To Ol By Udder Means American-Style Stout

OK, let me get this out of the way first thing, this beer is from To Ol (that's the "O" with the slash through it) De Proef Brouwerij, Lochristi-Hijfte, Belguim.  I know that looks like a random collection of letters, but it is really the name of some made up place called "Belgium".

The magical land of "Belgium" has a rich and storied history of having no idea what the fuck makes something an "American-Style" stout.  Now that I mention it, I also have no idea what makes a stout become "American-Style".  Maybe it's being made by Belgians, because I've never heard of it here.

Let's assume, wrongly, that the Belgies know what they're doing.  An "American-Style" stout must smell like hops, roasted malt, yeast, and dirty dirty swannish lies.  DAMN YOU BELGIUM, DAMN YOUR LIES!!!

7% ABV, probably true.
Imported? Yes.  From Belgium? Likely one of those alcoves I've heard so much about.
By Udder Means? I just don't even know what that means.

This beer is a mess.  It tastes pretty good, but that's not what's important right now.  The important thing is that, WTF Belgium?  Nothing about this bottle makes a damn lick of sense (except the beer).  The bottle has a disgusting picture of froth in floamish black and white, two actually, there is an icon of two beer bottles on the bottle, it's called "To Ol" (with a slash through the second "O"), the name is... I don't even know what the hell is up with the name, By Udder Means, and, and... and jebus I need a beer.

Look at this abomination.

Vomitous.

Nice frothy head on the beer, though.  Lasts for several satisfying gulps, too.  It has a rich and malty flavor, if a bit overly metallic at the end.  It lingers on the tongue and develops into a floral and light sublimation.  Not that any of that has a place in this beer review.  I mean, look at that hideous label art!  I hoped they flushed after they took the picture.

So, never buy this beer.  Don't seek it out.  If you happen to cross its path, for god's sake don't look directly at it.  Don't feed it after midnight, Don't expose it to light, Don't travel to its country of origin, and see their beautiful swans and canals.  If you do, don't eat the chocolate and stay away from Koningid Astrid Park.  Do try the ketamine and prostitutes, though.

Real ale Baltic porter

A quick drop of insight.
This Real Ale Baltic Porter served at the Alamo Draft House Lakeline bar is tasty, malty, bitter, and dribbles down my chin like a drunk fisherman.
And now you know.

Texian Brewing Co., Summer Sandia Watermelon Wheat

Who can't appreciate a great bad idea?  Wouldn't it be fun to roll down this hill?  Lets challenge the cops to a drag race!  Hey everyone, I brought bath salts!  I'm-a put watermelon juice in my beer!  Delightfully wacky ideas, everyone has a great time.  I'm kidding, obviously.  Yes, try the bath salts, but keep your watermelons and beers separate.  That's just common sense.

"I'm-a put watermelon juice in my beer!"

~Someone at Texian Brewing Co.

Like most people, I spend a lot of time thinking about what I love most about beer.  Clearly, it is the essence of malted beauty.  Yeast is man's greatest domesticated pet.  Its liquid state makes it perfectly accessible via my mouth.  It unlocks bonus dance moves and gives me +2 to charisma.  And, not to be overlooked, has no fucking watermelon in it.  I'm from Texas.  I love watermelon.  Watermelon is part of the soul of summer, and so is beer.  It therefore makes sense to keep them utterly separate.  Unless, that is, you are in Richmond, Texas, where bad ideas go to for $5 handies.

Meet Texian Brewing Company's Summer Sandia Watermelon Wheat.  A seasonal offering meant to evoke the ideal drive through the Texas landscape punctuated with stops at roadside watermelon stands.  A lovely thought in honey-amber.  22 fl oz with an unstated ABV of wheat ale into which has been dumped a bucket of watermelon juice.  What assholes.

Steak and ice cream. Movies and conversation.  Naps and bonfires.  Orgasms and freshly cut grass.  Watermelon juice and wheat beer.  Not all great things go great together.

I knew this had to be terrible when I saw it on the shelf.  How could it not be?  Surely, no one would ever conceive of such a union, much less convince someone else it was a good idea.  But, like the second person to get a circumcision, people can be talked into anything.  So, there it was on the shelf, there I am looking for different and unique, and I love a great bad idea.  So, I buy it, bring it home, pour a glass, bottoms up, and down the rabbit hole we go.

It was a bad idea.  I have regrets.

