903 The Land of Milk and Honey

One of the perfect tests of the quality of a beer is how enjoyable it is while playing with your dog.  It is sunny and beautiful out today, I have a new and exciting beer to try, and my dog has a new toy that she loves.

Meet 903 Brewers The Land of Milk and Honey, a golden stout made with lactose and local honey from Sherman, Texas.  I'd never heard of a "golden stout" before, so I was intrigued when I saw this one winking at me from the shelf at my local.  I'd also never heard of 903 Brewers or Sherman, Texas either. 

This guy is mmmmmaaaaaaaalllllty and golden.  Chewy with a sharpness and sweetness you don't expect.  They nailed it with the name, The Land of Milk and Honey.  I've monkey'd around with adding lactose and honey to beers before, and it was a touchy process, easy to get wrong.  903 got it right.  This is a tasty tasty beer.  I'd buy a sixer and kick all my friends out so they couldn't have any.  I'm sold, you're sold, everybody now agrees: this is a solid booze.  You heard it here first, from my can to your eyes.

"Sure, it's a good beer," you say, "but how good is it when you're playing with your dog?"

Best Dog Ever

That's the real question before us today.  I'll address this by breaking the question down into its constituent parts: Does it slow you down?  How's the can feel in your hand while your dog scrabbles at a large hard plastic ball?  Does spilling a bit make you feel worse than playing with a dog makes you feel good?  Is it too hot out to be hopping around drinking a creamy sweet stout?  Why is this dog sooooo much better than every other dog?

I can say with some certainty that drinking this beer while kicking a ball around with my dog does not slow me down in any way.  As an out-and-proud Hobbled-American, I would have a hard time moving any slower than is my standard speed, which is glacial.  With the generous application of beer, however, and the predatory happy eyes of a puppy about to play, I was definitely moving at a far greater clip than normal.  I was emboldened by the booze, and prompted by the puppy.  I flew like a stumbling awkward wind, flitting from left leg to left leg, flopping in a carmagnole of clownish physicality.  So, I got that going for me.  The beer passes the first test.

The can has a good hand-feel.  The aluminum is pliable and firm.  These qualities allowed be to tighten or loosen my grip as needed.  Tighter for when the dog got crafty and tried to run the ball around my feet.  Looser for when I wanted to take a sip of the delicious nectar, tipping it back and up to my face, making me look awesome (like a Diet Coke commercial).  I enjoy this can, it works as a supple skin containing and freeing my sweet sweet beer, shepherding it along its journey to mah belly.  Pass!

As to the third question: I don't spill beer.  Also, by dog makes me infinitely happy.  Pass (by default).

71 degrees and partly cloudy.  The beer came straight from the fridge.  The dog was room temperature.  The ball was cool at first, but later warmed with the sun and doggy drool.  It all worked out just fine. Pass!

Finally, the dog is best because she is Tofu, and she is mighty!

Drinking with Claire

Claire was in town(!), so we went out for beer.  She said, "You're the expert: you pick a place.  Surprise me."

So I did.  I chose.  I kept it to myself.  And I drove her to 6th Street.

My plan was Easy Tiger, but Claire, historically, has little faith in my choices; so when she saw a lonely sign pointing to "Pub," we followed the arrow to the Waller Creek Pub House.

I had the "Mr. Pineapple."  That's -- Mr. Pineapple -- to you.

Mr. Pineapple is a low-ABV, wheat beer "infused" with fresh pineapple; but more to the point, Mr. Pineapple is fruit juice.

I tell Claire it is a girly beer. She doesn't like the sound of that and winces at my "lazy, gender-driven description."  But what Claire misses, in her ever-vigilant feminism, is that, for this beer, I'm happy to be a big girl.

Let's take a step back.  Just to be clear: Mr. Pineapple is not beer.
Mr. Pineapple is a Caribbean fantasy.  It is a wimpy, boat-drink -- meaning, its low alcohol content is perfect for peeing-out in the ocean while snorkeling.

I like it.

I ask Claire her thoughts.  She says, "It tastes like bananas."  She is incorrect.  It tastes like a boozy pineapple -- Mr. Pineapple, that is.

I recommend this beer.  More specifically, I recommend this beer to flip-flop wearing, sandy-toed, day dreamers who find themselves side-stepping discarded gum and soggy cigarette butts on 6th Street.  Sorry folks, I feel for you.

Next up is the Squatters Outer Darkness because -- what a name!

Squatters is a Russian imperial stout from Outer Darkness Brewery that, on first sip, tastes a lot like Sriracha.  (I had just eaten half a plate of fries drenched in mayo and Sriracha -- was fun, but mostly gross.)

Of the beer, Claire says, "It tastes like it got stuck in the toaster too long."
(She had the fries, too, by the way.)

