as feasible and fly. You will soon realize that to purchase a physical object is not only to buy the object, but also to pay to get it to your home, to pay for the space to store it (as a fraction of your lease or mortgage), to pay to maintain, insure, and protect it, and to pay to relocate it if you move.
If you are not concerned with economy, or if you are attached to possessions, you can drive. A car can hold much more densely packed smaller objects than you would think, and it is only items of extreme dimensional weight (mattresses, large/assembled furniture, etc.) which pose an issue. I cannot recommend non-weatherproof roof storage unless you can exert control over the weather or are prepared to frequently install and remove it.
Your cost of living will increase on the road by a factor of maybe threefold, which is important to bear in mind. Unless you increase your income threefold and still to make progress, you will lose money doing this. Undeterred? Read on.
Without confirming or denying these allegations on either side, if this sort of adventure appeals to you, here's a brief guide to your options in how to get from point A to point B when those points are over 3000 miles apart.
1. Decide the nature of your trip. This will by necessity be the product of your circumstances, to some extent. For instance, if you have a full-time 'job,' three weeks of vacation may not be feasible. If your employment is flexible, you may choose as I did to work 'from the road.' If you have sufficient liquid capital saved, you may choose to forgo employment and treat your 'slow travel adventure' as a vacation.
Be advised that the most economical way to relocate yourself and your belongings is undoubtedly to liquidate as many of your possessions as feasible and fly. You will soon realize that to purchase a physical object is not only to buy the object, but also to pay to get it to your home, to pay for the space to store it (as a fraction of your lease or mortgage), to pay to maintain, insure, and protect it, and to pay to relocate it if you move.
If you are not concerned with economy, or if you are attached to possessions, you can drive. A car can hold much more densely packed smaller objects than you would think, and it is only items of extreme dimensional weight (mattresses, large/assembled furniture, etc.) which pose an issue. I cannot recommend non-weatherproof roof storage unless you can exert control over the weather or are prepared to frequently install and remove it.
Your cost of living will increase on the road by a factor of maybe threefold, which is important to bear in mind. Unless you increase your income threefold and still to make progress, you will lose money doing this. Undeterred? Read on.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Oregon Trail - Part 9 - No good deed
I've been living hotel to motel for weeks, and I'm currently parked in a discount motel in Portland. The internet is intermittent, but otherwise it's as decent as it's possible for it to be. I go from apartment to apartment, one of which looks like a halfway house and requires the occupant to go down the hall and through the kitchen to reach the bathroom. In a way, I miss the road.
I get groceries and bring a plastic bag to re-use. I get offered a paper one, the clerk saying, "You want to use that? Shameful plastic!" Of course I realize later that plastic shopping bags are banned in the city, but really I'm following the spirit of the rule if not the letter, huh? What do you want from me? The ban goes on to recommend you line your garbage can with newspaper and wash it out regularly instead, which brings to mind: that sounds pretty unsanitary, who has the space/sink/time to wash out a garbage can, what the fuck kind of environmental activist still reads the news on paper? Paper bags are great, sure, and biodegrade easily, and in a city where it rains 96% of the time, maybe biodegrades even before you reach yourcar bike or mass transit.
While waiting outside one of those apartments, I go for a walk (it is not the first time my knock has gone unanswered), and find a wallet. I phone the police, unsure of whom else to defer to, since there's not obvious contact info and the license is from Washington. I wait with it for an officer for another half hour, but then call back and explain politely that I need to leave, to finally go look at this apartment, and nobody's been dispatched to pick this thing up. I offer to take it to a mailbox (USPS apparently mails wallets back to owners for free), but the dispatcher recommends against it. I try to explain that the only other option is for me to leave it there, because what the hell am I going to do, take it? Even if I dropped it off at the nearest precinct, that's across the river, and I'm trying to be a good Samaritan, not a civil saint.
Anyway, while touring the apartment, I get a call from an officer who's come to pick it up, and whom I can see out the window and play a sort of "you're getting warmer" game with him from my vantage point while he no doubt scans for a red laser bead and wonders just who the hell this 'grassy knoll' guy on the phone is. He finds it, I hang up, and eventually make it down the block to introduce myself, and evidently give my name and date of birth for his report, though why he didn't ask on the phone, who knows. I sympathize; clearly the PD is busy that day and I'm wasting time with a not-actual-crime, other than that there's no cash in the wallet, for which I am now undoubtedly the number one suspect, and this poor guy has to fill out a report for some citizen from another state who couldn't bother to keep his wallet in his pants.
I head back to the motel to simultaneously dry out and not dry out, as I make my way through the Sierra Nevada Beer Camp. I promise myself to publish my musings on it, as well as the Lessons from the Road which I have learned.
I get groceries and bring a plastic bag to re-use. I get offered a paper one, the clerk saying, "You want to use that? Shameful plastic!" Of course I realize later that plastic shopping bags are banned in the city, but really I'm following the spirit of the rule if not the letter, huh? What do you want from me? The ban goes on to recommend you line your garbage can with newspaper and wash it out regularly instead, which brings to mind: that sounds pretty unsanitary, who has the space/sink/time to wash out a garbage can, what the fuck kind of environmental activist still reads the news on paper? Paper bags are great, sure, and biodegrade easily, and in a city where it rains 96% of the time, maybe biodegrades even before you reach your
While waiting outside one of those apartments, I go for a walk (it is not the first time my knock has gone unanswered), and find a wallet. I phone the police, unsure of whom else to defer to, since there's not obvious contact info and the license is from Washington. I wait with it for an officer for another half hour, but then call back and explain politely that I need to leave, to finally go look at this apartment, and nobody's been dispatched to pick this thing up. I offer to take it to a mailbox (USPS apparently mails wallets back to owners for free), but the dispatcher recommends against it. I try to explain that the only other option is for me to leave it there, because what the hell am I going to do, take it? Even if I dropped it off at the nearest precinct, that's across the river, and I'm trying to be a good Samaritan, not a civil saint.
Anyway, while touring the apartment, I get a call from an officer who's come to pick it up, and whom I can see out the window and play a sort of "you're getting warmer" game with him from my vantage point while he no doubt scans for a red laser bead and wonders just who the hell this 'grassy knoll' guy on the phone is. He finds it, I hang up, and eventually make it down the block to introduce myself, and evidently give my name and date of birth for his report, though why he didn't ask on the phone, who knows. I sympathize; clearly the PD is busy that day and I'm wasting time with a not-actual-crime, other than that there's no cash in the wallet, for which I am now undoubtedly the number one suspect, and this poor guy has to fill out a report for some citizen from another state who couldn't bother to keep his wallet in his pants.
I head back to the motel to simultaneously dry out and not dry out, as I make my way through the Sierra Nevada Beer Camp. I promise myself to publish my musings on it, as well as the Lessons from the Road which I have learned.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Oregon Trail - Twin Peaks - Part 8 or something
I can't afford a room at the Great Northern, so the North Bend Motel will have to do. It's nice, clean, and though the rates are not published, it costs pretty much what it ought to. The woman in the room next to mine is smoking in her doorway, and behind her I see a bicycle and a harp, and in front of her I see no car in the parking lot, and I am wondering what that story may be, wondering whether she can carry this massive harp on a bicycle, wondering if she smokes cigarettes while riding the bicycle.
I go to the store and get a package of smoked salmon for breakfast and a box of Sierra Nevada Beer Camp beers, because hey, the mission here is to be as gamey as possible.
I wake up to the sound of lovely harp music, and as I pack my car, the harpist comes out and warns me that a little bird she's befriended is hiding under my car, and that I should coax him out before I pull away. By the time I leave, the bird is long gone.
I go to the store and get a package of smoked salmon for breakfast and a box of Sierra Nevada Beer Camp beers, because hey, the mission here is to be as gamey as possible.
I wake up to the sound of lovely harp music, and as I pack my car, the harpist comes out and warns me that a little bird she's befriended is hiding under my car, and that I should coax him out before I pull away. By the time I leave, the bird is long gone.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Oregon Trail - Part Six - Rapid City
First, some words about the Corn Palace.
The Corn Palace, which advertises from the highway that you should 'cornsider' visiting this
one-of-a-kind attraction, is a multipurpose municipal building for Mitchell, SD. Home to concerts,
basketball, vaccinations and more, this would-be tourist draw was more than I expected. Built in
the 20's and renovated through today, the corn is grown in 12 colors by one farmer and must be
replaced annually on the exterior. A mild summer meant a delayed harvest, and the school-aged
workforce is suddenly busy, making repairs slow. The woman giving the tour and manning the guestbook table remarks that she's pleased that the venue is used so much. I'm impressed as well; the structure is both enduring and endearing, adjoined to the town hall, and rather than (as I had assumed) a tacky tourist draw which locals put up with for the economic boost of souvenir sales (which there are, no doubt), it seems to be a rallying point for the community and makes me entertain, for a brief moment, the notion of moving to Mitchell.
I press onwards instead. Rapid City is a fantastic town, with perhaps the best hotel of my stay, for half the price of the most expensive. I go to the Firehouse Brewery for a good burger and some okay beer. On the way back, I see a girl with what looks at first like a stuffed toy fox, then like a taxidermied fox, then finally like a pet fox, with a leash and everything. I keep walking in search of another drink, which after that incident, I tell myself I need, and believe it. The Adoba hotel provides hip, stylish accommodations with extra amenities and custom omelets at breakfast. Other guests marvel at my card-access ninth floor room, while I explain that I am not in fact some VIP, but that they must have run out of normal rooms and had to give me a fancy one on the cheap. In actuality, I suspect there is little difference, but no matter since the room was great and I intend to return there some day.
In Montana, I drive past a small radio tower guarded by, I shit you not, TANKS, one of which has
a giant missile on the back. I do not stop to make a photo or even slow for a better look, lest the
Howitzer atop the second tank perforate myself, my vehicle, and my possessions. A store on the
side of the road has vintage cameras, but no bathroom, so I move on.
I stop in Hardin to get some work done and stay in a cinderblock room that's pretty clean and
makes a decent office. I reflect that any hotel with a policy prohibiting alcohol on premises and a
bottle opener on the bathroom wall is a taunting contradiction. Obesity seems widespread here;
my Philly cheese steak drips with white American cheese that has melted back into its constituent milkfat, canola oil, and polyurethane. I have a steak at a restaurant run by plain-dressed folk, and when I get back to the laundromat where I've left my clothes, a woman is apologizing and putting quarters in the dryer for my clothes; my understanding is that due to the majority of driers being out of order, she had to commandeer the one that contained my clothes, but when she removed them, they were not quite dry. I appreciate the gesture, and being no stranger to communal driers, I sympathize. I stop by the grocery store to see displays of butter, packs of American cheese larger than should be available outside a commercial setting, and other 'red flags' but nothing summed it up as well as this salad, which I promise contained lettuce, probably. Decent beer selection for Montana, but I don't buy any.