I remember a time before I tasted this beer.  Back then I still thought of myself as a good person.  I was capable of acts of beauty and kindness.  I deserved the love of a good woman.  I contributed to the betterment of society.  No more.  Now I must be scum, shunned by polite society, embraced only by the skinniest of hipsters, the surliest of Australians, the most successful of bankers, and the rest of the cream of the scum soup of humanity.  But, shed no tears for me.  I strayed from the good path into the watermelon patch of shame.  

Tom Hall sang about old dogs, children, and watermelon wine.  Thank god he never had the beer.  When I am old and flatulent(er), I don't think I'll look back on this bottle with fondness and nostalgia.  Hate.  I'll look back on this bottle with white-hot hate.  I feel like something important has been stolen from me and replaced with this changeling beer.  For fuck's sake they put watermelon juice in beer!  Why would anyone be so cruel?  I bet this is what despair tastes like.

Hoping to die horribly, I tried a sip after a bit of almond biscotti.  Sadly the flavors of the beer were neither transmuted nor simply muted, and then my mortal coil failed to shuffle (merely two-stepped).  If you're wondering what this beer taste like, simply buy a delicious watermelon agua fresca, and a mid-range wheat beer, combine them 1:4, take a fistful of sleeping pills, and chug that mother down.  I'm kidding.  The real stuff doesn't have that satisfying of a finish.

None of this is a surprise to anyone.  I knew what I was getting myself into.  You read the title and made an accurate assumption.  The brewers sacrificed a two-headed goat to their cloven demi-god and got what they asked for.  

An unholy, Richmond-defining, waste of all things good in the world, including anyone who drinks it.

Texas Big Beer Brewery Queen's Limited Release Irish Cream Stout

It's Sunday, the rain has stopped, and the sun is out.  We have the windows open to let the breeze in.  And I know that my beer has reached a perfect chill in the back of the fridge.  

So, let's get to it.

Texas Big Beer Brewery of Buna, Texas brings us this Queen's Limited Release Irish Cream Stout.  1 pint, 6 oz bottle.  The label has little to say other than those few facts.  The QR code in the corner may offer some additional information, but I have better things to do with my day than scan a code with my phone.  For example, I have a glass of beer I've been waiting to drink.

Having now poured about half a glass of this beer into my handsome face, I can say one thing for certain, this is an Irish cream-stout, not an Irish-Cream stout.  I was curious which way they would go with it, and I'm glad they picked this one.  A beer that tastes like Irish Cream could be really gross.

This beer is not gross.  In fact, this beer is yummy (a technical term used in beer circles).  The creamy malty flavors play nice with the vanilla, yeast, and a mild tinge of copper.  I know I'm not really selling it, but this is a likable beer.  In small sips it is, like I said, yummy, but a big gulp of this beer, goes down even better.  It foams up on the tongue and in the cheeks, releasing stronger aromas, and adding to the chewiness and overall creaminess, which is nice.  

This certainly, however, isn't a great beer, or in any way amazing, but you'd do well to try it some time.  It isn't overpriced, like 7 bucks or something for a bottle.  So if you see it at the store, and the mood strikes you, go for it.

That was a shit review.  Sure, I hit all the important points, and gave my honest opinion, but Omar put on Band of Brothers, the Haguenau episode with Colin Hanks.  This show really gets to me.  Beer is great and all, but Band of Brothers is one of those things that demands your attention.

It's hard to want to talk about a good beer when BoB on because those events, those people, those places... What can you put next to that?  I know I'm glad I wasn't there.  I'm glad I'll likely never have to experience anything even remotely like that.  The show did an outstanding job of telling those stories in a way that feels personal and real to anyone watching.  Describing beer loses its luster next to that kind of drama.

Still, watching BoB does give me a little extra appreciation for the good things I have: a house with plumbing, good friends won't suddenly be dead or severely injured, a safe job, stupid cats, heck, even a beer reviewing blog where I can be a snarky little shit all I want.  I'm glad I have these things.  I'm glad I have to work for them instead of fight for them, and I'm sad that there are other people who don't have my luck.

So, go pour yourself a beer.  Pour one for a friend too, if you have one nearby.  Raise your glass of frosty frothy goodness and drink to good luck and good times, and hope that everyone else might one day be able to do the same.

