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.

Strange Land Brewery The Old North Road English Strong Ale

"Brewed with vanilla, rum, and oak."  From Strange Land?  For me? Yes, please!

I've had a lot of luck with the fanciful beers of Strange Land Brewery, so this weeks' selection wasn't a big risk.  It has some IBU's and some ABV's.  The label is nice enough to be good, but not so nice as you'd notice.  It claims to be an English strong ale (whatever that means).  And absolutely none of that matters for more than a thought or two.  What matters is the putting of beer into my face.

I'm stuffed up right now, which makes the sniffing of the beer a less than detailed investigation, but even through the nasal mud, there is browns, sweets, and malts.  It's smells like sitting in a comfy wing-back chair, while wearing a smoking jacket and fez.  Yup, smells English-y as fuck.

It's dark.  It's frothy.  It's thick and an all but opaque dark brown.  This beer looks inviting, like it calls to me.  "Come here and drink me! Never mind those rocks, sailor."  While some cowards might lash themselves to the mast, or stuff their ears with cotton, I know that the proper action is to dive into the water and go drink that beer.

It is a very rich, very sweet, lightly coppery, heady, infused with that "barrel aged" goodness, and a very very slow drinking.  There is a sort of brutal directness to the strength and richness of this beer.  I'd call it a beast, but this guy demands to be consumed slowly, too slowly for quaffing.  Sipping is top speed for this guy.  I like a beer that makes me take my time and enjoy it.  I'm at hour 2 on this bottle.  Send help.

Drink it.  Really, drink anything from Strange Land Brewery.  There's no point in reviewing them anymore.  They make good beers.  I'm out!

Thornbridge Saint Petersburg Imperial Russian Stout

Hello Gorky Park!  I love your trees and knapsacks.  And your beer, I love your beer.  Damn it, I love me some Imperial Stout.  So malty, soo rich, sooo many ooooo's.

Thornbridge Saint Petersburg Imperial Russian Stout, from our brothers and sisters from other mothers and misters across the pond at Thornbridge Brewery, Bakewell, England.  It's dark, frothy, rich, comes in a big ass bottle, and has a reasonable 7.7% ABV.  The Brits are good like that

Here in The States (well, here in Texas) we respect the brewing traditions of the Brits, so when I see a style of beer I worship, like the imperial stout, brewed up by some Englanders, I say, "Bring it on."  It's a bottle conditioned beer, made with a focus on malt and chocolate.  The label says some bullshit about a subtle "peat smokiness", but I don't taste it.  Maybe the label guy just had nasty B.O.  Ugh, that sounds gross.  This is why I should never read the label; because someone might have had a repulsive personal stank when they wrote it.

The label on the other side of the bottle does feature a stony white chick, who looks topless, so that's nice.  On the neck of the bottle, the Thornbridge seal is pretty bad ass too.  I bet they have made out of iron at the top of an arch  that you can walk under.  Otherwise, the label isn't all that wonderful for distracting yourself.  I can't even peel it off when I get bored.  It's really stuck on there.

The label is a 5 out of 10, its OK to look at but won't pass the time.  The sweet boozy beer inside the bottle is like a 7 out of 10, which is actually better than it sounds.  I think the average beer is a 2 out of 10, most likable beers get the 5 out of 10 spot, 9 or 10 out of 10 are reserved for those gods among men of beers (I'm looking at you, Fifty/Fifty Eclipse Imperial Stout), leaving 7 and 8 for surprisingly good beers.  Really 7 out of 10 is a huge compliment.  You're welcome, Thorny.

Here's the thing, though: I miss the 9's and 10's.  Sure, a beer like this guy is satisfying, lovely, tastes great, and does it's best to fill that beer-shaped hole in my heart (never let your heart surgeon drink on the job), but sometimes a good beer mostly makes me want to be drinking a great beer.  That's what we got here.  This is a quite good beer, just good enough to make me wish I was drinking a better beer.  Maybe one with label writing from someone who bathes regularly.

Some drinking thoughts at Strange Land Brewery and later at home with a bomber

Lately, I've been finding bombers from Strange Land Brewery all over the place in Austin, Texas.  I've written about a few of them, and I've generally thought good thoughts about their beers.  This weekend I had a few hours to kill and it turns out that they have a tap room.  So, I packed up Omar and away we went.

It turns out, I'm a dick.  They have a welcoming and pleasant set up, lots of seats, a great bar seating area, and one awesome dude behind the bar.  He was friendly, informative, pleasant, and remembered everyone's name.  Which is why I'm a dick: I can't remember his name.  Sorry, man.  My bad.