I check out the next morning, and the woman at the desk (which I believe is in her living room—it has a suspiciously nice television and I suspect she lives upstairs) remarks that I have a new shirt on; I had explained when she first commented on how well-dressed I was (overdressed, in fact, for the entire town), I explained that I was out of shirts. Anyway, upon her remembering this which I had already forgotten, I explain that I made it to the laundromat after all. And then I leave, because I've got to make it to Spokane before bedtime.
The Corn Palace, which advertises from the highway that you should 'cornsider' visiting this
one-of-a-kind attraction, is a multipurpose municipal building for Mitchell, SD. Home to concerts,
the 20's and renovated through today, the corn is grown in 12 colors by one farmer and must be
replaced annually on the exterior. A mild summer meant a delayed harvest, and the school-aged
workforce is suddenly busy, making repairs slow. The woman giving the tour and manning the guestbook table remarks that she's pleased that the venue is used so much. I'm impressed as well; the structure is both enduring and endearing, adjoined to the town hall, and rather than (as I had assumed) a tacky tourist draw which locals put up with for the economic boost of souvenir sales (which there are, no doubt), it seems to be a rallying point for the community and makes me entertain, for a brief moment, the notion of moving to Mitchell.
I press onwards instead. Rapid City is a fantastic town, with perhaps the best hotel of my stay, for half the price of the most expensive. I go to the Firehouse Brewery for a good burger and some okay beer. On the way back, I see a girl with what looks at first like a stuffed toy fox, then like a taxidermied fox, then finally like a pet fox, with a leash and everything. I keep walking in search of another drink, which after that incident, I tell myself I need, and believe it. The Adoba hotel provides hip, stylish accommodations with extra amenities and custom omelets at breakfast. Other guests marvel at my card-access ninth floor room, while I explain that I am not in fact some VIP, but that they must have run out of normal rooms and had to give me a fancy one on the cheap. In actuality, I suspect there is little difference, but no matter since the room was great and I intend to return there some day.
In Montana, I drive past a small radio tower guarded by, I shit you not, TANKS, one of which has
a giant missile on the back. I do not stop to make a photo or even slow for a better look, lest the
Howitzer atop the second tank perforate myself, my vehicle, and my possessions. A store on the
side of the road has vintage cameras, but no bathroom, so I move on.
I stop in Hardin to get some work done and stay in a cinderblock room that's pretty clean and
makes a decent office. I reflect that any hotel with a policy prohibiting alcohol on premises and a
bottle opener on the bathroom wall is a taunting contradiction. Obesity seems widespread here;
my Philly cheese steak drips with white American cheese that has melted back into its constituent milkfat, canola oil, and polyurethane. I have a steak at a restaurant run by plain-dressed folk, and when I get back to the laundromat where I've left my clothes, a woman is apologizing and putting quarters in the dryer for my clothes; my understanding is that due to the majority of driers being out of order, she had to commandeer the one that contained my clothes, but when she removed them, they were not quite dry. I appreciate the gesture, and being no stranger to communal driers, I sympathize. I stop by the grocery store to see displays of butter, packs of American cheese larger than should be available outside a commercial setting, and other 'red flags' but nothing summed it up as well as this salad, which I promise contained lettuce, probably. Decent beer selection for Montana, but I don't buy any.
I also see this magazine:
I reflect the that thing to "just do" must be "die" because otherwise, I think aging is inevitable.
I check out the next morning, and the woman at the desk (which I believe is in her living room—it has a suspiciously nice television and I suspect she lives upstairs) remarks that I have a new shirt on; I had explained when she first commented on how well-dressed I was (overdressed, in fact, for the entire town), I explained that I was out of shirts. Anyway, upon her remembering this which I had already forgotten, I explain that I made it to the laundromat after all. And then I leave, because I've got to make it to Spokane before bedtime.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Oregon Trail - Part Seven
I roll into Devils Tower and make some photos. Perfect timing lands me there at golden hour; blame the wasted time in Deadwood. I brag about this to a friend of mine; "Go fuck yourself," he says. I reply that this is what everyone here has been telling me as I distractedly try and swat the flies off of my elk/bison burger (it's gamey) and indeed, away from my water. I wonder what the flies like about the water. I know they like me on account of I'm full of shit. Anyway, Deadwood is mostly a attraction which has been entirely rebuilt, because essentially every building in Deadwood has burned down at least once. Much like the RV trailer I pass on the side of the road. The cops are there and it looks like everyone's okay, but I don't stick around. I see a guy who looks just like Wild Bill Hickock, and I can't decide whether he's a costume character, or just a character. Halloween, I reflect, is just around the corner. As is Wyoming, so I beat feet.
I book a room at the Hulett Motel in a town of under 400 people, many of whom seem to work in establishments to serve the Devils Tower tourism industry. Things in the town are expensive as a rule, perhaps due to higher cost of bringing them in to the remote location, but the motel is very reasonably priced and discounted on account of it being nearly empty.
I crack my Three Floyds/Mikkeller Majsgoop (y'know, 'majs' like corn). It smells hoppy in a gnarly way, and taste kinda follows. Not at all like corn, mostly just a big American barleywine.Hoppy, but not completely unmanageable. Maybe I needed to save this for a couple years. I don't even save it for a day, and toss the last couple sips rather than exacerbate the next morning's headache.
I shake that headache with some food from the café next door and steep some tea. I take it to go and head back to Devils Tower. I pass on some overpriced sunscreen and regret it, paying more for less at the profiteer establishments outside the park. It occurs to me that this is a more sensible business model, making more money from fewer purchases, than the hotel's policy of discounting during low demand, but I'm thankful for it. The Motel is nice, the clerk at the front desk had a long conversation with me about life, photography, and my fake northern accent, and it's the first place I've stayed in for two nights in a row. I make sure to make positive mention of the place, because I have told her about this blog.
Anyway, I buy the hotel and just as I get to the ranger station, the ranger is explaining how there's going to be a solar eclipse today. Go figure, on the day I pay too much for sunscreen. I should've bargained, but the clerk had a radio voice that can outmatch mine any day so it might've been in vain.
I get back and have dinner and a New Glarus Pie Lust. I have to read the label before I realize what has struck me about the beer; it's a wheat beer. And to be honest, it doesn't taste much like pumpkin or pie spice at all. But then, Apple Jacks don't taste like apple. Smells spicy though,
I book a room at the Hulett Motel in a town of under 400 people, many of whom seem to work in establishments to serve the Devils Tower tourism industry. Things in the town are expensive as a rule, perhaps due to higher cost of bringing them in to the remote location, but the motel is very reasonably priced and discounted on account of it being nearly empty.
I crack my Three Floyds/Mikkeller Majsgoop (y'know, 'majs' like corn). It smells hoppy in a gnarly way, and taste kinda follows. Not at all like corn, mostly just a big American barleywine.Hoppy, but not completely unmanageable. Maybe I needed to save this for a couple years. I don't even save it for a day, and toss the last couple sips rather than exacerbate the next morning's headache.
I shake that headache with some food from the café next door and steep some tea. I take it to go and head back to Devils Tower. I pass on some overpriced sunscreen and regret it, paying more for less at the profiteer establishments outside the park. It occurs to me that this is a more sensible business model, making more money from fewer purchases, than the hotel's policy of discounting during low demand, but I'm thankful for it. The Motel is nice, the clerk at the front desk had a long conversation with me about life, photography, and my fake northern accent, and it's the first place I've stayed in for two nights in a row. I make sure to make positive mention of the place, because I have told her about this blog.
Anyway, I buy the hotel and just as I get to the ranger station, the ranger is explaining how there's going to be a solar eclipse today. Go figure, on the day I pay too much for sunscreen. I should've bargained, but the clerk had a radio voice that can outmatch mine any day so it might've been in vain.
I get back and have dinner and a New Glarus Pie Lust. I have to read the label before I realize what has struck me about the beer; it's a wheat beer. And to be honest, it doesn't taste much like pumpkin or pie spice at all. But then, Apple Jacks don't taste like apple. Smells spicy though,
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Oregon Trail - Part Five - Out on the Edge of the Prairie
Visiting the Mall of America was perhaps an ill-advised idea. The best reason I had was a Star Trek exhibition, which was under-lit, and expensive for what it was. The Minnesota Public Radio store (I looked) was years since closed. The two places claiming to serve tea (and I'm not even counting Teavana on that list), on further inspection, do not. Even the Star Trek exhibition is an overpriced disappointment.
I just miss the shuttle back to the hotel, so I walk it; it's less than a mile. I nearly step on what looks to be a used condom. I shuffle my feet in the grass as I pass by a LabCorp building, wondering if they could test my shoes for AIDS.
I make it to another tea place. It's maybe not exactly what I would've envisioned, but it's pretty close. I steep and set up camp to get some work in. My tea leaves are enormous and taste faintly of salmon. Someone comes in hopping on one foot, and keeps it up for the entire transaction. Evidently she is supposed to be wearing a cast but lacks the patience for donning and removing it. The staff insist on helping her exit, or at least carrying her hot tea. Whether someone could carry hot tea without spilling it while hopping will remain a mystery. I step next door to AAA for an emergency (paper) map and order some more tea. The selection really was remarkable, and it was a redeeming end to my misadventures in Minnesota.
I burn rubber down state roads, cutting a diagonal slice and trying to make up time for my detour. I drive like I'm on the run from the law, having killed my Past Self and left him in a ditch by the side of the road, wondering if they'll make the connection between my face and the one on the slab at the morgue—the insanity in my eyes and the glaze on his. If there's any advice I can give; don't be beholden to the person you were yesterday. Sure, you may owe where you are now, for better or for worse, to them, but that's no reason to carry their torch.
Sometimes you've got to use the torch to burn a bridge under your ass. Though in a place as fart-smelling as this state, I'd be careful lighting anything on fire. Even once I'm out of the sulfurous state, South Dakota smells like skunks, which I reflect is not much of an improvement.
The jackass behind me seems adamant on illuminating my back bumper—I can see no other clear reason for his gratuitous use of high-beams unless to daze me in preparation for him to pass me, which he mercifully does.