Henry V, Act 4, Scene 3

What's he that wishes so? 
    My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; 
    If we are mark'd to die, we are enow 
    To do our country loss; and if to live, 
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 
    God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. 
    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, 
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; 
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear; 
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires. 
    But if it be a sin to covet honour, 
    I am the most offending soul alive. 
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. 
    God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour 
    As one man more methinks would share from me 
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! 
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight, 
    Let him depart; his passport shall be made, 
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse; 
    We would not die in that man's company 
    That fears his fellowship to die with us. 
    This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. 
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, 
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 
    He that shall live this day, and see old age, 
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 
    And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' 
    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 
    And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' 
    Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, 
    But he'll remember, with advantages, 
    What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, 
    Familiar in his mouth as household words- 
    Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, 
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- 
    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. 
    This story shall the good man teach his son; 
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 
    From this day to the ending of the world, 
    But we in it shall be remembered- 
    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 
    Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, 
    This day shall gentle his condition; 
    And gentlemen in England now-a-bed 
    Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, 
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

O'Dell Brewing Co., Loose Leaf American Session Ale

Spring is fully sprung and summer will soon be upon us.  Our yards are a mess and we are men (and women, or however you self-identify).  We cut our grass, edge our sidewalks, pull our weeds, and we sweat.  When we are finished, we proudly look upon our works and defiantly raise our gloved fists to the old eldritch gods, exclaiming:

"I sure am glad that's done.  Now, I need a beer!"

~supplicant~

Let's talk about that perfect post-yard beer.  For obvious reasons, the whole educated world agrees that the correct beer for that moment is the classic ice-cold Coronita with a slice of lime.  There is healthy debate about the need for a touch of salt, but, it takes all kinds.  If you are wondering why the full size Corona is wrong, you need simply go and try them both for yourself.  You'll see.  The cold Coronita with lime is smooth and crisp, has a silky golden beauty, goes down like a water-slide, and (as any decent doctor will tell you) is the finest of all the energy drinks available.

But, today I am tasting something else.  This bottle was brought to my attention by the outstanding Amber, patron saint of the beer aisle at my local HEB.  I thought, "A session ale?  Do I look I look sickly and weak?  Does she think my car still has on training wheels?  Are we going to have a fight?"  I read the label, and to my further dismay, it proudly(?) claims to be "hop-forward."  I thought I might have to put on the foil, coach.  But, Amber has an easy way about her, and a could very likely kick my ass, so I figured, what the hell... Part of the reason I try a new beer every week is to broaden my horizons and make fun of stuff.  Also, I needed to mow my lawn and this fit the theme.

O'Dell Brewing Co., Loose Leaf American Session Ale. A candy-assed 4.5% ABV, 12oz bottle.  Diabetic horse piss yellow, with a mild but short lived head.  The label shows a leaf in agony as it downs in a rapidly flowing river.  The artist must be a cruel sonovabitch to design that.

The post-mow, first taste was (and I admit to heat-stroke and fatigue at this point) sooooooooooo good.  Ohmagawd... bliss.  Straight out of the back of the fridge, cold.  Light on the palette, but flavorful.  The light malt and yeast are lock-step with the hops.  The experience is floral, but manly.  The grass clipping in my hair blended perfectly with the crisp semi-citrus aroma.  It was heaven.  Not Coronita heaven, but mighty fine.

I really wanted to trash this beer.  Maybe if I had thought to wear a hat and put on sunscreen and a knee-brace before I mowed, my less addled brain would think appropriate thoughts about a session ale that intentionally refers to itself as f'n "hop-forward."  Which is really stuck in my craw if you hadn't noticed.  Sadly, I'm enjoying the shit out of this beer.  Yay, O'Dell!  You done me right.  Here I am gulping away, tired as hell, cross-eyed, and bleary, having a great drink.  Which, when I think about it, is exactly how I want to experience my post-lawn work beer.  I feel like I earned it.

I forgive the "session ale" part of this beer.  It is sitting lightly on my work-knotted gut, and making no challenges to my status-queas.  I forgive the hops, as they allow me to drink a fresher lawn than my own, while making my personal grass-funk seem almost pleasing.  I still feel traitorous to my malty, dark, and heavy beer-love, but maybe there is room in my expanding waistline for other styles.  Who knows, one day I might even drink an IPA without flipping it off first.  Or maybe it's just the heat-stroke.  For now, Prost, L'Chaim, Kampai, and whatever-the-hell else you toast, your lawn looks like shit, go mow it!

