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.

De Proef Brouwerij Saison Imperiale Belgian Farmhouse Ale

So, I hear this story about how farmhouse saison ales were originally made to give to the field hands as part of their pay.  You know, hot day, long hours, give 'em a bucket of beer, pay 'em, and everyone is happy.  That sounds like a good deal to me.  I wish I got a bucket of beer at the end of my work day.  I do question how much beer farmers had on hand, though.  Even if you're just hiring 5 or 6 folks to slap your rutabagas, it takes a hell of a stash of beer to give out 5 or 6 buckets of it a day, every day, each rutabaga slapping season.  So, maybe the story I heard is kinda bullshit.  Who knows?

Come to think of it, who cares?  Why do I give a rutabaga slap about why this beer was made when I could just be drinking it?

From the Brewmaster Collection, De Proef Brouwerij Saison Imperiale Belgian Farmhouse Ale, from Lochristi, Belgium.  750ml bottle.  8.5% ABV.  Slightly cloudy, darkish brown caramel color, solid head, and bottled up with a hugely obnoxious synthetic cork that does NOT want to exit the bottle.

I like it.  It's rich and flavorful, with lots of sweet malt, honey, some herbalness, and a present (but not excessive) hops.  Most saisons, and most farmhouse ales, are hopped to rat-shit hell.  This one shows restraint.  This one recognizes that not everyone want to have a nettle and beer-salad.

Omar says it is "kinda bland, not real note-worthy" and the head died too quick for his taste.  Omar don't take no shit off'a no beer.

Maybe he's right.  I was looking forward to trashing a farmhouse saison, but,with this one, I can't.  For a traditionally big beer, this is pretty small, so there isn't much to get worked up about.  It's like the beer is teasing me or trying to lure me in.  This beer is a trap!

OK, the movies say that the first step in avoiding a trap is knowing it exists.  I gotta tread carefully with this beer.  First I'll establish trust and diffuse the situation with my smarm.  Wow! What a boffo beer!  I really like it.  It isn't wimpy or a shameful representation of its pedigree at all.  Next, I'll distract it.  Look over there! It's Batman... and he's got a great pair of tits!  Finally, the for the home stretch, I'll make sure it can never trap anyone else ever again.  By drinking it.

That's the funny thing about trying new beers: you're taking a big risk.  Maybe you'll get lucky and have a fantastic new brew to slug down, or maybe the beer will be a depraved bottle of pure evil.  You can't know until you try.

This is why beer-drinking is the greatest and most dangerous of all adventures.  Mountain climbers know how their mountain is shaped and can plan their routes.  Explorers can study maps and encyclopedias for months before ever leaving their living rooms.  Astronauts have teams of great minds planning for every possible problem they might encounter.  But we beer drinkers, we hoppy few, we fans of brewers, we are the only true adventurers left.  What starts out as payment for murdering vegetables can eventually become a deceitful bottle of sweet malty lies.  Could NASA's wizards have foretold that?

Meanwhile, we sober on.  One bottle to the next.  We are adventurers, we are farmers, we are drinkers, one and all.

The Wild Beer Co., Somerset Saison

My beer, it's looking at you.  My beer is angry with you.  Look at those beerfull eyes, feel the heat.  The label says, "Crisp + Zesty + Spicy," but those eye say something far more menacing.  They say, "Woodland hate."

Somerset Saison, no more.  I rename this beer Woodland Hate, and you are only allowed to drink it after you win a staring contest with it.  Let me tell you a story.

Passing through the aisles at my local, my mind roaming innocently, I felt an intense burning on the back of my neck.  It was just as if some demon's cloven claw-fang snagged on my soul and killed everything I ever loved.  I turned and bravely met the cold gaze of my spiritual assassin.  The hart and I were locked in combat, our wills pressing at the boundaries of each other existence.  BANG!  My hand, faster than reflection, peeled through the onion skins of time and experience, to wrap itself around the beast's neck.  Freed from the ice cave that gave it power and persistence, we fought to the death, and victory was mine.  I possessed my demon and brought it home.

The hart of the Woodland Hate bubbled and foamed an anger that lasted.  Its golden pelt settled into the cage I made for it.  Then I consumed it.  It tasted wild at first, sour, but when we understood each other the rage died as quickly as it had first frothed over.  I was left bitter.  Maybe the disappointment I felt was the curse those eyes whispered to me when I first walked past.

Basically, this beer is jut OK, if you like saisons.  There is also a cool illustration on the label.