I decide to skip out on the Kool-Aid of the fancy hotel chain and go for a Days Inn to salve my budget. The hotel room is cheap but clean, in spite of its appearance. The only actual dirty thing in the room is booklet of menus and the porno DVD in the front cover. Fastest wi-fi on the trip so far which bodes well because it is going to be a long night. But first I need food. Somehow I've gotten hungry again, and I see within walking distance: an IHOP, a 24-hour family restaurant, and a dive bar/casino. If you have to ask which one I chose, you need to start reading this blog from the beginning, friend.
When I get in, the kitchen is closing, so I'm told my only options are fried foods or a pizza. This doesn't bother me as much as I wish it would. I get some fried mushrooms and they are actually darn good. Casinos are terrible, at least in concept; this one appears populated by multi-game video gambling machines from the Atari era. The staff are diligently cleaning and dusting everything despite the dim lighting, including the Captain Morgan statue.
I go back to my room and drink my New Glarus Spotted Cow and try to get some work done. The beer is a normal brown ale, and good, the same way a Lammsbräu is.
I think back about the casino staff then as people instead of concepts, and wonder whether they are doing what they really want to be doing; wonder what their dreams were when they were young. What they may be now. Wondering whether when they articulate these dreams, do they preface with, "when I grow up," do they consider themselves grown-up already?
Do I?
I just miss the shuttle back to the hotel, so I walk it; it's less than a mile. I nearly step on what looks to be a used condom. I shuffle my feet in the grass as I pass by a LabCorp building, wondering if they could test my shoes for AIDS.
I make it to another tea place. It's maybe not exactly what I would've envisioned, but it's pretty close. I steep and set up camp to get some work in. My tea leaves are enormous and taste faintly of salmon. Someone comes in hopping on one foot, and keeps it up for the entire transaction. Evidently she is supposed to be wearing a cast but lacks the patience for donning and removing it. The staff insist on helping her exit, or at least carrying her hot tea. Whether someone could carry hot tea without spilling it while hopping will remain a mystery. I step next door to AAA for an emergency (paper) map and order some more tea. The selection really was remarkable, and it was a redeeming end to my misadventures in Minnesota.
I burn rubber down state roads, cutting a diagonal slice and trying to make up time for my detour. I drive like I'm on the run from the law, having killed my Past Self and left him in a ditch by the side of the road, wondering if they'll make the connection between my face and the one on the slab at the morgue—the insanity in my eyes and the glaze on his. If there's any advice I can give; don't be beholden to the person you were yesterday. Sure, you may owe where you are now, for better or for worse, to them, but that's no reason to carry their torch.
Sometimes you've got to use the torch to burn a bridge under your ass. Though in a place as fart-smelling as this state, I'd be careful lighting anything on fire. Even once I'm out of the sulfurous state, South Dakota smells like skunks, which I reflect is not much of an improvement.
The jackass behind me seems adamant on illuminating my back bumper—I can see no other clear reason for his gratuitous use of high-beams unless to daze me in preparation for him to pass me, which he mercifully does.
I decide to skip out on the Kool-Aid of the fancy hotel chain and go for a Days Inn to salve my budget. The hotel room is cheap but clean, in spite of its appearance. The only actual dirty thing in the room is booklet of menus and the porno DVD in the front cover. Fastest wi-fi on the trip so far which bodes well because it is going to be a long night. But first I need food. Somehow I've gotten hungry again, and I see within walking distance: an IHOP, a 24-hour family restaurant, and a dive bar/casino. If you have to ask which one I chose, you need to start reading this blog from the beginning, friend.
When I get in, the kitchen is closing, so I'm told my only options are fried foods or a pizza. This doesn't bother me as much as I wish it would. I get some fried mushrooms and they are actually darn good. Casinos are terrible, at least in concept; this one appears populated by multi-game video gambling machines from the Atari era. The staff are diligently cleaning and dusting everything despite the dim lighting, including the Captain Morgan statue.
I go back to my room and drink my New Glarus Spotted Cow and try to get some work done. The beer is a normal brown ale, and good, the same way a Lammsbräu is.
I think back about the casino staff then as people instead of concepts, and wonder whether they are doing what they really want to be doing; wonder what their dreams were when they were young. What they may be now. Wondering whether when they articulate these dreams, do they preface with, "when I grow up," do they consider themselves grown-up already?
Do I?
Monday, October 20, 2014
Oregon Trail - High Divide Double Blonde
Big estery nose like peaches and cream. I used an Aventinus glass because, strangely enough, it was the one that was handy. Shows off a lovely gradient of amber to gold and a thick, persistent head.
One sip of this and I'm a believer. Pete wasn't yanking my chain at all. This is a singularly great beer. What the hell does 'double blond' mean anyway? It was only Pete's note and the crazy wax dipping that made me take note. It's brewed with "honey malt, fresh Wenatchee peaches and cherries, then aged in white wine barrels for four months." And that sounds kinda like a crapshoot—a high-risk, high-yield operation for sure since cherry is a notoriously difficult flavor and peach is hardly ever even attempted.
So the flavor is mostly peach. Cherry is there if you look, subtle, but it works together, I promise. The wine barreling ties it all together with a nice little off-dry bow on top. Dangerously drinkable, dangerously interesting; each sip demands another and in spite of the relatively high alcohol content (and relatively high price), I could drink this all night.
And given that I'm alone in this here hotel room, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do.
One sip of this and I'm a believer. Pete wasn't yanking my chain at all. This is a singularly great beer. What the hell does 'double blond' mean anyway? It was only Pete's note and the crazy wax dipping that made me take note. It's brewed with "honey malt, fresh Wenatchee peaches and cherries, then aged in white wine barrels for four months." And that sounds kinda like a crapshoot—a high-risk, high-yield operation for sure since cherry is a notoriously difficult flavor and peach is hardly ever even attempted.
So the flavor is mostly peach. Cherry is there if you look, subtle, but it works together, I promise. The wine barreling ties it all together with a nice little off-dry bow on top. Dangerously drinkable, dangerously interesting; each sip demands another and in spite of the relatively high alcohol content (and relatively high price), I could drink this all night.
And given that I'm alone in this here hotel room, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Oregon Trail Part 4 - Slow Tea from China
I suppose everything is running late today. I stop by a grocery store and break an unspoken rule of mine (buying a west coast beer on my way there) because it came highly recommended.
I try and book it to Minneapolis/St Paul but don't make it before closing time of the first of two tea stores I wanted to visit. I head to the second. I am trying to become a more patient person. The wait on my tea is Kafka-esque. Or like something out of Sartre. I would know better if I were more well-read, but in the time it has taken, I could've read a short story by each. The tea evidently required no preparation, as I make it myself, so they must have the slowest hot water kettle in the world.
I place my food order and I fear it has been lost entirely. I book a hotel room, realizing that I may be here a while. I think everyone else is more upset than I am. I should've left, but I order more tea instead. I am told that the happy hour pricing is no longer valid because it is no longer happy hour. I reflect that I have been here for over an hour, and I am not happy. Further, I reflect that I placed my food order during happy hour and would not be ordering this at all if I had received my food within the hour.
In for a penny, in for a pound. If everyone leaves in disgust, there's no way the kitchen can stay backed up.
The tea I get was all right, but it's gone now. As is my water, which came in a tiny cup because they were out of big ones. I splashed it on myself because it got cold at my outside seat. I may go refill it in the bathroom, for which there is mercifully no line.
I reflect that I could've driven to a grocery store, bought ingredients and Sterno cans, unpacked my cookware, and cooked for myself in the parking lot in less time than this has taken. Forget the Slow Food movement!
Unfortunately, most of their to-go selection is not in until Tuesday. I reflect that my food may not arrive until Tuesday, given that it's been over an hour since I ordered already.
I am told that this tea operation is mostly an online retail presence. By comparison, this restaurant aspect would be a 28.8k dial-up connection over long distance where someone keeps picking up the extension in the next room. And once it loads, it's an animated "Under Construction" GIF.
Five points out of five for concept and looking great on paper. Negative seven points for execution. I leave after waiting 2.5 hours. Not quite enough to watch a Peter Jackson movie (at least not a director's cut), but close.
On an unrelated note, I discovered an entire town in Minnesota which smells like poop. I wonder if inhabitants get used to it, do they eventually believe their shit doesn't stink? Is there any market for bathroom fans? Could they install pine-tree-shaped cardboard air fresheners the size of actual pine trees? I didn't stick around long enough to ask.
I try and book it to Minneapolis/St Paul but don't make it before closing time of the first of two tea stores I wanted to visit. I head to the second. I am trying to become a more patient person. The wait on my tea is Kafka-esque. Or like something out of Sartre. I would know better if I were more well-read, but in the time it has taken, I could've read a short story by each. The tea evidently required no preparation, as I make it myself, so they must have the slowest hot water kettle in the world.
I place my food order and I fear it has been lost entirely. I book a hotel room, realizing that I may be here a while. I think everyone else is more upset than I am. I should've left, but I order more tea instead. I am told that the happy hour pricing is no longer valid because it is no longer happy hour. I reflect that I have been here for over an hour, and I am not happy. Further, I reflect that I placed my food order during happy hour and would not be ordering this at all if I had received my food within the hour.
In for a penny, in for a pound. If everyone leaves in disgust, there's no way the kitchen can stay backed up.
The tea I get was all right, but it's gone now. As is my water, which came in a tiny cup because they were out of big ones. I splashed it on myself because it got cold at my outside seat. I may go refill it in the bathroom, for which there is mercifully no line.
I reflect that I could've driven to a grocery store, bought ingredients and Sterno cans, unpacked my cookware, and cooked for myself in the parking lot in less time than this has taken. Forget the Slow Food movement!
Unfortunately, most of their to-go selection is not in until Tuesday. I reflect that my food may not arrive until Tuesday, given that it's been over an hour since I ordered already.
I am told that this tea operation is mostly an online retail presence. By comparison, this restaurant aspect would be a 28.8k dial-up connection over long distance where someone keeps picking up the extension in the next room. And once it loads, it's an animated "Under Construction" GIF.
Five points out of five for concept and looking great on paper. Negative seven points for execution. I leave after waiting 2.5 hours. Not quite enough to watch a Peter Jackson movie (at least not a director's cut), but close.
On an unrelated note, I discovered an entire town in Minnesota which smells like poop. I wonder if inhabitants get used to it, do they eventually believe their shit doesn't stink? Is there any market for bathroom fans? Could they install pine-tree-shaped cardboard air fresheners the size of actual pine trees? I didn't stick around long enough to ask.