A Race Day Brooklyn Beer Bonanza!

The Tempting Names of New York Brews

or

The Beautiful Yet Tragic Lies of New England

This week I was drinking in Brooklyn to celebrate my brother's 3rd greatest (chronologically) academic achievement. On Saturday he took Ma, Priya, and me down to his local, The Adirondack bar near prospect park so we could watch the Kentucky derby and knock back a few. It was crowded for the race, but we managed a nook in the back of the bar. I was very excited for my first New York boozing.

Priya bought the first round. Ma and I ordered a stout, Avram had a flashy mixed drink, and Priya ordered something pale. Have you ever noticed that Yankee beers have great names. I suspect it is a New York thing, but there is no way to know for sure. Or maybe it has more to do with demand. These days, that demand is being made by hipsters. Those ironic scumbags are infesting Brooklyn just like they infest our hearts and imaginations, with their fancy hair and skinny jeans. But, could the people who re-popularized PBR (they once watched blue velvet in middle school) ever give rise to a decent beer?

Rockaway Black Gold Stout

5.6%%ABV, dark, frothy, and good lookin' from Rockaway Brewing Company in Queens.

The stout Ma and I had, Rockaway Black Gold Stout, turned out to be a nitrous infused dark glass of beauty. By that, I mean it looked really good. I watched that perfect cascade of bubbles doing their carmagnole until their tasty bubble bodies settled into a foamy mocha head. It was mesmerizing.

But looks aren't everything. Which is a shame. For me. No, these days you gotta have looks and taste, like a sucker. The Rockaway had tastes of coffee and bitter copper with nutty undertones. Which is all fine and good, but there was a problem: thin mouth feel. Yeah, I said it.

Like all the best hipsters, this shit was too damn thin. I was very disappointed. I mean... I mean... I'm sitting here on the bench... I'm sitting here on the alcove (do you use this word, "alcove"?) bench, watching the Kentucky derby through some dudes' heads, trying to get into the spirit of the thing, and my beautiful stout turns out to be a nitrous-infused, coffee-flavored PBR. Seriously, what the shit?

Maybe the problem is that I had such high expectations for a neighborhood bar in Brooklyn. So, I'm going to cave, fight my baser instincts, and say some nice things about this lame fuck-around of a beer. The thin mouth feel makes this lame beer super easy to drink. And when you consider the cowardly low ABV, this makes for a very pretty session beer. Sure, I wanted a good beer, but when life gives you lemons, just be glad you didn't have to pay for them. It really was pretty, thought. I gotta give it that. 

I couldn't let that be my only Brooklyn bar beer, plus, I needed something another beer to get me to the finish of the derby. Soooo...

Upstate Common Sense

5.3% ABV, a layered throw-back beer from Upstate Brewing Company.

I bought this entirely for the name. It has New Yorkiness, is mildly insulting to anyone not ordering it, and could easily have been the name of a horse running the derby. This was a sure thing. I really wondered what kind of beer it was.

The flavors were layered, so here is what I tasted: toffee, sour citrus, bitter florals, caramel, some late-to-the-party malt, a touch of tobacco, and a god awful smell.  

It wasn't bad, but it really wasn't all that great either. I didn't mind drinking it, and towards the end of the glass, I was mostly good with it. I don't think I'd ever buy a six-pack of the Common Sense. I doubt I would ever order it again. But, it really wasn't so bad. I particularly enjoyed the toffee and caramel flavors, but they were always followed by those damn floral and sour notes. Priya says it is, "amenable, then it turns on you." And Ma commented that it "isn't sweet, but it isn't not sweet." I thought it was like being slapped in the face with fish you really enjoy. This beer has something for everyone to like and to despise.

At first I was 80% sure that this is an exotic sour ale. That made me 20% correct, because, according to the website description, this is a Kentucky Common Ale, and is not supposed to be sour, even though it definitely is. I feel cheated.

Clearly, this beer is brewed with lies and Yankee deceit. Why do you hate me, New York?

The race finished. I choked down the last of my second glass of dissatisfaction. We left my first Brooklyn bar. I may not have particularly enjoyed either of my beers, but I feel like the whole of the experience was more than worth it. Drinking in Brooklyn is a great thing to do. It is a very special place to down a beer, filled with history and character, great for people-watching, and the beer selection looks terrific on a chalkboard. It's a shame your beer sucks New York, but that's OK, because I live in Texas.