After washing down the fries with a (mediocre-at-best) bacon-lettuce-tomato-avocado-mostly bread sandwich, we take another sip.

This time it is toasty and dark, like it has something to hide.  Chocolatey smooth and just a bit nasty - this beer is Ursa Kitt from Batman meets Faith from Buffy.

Claire is grossed out that I sexualize beers.  Claire doesn't understand beer.

People of the world: drink this sexy beer.

I forgot to take a picture of the beer, so you
can have a picture of my fat, lazy dog instead.

The last beer is unpronounceable: BFM La Saison (square root of) 225.

The bartender says, "La Saison is..." -- I tuned out -- some kind of anniversary thing or some other thing.  I dunno.  Whatever.
It's a beer.  It's a sour beer.  it ain't the most sour ever, but it's still Saison-y.

Since Claire is new to sour beers, I guide her with a few taste prompts:
Malt Vinegar?  "No."
(Why is she so terse sometimes?)
Salad?  "You are incorrect."
(I have no idea what she means by that.)

Claire usually has opinions, so I give her time.

Here's what she finally says about BFM La Saison (squa... fuck it, 15)

"This beer tastes like defeat... or resignation... probably more like resignation."

I do believe my friend thought she was being helpfully descriptive, even as her elbows slid out under the weight of her head, and she turned into a human puddle of defeat right there on the counter.  But -- I'm sorry -- are we not being a bit depressive and existential about beer right now?! And so early in the evening too.

Buck up, Claire, you goddam buzzkill.
Let's blow this joint.

Next stop: Easy Tiger
Claire: "Wow! This place is cool.  Why didn't we come here first?"

Asshole.

*This post has been viciously edited and brutally reworded by Claire, who cares deeply about where commas are supposed to go and other shit like that.

Oskar Blues Brewery Death By Coconut Irish Porter

I am sitting here drinking my lunch at a pleasant watering hole on the East Side, called Gourmands.  They have a sign on the wall. This sign, a chalkboard, blathers something about "breakfast sands" (?) and then says something enticing, "'Death By Coconut' Irish Porter". Game on!

I think this can art has some kinda sportsball thing going on. It says, "Pass. Dash. Hit." on it. That's sportsball, right? The other side of the can says, "Coconut Chocolate Choconut" so I'm sort of lost there. The art isn't exactly subtle about the coconut thing. I think it may be the big notion they are trying to push. It might also be an Irish Porter.

So I tried drinking it, and I can say a few things for certain: I'm still confused about the sportsball, there probably is some kind of porter thing going on, and, fuck me, that's a lot of coconut (going by the name of this beer, maybe enough to kill me). Oh, also, it's good. Not shit-yourself-with-joy good, but still quite good. I should say that if "flavored" beers wrankle your tits, this won't be your favorite thing ever, but if you just like all kinds of beer, this one is good, and your tits will stay unwrankled.

As you can see, it comes in a can (beer can). I didn't pour it into a glass before I poured it into my face, so I don't know what it looks like or how frothy it is. That's a shame, because it's always a fun bit of trivia. I like a good mystery though. That's why I often don't know what's going on, or who the murderer is.

I have mixed feeling about beer in cans vs beer in bottles vs beer in glasses from taps. As a human, I love the sound and feeling of popping the top on a cold can of beer. It's invigorating. If that could be a ring tone, I would make that the default on every phone ever. And when you;re done with your beer you can crush the can in a manly Quint-like fashion.  Wasn't Quint great?

A bottle of beer, though... Opening one of those feels like you just built a table and chairs with your hands. With a church key, a wall mounted opener, your belt buckle, a wine tool, the drunk guy's teeth, or the really drunk guy's eyelid, opening a bottle of beer is an event worthy of song. Then you can bonk a friend's bottle and make it suds over, swirl your beer mindlessly, watch your lime wedge squeeze down the neck and get stuck, put a bunch of empties on your fingers and taunt the Warriors, chuck the bottle for a deeply satisfying breaking sound, or recycle it responsibly. Bottles are the brewers' choice of beer vehicle.

Or is the keg? The keg is instant and fulfilling. The tap might be the ultimate sign that life ain't so bad. No matter how down in the dumps you are. Seeing YOUR beer pouring down into YOUR glass from that tap means that at least one thing is going your way. The beauty. The anticipation. The freshness. The nitro! The keg and tap is a tea ceremony for hope and better things to come. I guess I love them all.

Today gave me a can of strange and unexpected brew joy. Also a grilled cheese sammich and tomato soup. And a Bloody Mary. And a bread bowl that I only ate some of, because bread is bad for my tubby portions, but bread is delicious and I'd rather carry a few extra pounds than live without tasty bread. So far, I like today. I think I'll have something on tap next.