Simple Malt - Fumée
It smells like it's been in the oven a long time. Like bitter cocoa and smoldery charcoal. To taste it... dang. I honestly thought I'd tried this one before, and that it was just okay. It's good... really good, and in a powerful way. On the caliber of Alaskan Smoked Porter and Weyerbacher Fifteen (regrettably no longer in production, and currently a bit past its prime).
It's a malt bomb with serious roasty bite. It's smoky like jerky, not like barbecue. That's the best way I can think of to describe it. Getting warmer, it turns into charred anise, but if you can deal with big beer, driving to Canada, and a lot of smoke, I recommend this.
It's a malt bomb with serious roasty bite. It's smoky like jerky, not like barbecue. That's the best way I can think of to describe it. Getting warmer, it turns into charred anise, but if you can deal with big beer, driving to Canada, and a lot of smoke, I recommend this.
Les Fréres Houblon - Coureur de Bois
Bought this one on a whim at a store in Montréal. I knew the brewery translated to "The Hops Brothers" , but I wasn't sure what Coureur meant (something about a heart?), but I knew that 'bois' meant wood and if I could get beer and wood at the same time, so much the better. Said it was double-fermented; which I'm wondering whether refers to barrel fermentation or bottle fermentation.
Smells thick and sweet, like a concentrated amber. Nice big head. It doesn't taste syrupy though, which is nice, and it's pretty balanced. There's a small off-hint of metal, but otherwise it's pretty well balanced and nice. Not giant wood flavor, but it's there. I notice that 500mL bottles in Canada are cheap thrills—not marked up as in America (consider price per volume—you often pay extra for a larger format, but they are easier for breweries to package). I wonder if this is for tax reasons, and what other shenanigans The Man has been up to as regards my beer. Also that Unibroue is everywhere and seriously cheap, especially considering how good it is.
According to Wikipedia, seems as though a coureur de bois was a woodsman/trader from early French Canada. So maybe a courier of the woods. According to the brewery website, it is a strong beer, supposed to age well, and the Belgian-style double fermentation gives it a rich amber color. The residual sugar should release aromas of some kinda malt and fruits. Not bad for somebody who has never actually studied French, eh? But beer is a universal language. No mention of whether wood is actually involved in the making of it, nor clarification as to what double fermentation could refer to (though I am almost positive it refers to bottle refermentation). I was hoping for a Canadian take on DBA, but oh well.
Smells thick and sweet, like a concentrated amber. Nice big head. It doesn't taste syrupy though, which is nice, and it's pretty balanced. There's a small off-hint of metal, but otherwise it's pretty well balanced and nice. Not giant wood flavor, but it's there. I notice that 500mL bottles in Canada are cheap thrills—not marked up as in America (consider price per volume—you often pay extra for a larger format, but they are easier for breweries to package). I wonder if this is for tax reasons, and what other shenanigans The Man has been up to as regards my beer. Also that Unibroue is everywhere and seriously cheap, especially considering how good it is.
According to Wikipedia, seems as though a coureur de bois was a woodsman/trader from early French Canada. So maybe a courier of the woods. According to the brewery website, it is a strong beer, supposed to age well, and the Belgian-style double fermentation gives it a rich amber color. The residual sugar should release aromas of some kinda malt and fruits. Not bad for somebody who has never actually studied French, eh? But beer is a universal language. No mention of whether wood is actually involved in the making of it, nor clarification as to what double fermentation could refer to (though I am almost positive it refers to bottle refermentation). I was hoping for a Canadian take on DBA, but oh well.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Oregon Trail - Part 3 - Chicago to New Glarus
Through the drizzle I drove from Munster to Chicago to visit an exceptionally gamey looking tea store. It turned out to be a wholesaler, and the man who answered the buzzer was busy with deliveries, but gave me a very nice looking sample to console me for having driven 800 miles to get there and to hasten my departure hence.
I met with some friends for lunch, which was the first meal that was so large I was unable to finish it. This meant a late start to New Glarus—late enough that I wouldn't make it before the brewery closed for the day. I got only the view of it from the highway.
New Glarus is a tiny Swiss theme park, an example of small town charm in full blumen. Two motels are sold out, and the third place has only four rooms. Three are booked, and I'm told the fourth is "really crappy and $100." The Mäd'l at the door insists on showing it, and I pass, upon seeing mysterious stains under the mattress.
I console myself by buying some New Glarus beers at Roy's Market, which has a great selection and probably the best prices you are going to see. I don't like to talk about the price of beers, partly because it's rather political, and partly because beer really only costs what I am willing to pay (which has a tendency to be "fuckin' much"), so I suppose out of potential embarrassment to myself. But big NG bottles there run about $9 if memory serves. Fantastic price for what should rightfully be much more expensive beers (large amounts of fresh fruit needed to brew, world-renowned quality, difficult sour fermentation).
I book it north after that, noting that Prairie Home Companion is over at 7pm in its native time zone. I have difficulty finding a hotel, or indeed, roads that go to places I might want to go, but I luck out and see a sign from a road for that hotel chain I'm trying to earn loyalty points at. More on that, as well as its merit as an idea, at a later date.
I have dinner with a civil engineer, in town for a lecture at the local university, who answers a couple questions I had about pavement (which looks different near Madison, WI). Roads paved in concrete are tougher and require less maintenance, but are more susceptible to corrosion from salt and are more costly to repair, and take longer to set in the first place. Asphalt is more prone to freeze-that cracking and is quieter; in fact, prototype pavement made of recycled tires is in testing for noise reduction. We muse on zoning laws in rich neighborhoods mandating slow speed limits so the rich can enjoy silence, which really cannot be bought by the poor in any event. He also recommends Screwjack, by Hunter S, when I reveal the nature of my blog.
Capital Oktoberfest is recommended by the bartender, who pours me a taste before I could ask for a Spotted Cow. I can't resist. Sweet smelling and malty with a taste to match, but not overwhelming, nutty with maybe some caramel. Really a fantastic exemplar of what an Oktoberfest should be.
And I learned something important that day. Not every great beer is made with local kumquats and cardamom. Or Randallized through reishi mushrooms. Or 11% ABV. Making a 'normal' beer great is hard. Any flaws stand out. Recipe, technique, and discipline become paramount.
That said, I have no qualms about cracking a New Glarus Strawberry Rubharb back in the hotel room. Mercifully, it's only 4% ABV, so it will not destroy me. It smells exactly like jam. Tastes like strawberry soda cut with rubharb, so it's not too sweet. What can I say, they 'get' fruit in a way that few others do, and they've made a name for themselves with it. Faint vinegar tartness... not in a bad way, either. This could be reduced into an excellent salad dressing. Or expanded into pie filling. I expand into pie filling, if the hotel bed were a pie. I reflect that I had mentioned being in Titus Andronicus to those friends from Paragraph Two.
I met with some friends for lunch, which was the first meal that was so large I was unable to finish it. This meant a late start to New Glarus—late enough that I wouldn't make it before the brewery closed for the day. I got only the view of it from the highway.
New Glarus is a tiny Swiss theme park, an example of small town charm in full blumen. Two motels are sold out, and the third place has only four rooms. Three are booked, and I'm told the fourth is "really crappy and $100." The Mäd'l at the door insists on showing it, and I pass, upon seeing mysterious stains under the mattress.
I console myself by buying some New Glarus beers at Roy's Market, which has a great selection and probably the best prices you are going to see. I don't like to talk about the price of beers, partly because it's rather political, and partly because beer really only costs what I am willing to pay (which has a tendency to be "fuckin' much"), so I suppose out of potential embarrassment to myself. But big NG bottles there run about $9 if memory serves. Fantastic price for what should rightfully be much more expensive beers (large amounts of fresh fruit needed to brew, world-renowned quality, difficult sour fermentation).
I book it north after that, noting that Prairie Home Companion is over at 7pm in its native time zone. I have difficulty finding a hotel, or indeed, roads that go to places I might want to go, but I luck out and see a sign from a road for that hotel chain I'm trying to earn loyalty points at. More on that, as well as its merit as an idea, at a later date.
I have dinner with a civil engineer, in town for a lecture at the local university, who answers a couple questions I had about pavement (which looks different near Madison, WI). Roads paved in concrete are tougher and require less maintenance, but are more susceptible to corrosion from salt and are more costly to repair, and take longer to set in the first place. Asphalt is more prone to freeze-that cracking and is quieter; in fact, prototype pavement made of recycled tires is in testing for noise reduction. We muse on zoning laws in rich neighborhoods mandating slow speed limits so the rich can enjoy silence, which really cannot be bought by the poor in any event. He also recommends Screwjack, by Hunter S, when I reveal the nature of my blog.
Capital Oktoberfest is recommended by the bartender, who pours me a taste before I could ask for a Spotted Cow. I can't resist. Sweet smelling and malty with a taste to match, but not overwhelming, nutty with maybe some caramel. Really a fantastic exemplar of what an Oktoberfest should be.
And I learned something important that day. Not every great beer is made with local kumquats and cardamom. Or Randallized through reishi mushrooms. Or 11% ABV. Making a 'normal' beer great is hard. Any flaws stand out. Recipe, technique, and discipline become paramount.
That said, I have no qualms about cracking a New Glarus Strawberry Rubharb back in the hotel room. Mercifully, it's only 4% ABV, so it will not destroy me. It smells exactly like jam. Tastes like strawberry soda cut with rubharb, so it's not too sweet. What can I say, they 'get' fruit in a way that few others do, and they've made a name for themselves with it. Faint vinegar tartness... not in a bad way, either. This could be reduced into an excellent salad dressing. Or expanded into pie filling. I expand into pie filling, if the hotel bed were a pie. I reflect that I had mentioned being in Titus Andronicus to those friends from Paragraph Two.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Oregon Trail - Part 2 - Jackie O's
A speeding ticket may have left a bad taste in my mouth (a loaded-down vehicle, out-of-state plates, and a story about moving cross-country make for an easy target), but the beer at Jackie O's did not disappoint!
The Barking Pumpkin tastes subtly like gourd, I guess (it is made with real pumpkin, as opposed to many other pumpkin beers, since it is not a strong flavor), which smelled kind of like meat for some reason. The bartender mercifully re-pours it after I ask for the wrong glass. It's kinda boozy, but manageable.
Dark Apparition is big and malty, but balanced. Very much in the same vein as Plead the Fifth, if you've had that. Slightly chocolatey with beautiful lacing on the glass. You would have to really strain to find fault with this one. They're out of the Bourbon Barrel version, and I don't end up having the time to seek out their main brew facility the next day, but I do buy a bottle of their Bourbon Barrel Batch 1000. More on that at a later date.
I wander around and discover an indie film festival and Oil of Aphrodite at their bar next door. It's made with black walnut (prized for superior flavor) and I learn from the bartender that the trees are native to this region. It's delicious, unctuous, thick and malty, but with rich walnut instead of the chocolate of Dark Apparition. The bartender is extremely helpful and texts local store owners in an effort to help me track down their bottled beers, leading me next door where I buy a bottle of Rum Barrel Aged Oil of Aphrodite, which he promises me is even better.
The Barking Pumpkin tastes subtly like gourd, I guess (it is made with real pumpkin, as opposed to many other pumpkin beers, since it is not a strong flavor), which smelled kind of like meat for some reason. The bartender mercifully re-pours it after I ask for the wrong glass. It's kinda boozy, but manageable.
Dark Apparition is big and malty, but balanced. Very much in the same vein as Plead the Fifth, if you've had that. Slightly chocolatey with beautiful lacing on the glass. You would have to really strain to find fault with this one. They're out of the Bourbon Barrel version, and I don't end up having the time to seek out their main brew facility the next day, but I do buy a bottle of their Bourbon Barrel Batch 1000. More on that at a later date.
I wander around and discover an indie film festival and Oil of Aphrodite at their bar next door. It's made with black walnut (prized for superior flavor) and I learn from the bartender that the trees are native to this region. It's delicious, unctuous, thick and malty, but with rich walnut instead of the chocolate of Dark Apparition. The bartender is extremely helpful and texts local store owners in an effort to help me track down their bottled beers, leading me next door where I buy a bottle of Rum Barrel Aged Oil of Aphrodite, which he promises me is even better.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Oregon Trail - Part 1 - Begins With a Single Step
The short version. I put everything I owned into a beat-up 2002 Toyota Camry and started driving across the country with no itinerary, determined to be a road warrior and make the country my office. There were places I wanted to go, but no schedule to keep beyond handling work as it came in and getting to a reasonable stopping place before it got too late. For reference, I've been working 3-5 hours a day, driving 3-5 hours a day, sleeping 6-8 hours a day, and the rest of the time... who even knows.
My second day on the road cross-country, and I haven't even made it out of Charlottesville, VA. It was a late start, and I ended up working at a service station during a tire rotation and an oil change, then at a private-sector student union/gym/tanning salon, and then the next day while kneeling on a tatami mat at a friend's house, and then at a different friend's house. Full of variety if not efficiency.
I stopped on the road at Edelweiss, a German restaurant where I ordered a salad and potato dumplings and felt bad for keeping them open late. The decor was interesting, but the high prices made me wonder if gratuity was included (as it is in most actual German restaurants).
My second day on the road cross-country, and I haven't even made it out of Charlottesville, VA. It was a late start, and I ended up working at a service station during a tire rotation and an oil change, then at a private-sector student union/gym/tanning salon, and then the next day while kneeling on a tatami mat at a friend's house, and then at a different friend's house. Full of variety if not efficiency.
I stopped on the road at Edelweiss, a German restaurant where I ordered a salad and potato dumplings and felt bad for keeping them open late. The decor was interesting, but the high prices made me wonder if gratuity was included (as it is in most actual German restaurants).
Friday, July 25, 2014
Meet the New Belgium (not) the Same as the Old Belgium
Looking back, the Lips of Faith bottles were big culprits in my obsessive beer bottle collection. Of course I blame my friend (who started soaking off labels not long before I) and my obsessive nature, but this photo endeavor was the result of the accumulation of bottles which were too rare, or the labels too fragile, or in most cases, such as with New Belgium, printed labels.
I have a special affinity for printed bottles. I would say they speak to me, but if they do, I know it's time to put it down. They showcase a pure sort of design, limited to shapes, text and lines above a certain thickness and a set number of colors, but not limited by the generally rectangular shape of labels, they do look great on a shelf. Perhaps not my shelf, given the difficulty of photographing transparent subjects and the tendency of such setups to showcase the amount of dust that resisted my efforts to remove, microfiber cloth or no.
New Belgium's Lips of Faith somehow maintains a sort of visual cohesion over the years, spanning many different design themes, some literal, some abstract, and flavors.
I have a special affinity for printed bottles. I would say they speak to me, but if they do, I know it's time to put it down. They showcase a pure sort of design, limited to shapes, text and lines above a certain thickness and a set number of colors, but not limited by the generally rectangular shape of labels, they do look great on a shelf. Perhaps not my shelf, given the difficulty of photographing transparent subjects and the tendency of such setups to showcase the amount of dust that resisted my efforts to remove, microfiber cloth or no.
New Belgium's Lips of Faith somehow maintains a sort of visual cohesion over the years, spanning many different design themes, some literal, some abstract, and flavors.
Most of these came out around when New Belgium first entered my market; I remember Clutch being a dark sour when such things were new to me, Biere de Mars as being similar to Sam Adams Summer (which if you know me, is among the highest of praise I can give), and Tart Lychee being outstanding as a light-bodied sour on both occasions I happened to drink it.
Or was it the one with the rooster on it that was like Sam Adams Summer? De Gardes and de Mars and crisp malty saisons sort of run together for me. Cocoa Molé was great as well; if you're looking for a substitute, I recommend El Molé Ocho from New Holland, which is around the same price point and comes out seasonally.
What the hell is a yuzu? This was the question on everyone's lips, but once that beer passed between those lips (of faith?), all doubts were cast aside. Fantastically light and tart. The coconut curry was a singular experience.... I promise it worked. The pluot probably tasted like pluots, but I didn't care for it or the Paardebloem. The Cigar City Collaboration I don't really recall.
La Folie is New Belgium's perennial Grand Cru of Oud Bruins (dark Flemish sours). I think I liked the 2014 the best, but I didn't end up getting a bottle. The tripel was quite tangy (unexpected, but delightful), and I recall the quad being delicious, especially for the price.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Beer and Loathing in Vermont - Part 9
I watch a butterfly in the front window of a gallery. I wonder if it knows it's just an impression. The sentiment, but not the substance.
The second teashop of the trip to interdict cellphone use is Dobra, and I wonder if I'll ever get a chance to look up how to get this inkstain out of my pants (Editor's note: the internet's best suggestion is "scissors". I end up dying the pants navy blue, they come out lavender without hiding the stain, and I eventually donate them to charity.)
No info so far about how to fix my pen either, though it still seems to write. Mightier than the sword, but not the floor of the Mule Bar in Winooski.
I order a gaiwan of Jin Xuan (milk oolong, which does not contain any milk). It smells great and tastes good too, and as promised, it has a slightly different texture. I switch to a Zhao Li Qiao. If you keep it pretty light, under a minute or gongfu, it has a lovely complexity while avoiding mustiness. Woody with some clay, hints of brown sugar, and subtle earthiness.
Outside, a young woman walks past with brightly-dyed hair and a dirndl, which I find interesting to see incorporated into modern street fashion. I see her again at the Vermont Brewers Festival later that evening.
I'm taxing my tolerance as I hit the pu'erh again. I wonder if the floor is uneven or just the tea. I may need some food soon. I hear about a Dunham beer which is a smoked helles with pu'erh, which sounds like my favorite beer of all time, and that I have missed it as it had sold out the night before. Pity.
The second teashop of the trip to interdict cellphone use is Dobra, and I wonder if I'll ever get a chance to look up how to get this inkstain out of my pants (Editor's note: the internet's best suggestion is "scissors". I end up dying the pants navy blue, they come out lavender without hiding the stain, and I eventually donate them to charity.)
No info so far about how to fix my pen either, though it still seems to write. Mightier than the sword, but not the floor of the Mule Bar in Winooski.
I order a gaiwan of Jin Xuan (milk oolong, which does not contain any milk). It smells great and tastes good too, and as promised, it has a slightly different texture. I switch to a Zhao Li Qiao. If you keep it pretty light, under a minute or gongfu, it has a lovely complexity while avoiding mustiness. Woody with some clay, hints of brown sugar, and subtle earthiness.
Outside, a young woman walks past with brightly-dyed hair and a dirndl, which I find interesting to see incorporated into modern street fashion. I see her again at the Vermont Brewers Festival later that evening.
I'm taxing my tolerance as I hit the pu'erh again. I wonder if the floor is uneven or just the tea. I may need some food soon. I hear about a Dunham beer which is a smoked helles with pu'erh, which sounds like my favorite beer of all time, and that I have missed it as it had sold out the night before. Pity.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Beer and Loathing in Vermont - Part 8
Alexander Keith's IPA
Free at the hotel reception.
Smells vaguely like corn, like a macro beer. Tastes kinda floral. Quite effervescent and refreshing if otherwise unremarkable. For the price, it's not like I as going to ask for a refund.
I wander in the 'underground city' late at night when everything's closed only to discover that it's an overgrown train station that adjoins a shopping mall and we leave Montréal the next morning.
The ice cream factory we tour filled with overcaffeinated children and the noise drives the sanity from my head. The tour wasn't my idea, but I can only drink so many beers in a day (despite my immortal reputation), and I'm too sleepy from lunch to resist.
Lunch, by the way, was a burger whose patty was literally 50% bacon. Which, I suppose, puts the 'ham' in 'hamburger'. It made me feel simultaneously as though I were truly living and truly dying.
At dinner, I nose out some Heady Topper, which I drink straight from the can (the preferred way). It's big and hoppy, but "so drinkable it's scary." Kinda citra-y. Exactly the kind of beer I'd normally avoid, but it's just too good to ignore. Like a big, balanced hop salad, but it makes my head hurt.
I get a Hill Farmstead George at the Mule Bar across the river. It's a dry porter with some backing chocolate and maybe some walnut or hazelnut; nutty chicory as it warms.
I also got a Brown's Whiskey Porter, which is mellow and smooth with something I can't read because this was about the time when I dropped my pen on the floor of the bar, leaving my mark, so to speak, in chemically indelible ink, and bending the nib.
Free at the hotel reception.
Smells vaguely like corn, like a macro beer. Tastes kinda floral. Quite effervescent and refreshing if otherwise unremarkable. For the price, it's not like I as going to ask for a refund.
I wander in the 'underground city' late at night when everything's closed only to discover that it's an overgrown train station that adjoins a shopping mall and we leave Montréal the next morning.
The ice cream factory we tour filled with overcaffeinated children and the noise drives the sanity from my head. The tour wasn't my idea, but I can only drink so many beers in a day (despite my immortal reputation), and I'm too sleepy from lunch to resist.
Lunch, by the way, was a burger whose patty was literally 50% bacon. Which, I suppose, puts the 'ham' in 'hamburger'. It made me feel simultaneously as though I were truly living and truly dying.
At dinner, I nose out some Heady Topper, which I drink straight from the can (the preferred way). It's big and hoppy, but "so drinkable it's scary." Kinda citra-y. Exactly the kind of beer I'd normally avoid, but it's just too good to ignore. Like a big, balanced hop salad, but it makes my head hurt.
I get a Hill Farmstead George at the Mule Bar across the river. It's a dry porter with some backing chocolate and maybe some walnut or hazelnut; nutty chicory as it warms.
I also got a Brown's Whiskey Porter, which is mellow and smooth with something I can't read because this was about the time when I dropped my pen on the floor of the bar, leaving my mark, so to speak, in chemically indelible ink, and bending the nib.
Biére et Ennui en Montréal - Parte Sept
At long last, a chance to try these 'dames'; Blonde de Chambly is not (widely?) distributed in the US, but in Quebec it flows like rain. Cheap, delicious rain. It's gold tinged with amber and lively in carbonation. The signature Unibroue yeast comes through in the smell and the taste is light and crisp with a trace of green apple. It's not one of their 'bieres forts,' but it is refreshing. Both cheaper, better, and less damp than wandering around the wrong side of Montréal in search of a decent 'pression.'
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Biére et Ennui en Montréal - Parte Six
After a visit to an obligatory cathedral, we light on a restaurant for lunch which defies my initial skepticism by having a beer list with a massive inventory of Québécois Biéres, including several I would like to try, and at least one dish which I find acceptable, which is really enough, when it comes down to it. My agenda is Camellia Sinensis (premier tea joint) and Brasserie Dieu du Ciel (producer of fine beers). I get a Brasseur de Montréal 'Rooibos', made with the African herbal tea. Smells like slightly tart wheat. The rooibos is subdued, but it adds an interesting dimension, adjacent some spice. My compatriot has ordered a Unibroue Raftman, but their signature house yeast seems absent.
At last I arrive at Camellia Sinensis, and switch gears to 'Tea and Loathing,' and evidently start writing in pidgin French. I order the 1992 Meng Hao Pu'erh in a gaiwan. I'm sweating q'un cochon, and they mercifully give me some water as well. The tea is okay, but tastes more like charcoal than bois or cuir. Smells very woody though, and further steepings reveal more woodiness and nuttiness. None of the promised fruit flavor from the menu; it was promised to be similar to a sheng pu'erh. It came in a candy-apple red gaiwan anda not-quite-matching kettle. I should've asked for yixing clay. Finally I start to notice the lichen and blueberry from that menu description, but it's a bit of a long shot. Eventually some orange, but still tastes mostly like clay.
I get pretty much left alone because it's not clear what language I speak, beyond that I clearly can't speak French.
The Metro uses an NFC chip and seems designed to make me look like a moron. I have missed the train anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter.
I get to Dieu du Ciel and ordere a Lanterne Rouge on cask. Mignon? Petit? Un glas? I try to order a small. Oui. Kind of foamy from the sparkler if a bit dulled for being on cask. It's a hoppy brown, slightly floral.
I switch to a Rosée d'Hibiscis, which I evidently pronounce correctly. Everyone speaks French to me. I regret being unable to return the favor.
The Rosée smells and tastes great. Floral, almost English. Faintly tart with a head just shy of pink. Citrus here as well—like a tangerine? Or a kumquat. Or have I been staring at the Disco Soleil poster for too long?
My third is a Clef du Champs which I fail to pronounce correctly, but at least I try. (Hint: "clay doo shomm") It's a gruit of sorts, and hard to tastes after the Hibiscus and the Lanterne. I am however filled with a definite joie de vivre. It's earthly with a bit of spice.
Dans le terroir avec un petit peu de l'espices et l'herbes. Ordinaire je comprende en Français mais je ne parle bon pas. Ce soir c'est vraiment. It's an accessible gruit. And it's darn good.
I keep using inkblots as inkwells... I really need to work on this pen. Beer improves my spirits and my French, but not my penmanship. It's nutty, but almost has that Belgian 'bubblegum' yeast character.
At last I arrive at Camellia Sinensis, and switch gears to 'Tea and Loathing,' and evidently start writing in pidgin French. I order the 1992 Meng Hao Pu'erh in a gaiwan. I'm sweating q'un cochon, and they mercifully give me some water as well. The tea is okay, but tastes more like charcoal than bois or cuir. Smells very woody though, and further steepings reveal more woodiness and nuttiness. None of the promised fruit flavor from the menu; it was promised to be similar to a sheng pu'erh. It came in a candy-apple red gaiwan anda not-quite-matching kettle. I should've asked for yixing clay. Finally I start to notice the lichen and blueberry from that menu description, but it's a bit of a long shot. Eventually some orange, but still tastes mostly like clay.
I get pretty much left alone because it's not clear what language I speak, beyond that I clearly can't speak French.
The Metro uses an NFC chip and seems designed to make me look like a moron. I have missed the train anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter.
I get to Dieu du Ciel and ordere a Lanterne Rouge on cask. Mignon? Petit? Un glas? I try to order a small. Oui. Kind of foamy from the sparkler if a bit dulled for being on cask. It's a hoppy brown, slightly floral.
I switch to a Rosée d'Hibiscis, which I evidently pronounce correctly. Everyone speaks French to me. I regret being unable to return the favor.
The Rosée smells and tastes great. Floral, almost English. Faintly tart with a head just shy of pink. Citrus here as well—like a tangerine? Or a kumquat. Or have I been staring at the Disco Soleil poster for too long?
My third is a Clef du Champs which I fail to pronounce correctly, but at least I try. (Hint: "clay doo shomm") It's a gruit of sorts, and hard to tastes after the Hibiscus and the Lanterne. I am however filled with a definite joie de vivre. It's earthly with a bit of spice.
Dans le terroir avec un petit peu de l'espices et l'herbes. Ordinaire je comprende en Français mais je ne parle bon pas. Ce soir c'est vraiment. It's an accessible gruit. And it's darn good.
I keep using inkblots as inkwells... I really need to work on this pen. Beer improves my spirits and my French, but not my penmanship. It's nutty, but almost has that Belgian 'bubblegum' yeast character.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Biére et Ennui en Montréal - Parte Cinq
I wander into a late-night bar and order a Belle Geule Hefeweizen—it kicks, so I have to wait for a fresh keg. And a glass of water, though I could wring it out of my shirt at this point, wandering as I have been through fog literal and metaphorical. Zep blasts on the stereo. I fail to fool the bartender into believing that I speak French, and my beer comes on a Moosehead coaster despite a stack of Belle Geule coasters adjacent. Not to tout the beer's virtues; it is thin in flavor and a bit disappointing though I hadn't expected much. I intend to patronize the 24-heure joint down the block and make my way back to the hotel after this beer which it turns out, has been fantastically expensive. This bar seems to be a haven for English-speakers.
Being as it is after 23.00, when I bring my bottles to the counter, the clerk takes one look, shrugs, and, seemingly in reflection upon my entire evening, sighs: "Desolée."
Being as it is after 23.00, when I bring my bottles to the counter, the clerk takes one look, shrugs, and, seemingly in reflection upon my entire evening, sighs: "Desolée."
Beer and Loathing in Vermont - Part 4
From the parking lot:
Grandmother: "Do you still have the giggles?"
Grandmother: "Do you still have the giggles?"
Child: <snrk>!
We pull over to admire the homes of the druids. At a restaurant bathroom, I re-set the feed on my pen for improved inkflow. We pull over again, and this time I get some St. John's Wort tea and some herbal chew. It's like chewing tobacco, but doesn't have any tobacco, so you can eat it. I ponder how terrible of a precedent this might set for actual tobacco chewing in the future, but remember that I never wanted to chew tobacco in the first place, making me wonder in turn, why the hell I bought it. I am nearly assaulted by an obese corgi whose leash turns out to be just long enough. For lunch, I have a sandwich with turkey and maple syrup—the Vermont-e Cristo. I duck into the bathroom again to re-fill my pen.
We finally arrive, and the people in Montréal speak French in funny accents. It's already 19.00, so everywhere is closed, but we luck into a public bathroom anyway. It's late and everyone is hungry, and I wonder how the Canadians can be so happy and trendy and not-having-to-work-late and I wonder if it has anything to do with their Obamacare, which I suspect is better than mine.
We dine, late, at a restaurant with real silverware and no beer lost; I almost don't bother, but then I get a St. Ambroise 'Dark'. It is superior to the blond, which I originally receive by mistake. My notebook is covered in inkblots, and I take it as a Sign that the tablecloth is not.
We finally arrive, and the people in Montréal speak French in funny accents. It's already 19.00, so everywhere is closed, but we luck into a public bathroom anyway. It's late and everyone is hungry, and I wonder how the Canadians can be so happy and trendy and not-having-to-work-late and I wonder if it has anything to do with their Obamacare, which I suspect is better than mine.
We dine, late, at a restaurant with real silverware and no beer lost; I almost don't bother, but then I get a St. Ambroise 'Dark'. It is superior to the blond, which I originally receive by mistake. My notebook is covered in inkblots, and I take it as a Sign that the tablecloth is not.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Beer and Loathing in Vermont - Part 3
I emerge from the sauna a new man, but decide to steal my old identity anyway. I meet some people who were in town for a funeral. The deceased was aged 106, and I was booked in room 107—as always, one step ahead of the Old Man in Black. I lighten the mood with the pink ape man story. That always goes over well. I try to encourage my computer into action, but it seems steadfastly determined against it, so I keep the Faith and write the Good Words on paper.
Beer and Loathing in Vermont - Part 2
I don't think there's a beer in the world with the tasting recommendation: serve at mini-fridge temperature; pour into small paper cup and enjoy, but I need to down these before I try and cross the border. This Howler Old Barn Ale smells like a big bubblegum Belgian yeast strain. To drink it, it tastes of wheat and maybe a little coriander, which lingers. The Hallertau hops mentioned on the bottle are subdued; it's not a very hoppy beer. It has an orange aftertaste that lingers like the white foam on the white cup.
The Foley Brothers Native Ginger Wheat has a pretty big hop/coriander bitter component, but a little ginger hidden away in there. Not spicy, and with the hops, kind of suggests mango. Maybe not my thing, but definitely a thing, and probably someone's thing.
The Foley Brothers Native Ginger Wheat has a pretty big hop/coriander bitter component, but a little ginger hidden away in there. Not spicy, and with the hops, kind of suggests mango. Maybe not my thing, but definitely a thing, and probably someone's thing.
Beer and Loathing in Vermont - Part 1
I duck behind a door to refill my water bottle at an industrial sink. The door is marked "Employees Only," twice, and in English both times, but I'm thirsty. You've got to stay hydrated when traveling, so I buy a couple of bombers and some seltzer as well. And some beef jerky; it's good country for jerky. A relatively uneventful start to a trip, taking slightly longer to fly than it would have to drive, just to admire the anthropological spectacle of the airport. And besides, driving is so pedestrian.
Bearing down on the back of a CD case, I am using an fountain pen with completely indelible ink which will, in the coming week, make only two small spots on my pants, but they will still have been worth the dollar I paid for them. I tell myself I will figure out how to make them serviceable again, whether by dying them or converting them to Daisy-Duke-style cutoffs. I also do not know at this point that this is about the best the pen is going to handle over the course of the trip. we pass a naked man fanning a bonfire and a cop clocking traffic as my pen jams again and I attempt to use an inkblot as an inkwell.
I eject a load of ink onto the pavement and I'm ready to go again. We arrive at the hotel, and briefly deliberate whether to check in or not, for reasons unclear to me. We dash off to photograph covered bridges 'before it rains,' which it does not. In haste, I nearly lose my gray card and we have to turn back, bringing the empty threat of rain ever closer. My homemade bay run cologne seems to attract mosquitoes; I should have been more specific when I designed it to make me 'irresistible.'
We pull up to a church and follow signs to Robert Frost's grave.
Bearing down on the back of a CD case, I am using an fountain pen with completely indelible ink which will, in the coming week, make only two small spots on my pants, but they will still have been worth the dollar I paid for them. I tell myself I will figure out how to make them serviceable again, whether by dying them or converting them to Daisy-Duke-style cutoffs. I also do not know at this point that this is about the best the pen is going to handle over the course of the trip. we pass a naked man fanning a bonfire and a cop clocking traffic as my pen jams again and I attempt to use an inkblot as an inkwell.
I eject a load of ink onto the pavement and I'm ready to go again. We arrive at the hotel, and briefly deliberate whether to check in or not, for reasons unclear to me. We dash off to photograph covered bridges 'before it rains,' which it does not. In haste, I nearly lose my gray card and we have to turn back, bringing the empty threat of rain ever closer. My homemade bay run cologne seems to attract mosquitoes; I should have been more specific when I designed it to make me 'irresistible.'
We pull up to a church and follow signs to Robert Frost's grave.
"Is he the 'miles to go' guy?"
"I think he's 'road less traveled.'"
"I knew it had something to do with roads."
We meditate on this as we traverse the exceedingly well-worn path to the headstone, denoted by signs.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Anywhere You Go, Beer You Are
It's about that time... cramming a pared-down subset of worldly possessions—good practice for the road ahead. I eagerly await a week of calling non-billable hours 'vacation.' I sit at the table and steep some tea, a Christmas gift I gave a while back. It is stale now, either forgotten or unwanted, but I try not to be ungrateful as I regift it to myself. I smile like I'm surprised, anyway.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Fool Me Twice... You Don't Get Fooled Again
I rebel against this beer by prizing off the twist-off cap with a corkscrew. It gives off a full white head that gradually dissipates as I read the label: Shock Top Honey Bourbon Cask Wheat. What is that, a laundry list? Regardless, those crazies at Shock Top have once more brewed a beer that sounds really interesting. I should've learned after the Midnight Wheat; fortunately the world did not in fact end that December.
It smells like honey. Like, from inside of a plastic squeeze bear, but it's unmistakable. There's vanilla as well. It's maybe not subtle, but it's definitely not wrong.
It doesn't taste very good though. It's sort of thinnish seltzer water with honey and vanilla extract stirred in. There's maybe a slight off-flavor that might be the "bourbon cask staves" (a totally plebeian way to age beer) The after taste is the same cheap honey from the smell. It just doesn't taste good.
Even for the money, there's plenty of other beers I'd rather drink.
It smells like honey. Like, from inside of a plastic squeeze bear, but it's unmistakable. There's vanilla as well. It's maybe not subtle, but it's definitely not wrong.
It doesn't taste very good though. It's sort of thinnish seltzer water with honey and vanilla extract stirred in. There's maybe a slight off-flavor that might be the "bourbon cask staves" (a totally plebeian way to age beer) The after taste is the same cheap honey from the smell. It just doesn't taste good.
Even for the money, there's plenty of other beers I'd rather drink.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Cute Mouse Beers
I bought two beers because of the adorable mouse sketches on the bottles. The following are the reviews of those Off-Color beers.
The first thing that strikes me as 'Troublesome' about this beer is its transparency. Laudable in local politics, I discourage transparency in wheat beers and have been known to say that I don't trust beers I can see through. Still, the mouse on the bottle is endearing, so I give this kristalweizen a shot. Smells like those lightish honey wheat beers, kinda sweetish, but the head doesn't stick around. It tastes darn good though, even though I've let it get a bit warm. Quite well balanced, though again, reminiscent of most other filtered honey wheat beers. I keep saying that as if they were a common occurrence, but the one I'm thinking of is Wolaver Wildflower Wheat. It's been a while, but it reminds me of this, though this costs significantly more. Which is to say you're mostly paying for the mouse, but I'd say he's worth it. If this has coriander in it (as it claims), I don't really taste it, so it's just there to balance the residual. It has an overall impression of citrus, mostly orange, some light wheat, and honey. I probably wouldn't buy it again at this price point, but I would recommend it for the cute label and balanced taste. Reading the label, it says it was made with lactobacillus, but again, it wasn't especially tart, so if that's what you're expecting, look elsewhere, friend.
Scurry is tasty and balanced as well. There's a steely 'off' smell, but I'm pretty sure it's the tumbler I'm using; my glassware is in storage and the two tulips I kept out are in the washing machine. I don't know if I pick up molasses or honey specifically, but it does feel like there's some kind of premium adjunct at work here. It's definitely not a 'dry stout'. On second thought, there may be some honey presence on the aftertaste. It strikes me that these beers are well-crafted beers, but not terribly interesting or 'out there' in any way, though they come in at a premium pricepoint. My warped perspective has led me to expect 'weird' and 'expensive' to be synonymous, but it's important to appreciate the basics.
The first thing that strikes me as 'Troublesome' about this beer is its transparency. Laudable in local politics, I discourage transparency in wheat beers and have been known to say that I don't trust beers I can see through. Still, the mouse on the bottle is endearing, so I give this kristalweizen a shot. Smells like those lightish honey wheat beers, kinda sweetish, but the head doesn't stick around. It tastes darn good though, even though I've let it get a bit warm. Quite well balanced, though again, reminiscent of most other filtered honey wheat beers. I keep saying that as if they were a common occurrence, but the one I'm thinking of is Wolaver Wildflower Wheat. It's been a while, but it reminds me of this, though this costs significantly more. Which is to say you're mostly paying for the mouse, but I'd say he's worth it. If this has coriander in it (as it claims), I don't really taste it, so it's just there to balance the residual. It has an overall impression of citrus, mostly orange, some light wheat, and honey. I probably wouldn't buy it again at this price point, but I would recommend it for the cute label and balanced taste. Reading the label, it says it was made with lactobacillus, but again, it wasn't especially tart, so if that's what you're expecting, look elsewhere, friend.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Pictures of beer
I recently visited my warehouse at an Undisclosed Location and emptied out about a pallet of empty beer bottles, recording their images in what I can only describe as 'not-very-good product photography.' A learning experience, and nostalgic for memories of beers gone by.
I'll post them here along with anything interesting I remember about the beers of the stories surrounding them. Kind of a German-style photo project (they did a lot of cataloging), but with words. And this way your mind's eye can journey with me on my beer escapades while your skull's eye looks at pictures, making these brews easier to spot and acquire (or avoid) in the wild.
I'll post them here along with anything interesting I remember about the beers of the stories surrounding them. Kind of a German-style photo project (they did a lot of cataloging), but with words. And this way your mind's eye can journey with me on my beer escapades while your skull's eye looks at pictures, making these brews easier to spot and acquire (or avoid) in the wild.
Mikkeller: Black, Black Hole, White Wine Black Hole, Scotch Black Hole, Barrel Aged Chipotle Porter
Mikkeller is a Danish gypsy brewer (that means all his beers are brewed at different breweries where he visits like an artist residence). He has a twin brother who brews under the moniker 'Evil Twin'. Black is an alcohol bomb; expensive and maybe not worth it; my recollection here is accordingly dim. Black Hole is pretty great; the white wine version probably was as well, but the Scotch version was outstanding. Apparently it's poorly reviewed because most rubes don't understand how great whisky is. Let their folly be your conquest, friends. Barrel Aged Chipotle Porter is also outstandingly good (and also aged in whisky barrels—go figure). This bottle came from Beer Mongers in Portland, OR in 2011, and I think I've had it again (in a large bottle) and it wasn't as good. So caveat imbibor.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Arcadia Barrel-Aged Shipwreck Porter
This is delicious fresh but I immediately regret not aging it for 5 years. Slightly bitter—hoppy even. Bourbon and candy on the nose and up-front, with vanilla running throughout. This (especially wax-dipped as it is), is going to age beautifully. Even a little oxidation wouldn't hurt this. It's of a similar caliber to Founders. Maybe not quite as good as a KBS, but still good. For the price though, KBS is cheaper if less plentiful.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Maracaibo Especial
Friends, if your greatest desire is to work really hard, then go home and drink beer and watch teevee, your dreams, too can come true.
I paid way too much for this, but I felt like opening my Maricaibo Especial. A bit foamy, with an off-white head and lacing, and a deep amber body. Pretty tangy and dry, but I don't really get any cacao. A little orange maybe and maybe coriander. It feels kinda thin and overcarbonated, but it's balanced and has a nutty dry finish. Of course, it is a sour as all Jolly Pumpkins are, with a bright brettanomyces funk.
It's probably worth almost what it normally cost, but not the sum I paid. Ah well, such is the way with things not available locally.
I paid way too much for this, but I felt like opening my Maricaibo Especial. A bit foamy, with an off-white head and lacing, and a deep amber body. Pretty tangy and dry, but I don't really get any cacao. A little orange maybe and maybe coriander. It feels kinda thin and overcarbonated, but it's balanced and has a nutty dry finish. Of course, it is a sour as all Jolly Pumpkins are, with a bright brettanomyces funk.
It's probably worth almost what it normally cost, but not the sum I paid. Ah well, such is the way with things not available locally.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Beer and Loathing in Pittsburgh, PA
The drive up is, as usual, filled with psychopaths and miscreants: degenerates and testaments against the American driving education system. And I have to drive myself this time, to boot. I detour by way of House of 1000 Beers for obvious reasons, as it becomes apparent that my phone has not only autonomously drained its battery while charging, but overheated itself in doing so. Fascinating.
I pick up a bottle of Angel's Share, Fegley's Bourbon Barrel Insidious (which I drink later—it is indeed insidious but also pretty good; with a trace of bitter oak finish, plenty of bourbon and chocolate, and a solid stouty backbone), as well as a Jolly Pumpkin Maricaibo Especial and three small bottles of Evil Twin's The Cowboy, which until recently came in either big bottles, or not at all (more commonly the latter). Cowboy is expensive, but great smoke flavor while maintaining a sessionable ABV.
I wander around Shadyside, Pittsburgh, attempting to follow some of the most ambiguous instructions I've ever received to "Walnut Street." I do not find Walnut Street. I do find a place with four restaurant/bars in close proximity. A pizza and beer dive that looks exceptionally normal, a trendy artisanal breakfast/sandwich joint that looks exceptionally closed, a bar/restaurant/lounge that looks exceptionally packed, and a 'bartini' (I wouldn't make this up) that looks exceptionally, exceptionally sleazy. I choose the packed one. Every local in the neighborhood can't be wrong.
Inside, the bartender is friendly, and as it turns out they are out of both pulled pork and pirogi (not 'brought to you by the letter P', evidently), my Founders Smoked Porter is free. It is also pretty good, kind of on par with Alaskan, but not quite at the level of Weyerbacher Fifteen in its prime. I tip egregiously for the complimentary beer and also the advice to dip the spicy chicken sandwich in the macaroni and cheese. The two foods, both great initially, combine to form something amazing. In my completely-out-of-place electric blue polo shirt, the word 'synergy' comes to mind, and I want to go play golf.
Shaking that urge from my head, I wander back to the hotel, past a store that has some interesting beers available, including a vintage Unibroue and what I believe to be a vintage He'Brew Jewbelation. I make a mental note to return. And a further note to find some pirogi. I have driven over 300 miles, after all.
I pick up a bottle of Angel's Share, Fegley's Bourbon Barrel Insidious (which I drink later—it is indeed insidious but also pretty good; with a trace of bitter oak finish, plenty of bourbon and chocolate, and a solid stouty backbone), as well as a Jolly Pumpkin Maricaibo Especial and three small bottles of Evil Twin's The Cowboy, which until recently came in either big bottles, or not at all (more commonly the latter). Cowboy is expensive, but great smoke flavor while maintaining a sessionable ABV.
I wander around Shadyside, Pittsburgh, attempting to follow some of the most ambiguous instructions I've ever received to "Walnut Street." I do not find Walnut Street. I do find a place with four restaurant/bars in close proximity. A pizza and beer dive that looks exceptionally normal, a trendy artisanal breakfast/sandwich joint that looks exceptionally closed, a bar/restaurant/lounge that looks exceptionally packed, and a 'bartini' (I wouldn't make this up) that looks exceptionally, exceptionally sleazy. I choose the packed one. Every local in the neighborhood can't be wrong.
Inside, the bartender is friendly, and as it turns out they are out of both pulled pork and pirogi (not 'brought to you by the letter P', evidently), my Founders Smoked Porter is free. It is also pretty good, kind of on par with Alaskan, but not quite at the level of Weyerbacher Fifteen in its prime. I tip egregiously for the complimentary beer and also the advice to dip the spicy chicken sandwich in the macaroni and cheese. The two foods, both great initially, combine to form something amazing. In my completely-out-of-place electric blue polo shirt, the word 'synergy' comes to mind, and I want to go play golf.
Shaking that urge from my head, I wander back to the hotel, past a store that has some interesting beers available, including a vintage Unibroue and what I believe to be a vintage He'Brew Jewbelation. I make a mental note to return. And a further note to find some pirogi. I have driven over 300 miles, after all.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Beer and Loathing in Washington, DC
It was a melancholy I hung in my heart—a winter coat I'd just as soon take off for warmer days. I've just seen a silent version of Hamlet (without all the "words, words, words", it was a magnificent spectacle of "inexplicable dumbshow and noise"), and it is time for beer.
Our efforts to visit Bluejacket have been hampered earlier by a mob scene, one of whom accosted my partner in crime, then made tracks before I could extract from him a cost of a knuckle sandwich. ("Is that the meaning of 'accost'?") Anyway, I thirst for beer, and Churchkey, equally packed though it is, remains my destination. The suggestion of pies is put forth, but Titus Andronicus is in my thoughts (which were bloody, or nothing worth), and I pass. No traffic can conspire to separate me from my quarry, not even a psychopathic motorist whom we avoid by mere inches. My caravan leaves me there alone, lacking the patience for crowded beer-times. Flights of angels sing them to their much-needed rest.
People who take tequila shots in one of the foremost beer bars on the east coast are beyond my comprehension, but there they are. Pricey as it is, I'd go elsewhere were it not for beer. I angle in and break the fast with a Fastenbier, it being the season, and then realize that they are out of Hemel & Arde and also Vandals & Goths and basically anything separated by an ampersand. The bartender, spotting me for the rare-beer-dork that I am, recommends a Mikkeller George. It's spot-on, with that character that you know, if aged for a few years, will become delicious shoe-leather. I move on to try a "Spaghetti Western" which tastes of mostly coffee and barely any spaghetti (it contains both). Then, a Querkus (on cask) which has that distinct flattish cask character—it's decent and mild, but hard to stand up to everything else. A sessionable breather—wedged as I am between bar stools, it's the only breathing I can do.
I finish with a Cuveé Delphine. Surprisingly light, with blueberry and slightly tangy nose. Some red currant and bitter root. Not very bourbon-y but still nice. At this point, I realize my menu has left me. Stolen evidently, by some people who are also taking bar stools which I don't recall having been free, and for which I doubt they were waiting longer than I. I don't mean to impose. I've sampled my personal gamut, and I elect to leave. It was that or another Fastenbier.
Our efforts to visit Bluejacket have been hampered earlier by a mob scene, one of whom accosted my partner in crime, then made tracks before I could extract from him a cost of a knuckle sandwich. ("Is that the meaning of 'accost'?") Anyway, I thirst for beer, and Churchkey, equally packed though it is, remains my destination. The suggestion of pies is put forth, but Titus Andronicus is in my thoughts (which were bloody, or nothing worth), and I pass. No traffic can conspire to separate me from my quarry, not even a psychopathic motorist whom we avoid by mere inches. My caravan leaves me there alone, lacking the patience for crowded beer-times. Flights of angels sing them to their much-needed rest.
People who take tequila shots in one of the foremost beer bars on the east coast are beyond my comprehension, but there they are. Pricey as it is, I'd go elsewhere were it not for beer. I angle in and break the fast with a Fastenbier, it being the season, and then realize that they are out of Hemel & Arde and also Vandals & Goths and basically anything separated by an ampersand. The bartender, spotting me for the rare-beer-dork that I am, recommends a Mikkeller George. It's spot-on, with that character that you know, if aged for a few years, will become delicious shoe-leather. I move on to try a "Spaghetti Western" which tastes of mostly coffee and barely any spaghetti (it contains both). Then, a Querkus (on cask) which has that distinct flattish cask character—it's decent and mild, but hard to stand up to everything else. A sessionable breather—wedged as I am between bar stools, it's the only breathing I can do.
I finish with a Cuveé Delphine. Surprisingly light, with blueberry and slightly tangy nose. Some red currant and bitter root. Not very bourbon-y but still nice. At this point, I realize my menu has left me. Stolen evidently, by some people who are also taking bar stools which I don't recall having been free, and for which I doubt they were waiting longer than I. I don't mean to impose. I've sampled my personal gamut, and I elect to leave. It was that or another Fastenbier.
I stumble back to the house, thoroughly lost in Tenleytown, no one at all about, recording some of this entry in a drunk-Orson Welles impersonation (If you need to ask whether I am drunk, or whether I am impersonating a drunken Orson Welles, or both, you clearly haven't been reading very well.) en route. I make awkward small-chat with people I don't know terribly well. "Would you like a cup to brush your teeth with? // No thanks; I usually use a brush for that." I am the epitome of wit.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Uinta Tinder
Those of you who know me will know I like smoky things, beers not excepted. Those of you who do not know me just got to know me a little better, right there.
This brew smells slightly harsh to my seasoned nose, which means it will probably smell incredibly smoky to anyone else. The body is nice though, light (almost corn-like) malt supports a smoke flavor that might otherwise be astringent. It's comparable to the Schlenkerla Märzen, I suppose. Granted, I prefer a bigger, heavier bodied rauch (a la New Holland Charkoota Rye) or one with a more mellow smoky flavor (a la Schlenkerla Eiche or Starr Hill Smoke Out). And couple making out on the label make me think that if there are two people in the world who are dating each other and both like this beer, they're destined to be together. Still, this is a success, and I like it more than I imagine I'd like that app the kids are using nowadays. That is to say, I'd 'swipe left' on this one. Or right. Whichever one means I get to keep it and drink it.
This brew smells slightly harsh to my seasoned nose, which means it will probably smell incredibly smoky to anyone else. The body is nice though, light (almost corn-like) malt supports a smoke flavor that might otherwise be astringent. It's comparable to the Schlenkerla Märzen, I suppose. Granted, I prefer a bigger, heavier bodied rauch (a la New Holland Charkoota Rye) or one with a more mellow smoky flavor (a la Schlenkerla Eiche or Starr Hill Smoke Out). And couple making out on the label make me think that if there are two people in the world who are dating each other and both like this beer, they're destined to be together. Still, this is a success, and I like it more than I imagine I'd like that app the kids are using nowadays. That is to say, I'd 'swipe left' on this one. Or right. Whichever one means I get to keep it and drink it.
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