I started, after some deliberation, with the Root Beer Porter.  Seriously, though, they had a root beer porter.  That's cool.  And it certainly did embody the essence of root beer.  Which was also the big problem I had with it.  I like beer.  I like root beer (I'm looking at you, Thomas Kemper).  When you combine the flavors of beer with the flavors of root beer, however, you end up let down on both aspects.  It was interesting, and good for a few swallows.  About half way into my glass, the shine was gone.  By the bottom of the glass, I was glad to see it gone.  All the same, it was a valiant effort, and I salute it.

I went a little wild for my second choice.  Having a previous disastrous experience with a gruit beer, I was skeptical when I saw they had one of their own, so I went with that.  You may call me brave for this.  You may say I am a man among men.  Perhaps, even, you hope to tell your grand children-clones stories about my heroism.  I can certainly understand your feelings, but I'm far too humble to say anything.  The gruit was, in a word, extremely friggin' deliciously good.  I was expecting another lousy theory-beer, but, instead, got a new and exciting booze.  Whoever was behind the curtain on this one, pulled the right levers.  It is hard to describe the taste of it, but I'm told they used a collection of herbs or spices or something instead of hops.  It's weird, but good weird.

If you've never had a third beer with a quality Brit before, you don't know what you're missing.  We met David, a retired IT specialist with gift for gab.  David suggested I try the Dewi Sant, a dark beer with a honey kick.  The Dewi was sweeter than I usually go for, but really damn good.  In fact, the more I drank, the better and better it tasted (blame the 13.5% ABV).  I think I had two, but I was enjoying the conversation, the weather, the tap room, and definitely the beer too much to remember to take a picture.  It looked like beer, though, I promise.  If you find it, drink it.  If you find it along with a retired Brit, take both to a bar and enjoy your new, more perfect life.

I did, however, remember to take a picture of next beer I had, The Last Gentleman Bourbon Porter.  I bought it on the way home at the Flags Store on 45th and Duval.  I'm drinking it now, and it is sort of a mixed bag.  When I took my first sip, I wasn't very impressed.  There was a lot of metallic acidity getting in the way of the beer flavors.  Now, I'm about a glass in, the malt and sugars have elbowed to the front and started to dominate the conversation.  Things are getting tasty.  Sure, the acid and metallic flavors are still there, but, after two glasses, who cares.  The barrel aged body is all warm and gooey in my mouth hole, and I brain-think slippery blurred yummy thoughts.  It may be a sad-ish 6.8% ABV, but a bomber still gets the job done.  Drink this beer.  Alone if you have to, with a friend where you can, and definitely, definitely with a retired, good-natured Brit, if at all possible.

Buffalo Bayou Brewing Co. Black Raz

A few months back, I was at Wright Bros. Brew and Brew killing some time.  They usually have one or two interesting and unique selections on their board, and that day they had a Chai Porter.  Seemed interesting, I gave it a shot.  It blew my feeble mind!  I had at times imagined a chai beer, even tried to brew my own once, but I was unsuccessful at realizing this chimera.  Buffalo Bayou, however (and despite being in Houston), managed to do the improbable.  So, I decided to try one of their other offerings today.  I make a lot of questionable decisions.

Fantastic art and a black wax neck on a 1 pint bottle.  The label yammers politely about raspberries, cherries, vanilla, and dark chocolate.  8% ABV.  Dark brown and mostly opaque.  No head to speak of (so we won't speak of it).

Instead, let us speak of bitter fruits and chocolate.  It is a famous combo and has a lot going for it.  Is it what you might call "beer appropriate", though?  I'm not so sure it is.  I take a sip and taste the ras-cherry.  It is bitter (IPA bitter).  Then the chocolate steps up, mellow and smooth (think Miles Davis).  I dunno if I would choose to drink an IPA while listening to Miles.  I think he deserves a heavy stout or a barrel aged porter.  But, then I take another sip and change my mind.  Suddenly it tastes great pretty good.  Then crap.  Then great.  Then lousy.  And now I'm just confused.

If there was a time for this phrase, now is it: This beer is some tasty shit.  It is seriously either a decent good beer, or mediocre crap.  I think it's both.

I say that, but... I'm almost through with this bottle.  Pouring and drinking.  Sipping and writing.  I guess that I just don't know.  Is this what a challenging beer tastes like?

"I guess that I just don't know."

~V. Underground & J. Dodson

You should go buy a bottle and give it a swill.  Let me know if you think it's decent, because I'm confused.  Is this a good beer?

The bottle is pretty cool, though.  I like the wax, especially.

Strange Land Brewery Atholl Brose Scotch Ale

Well, holy shit, that's a good beer.  It's sweet and malty.  It chews back at you like you were making out with a starving hyena.  It comes in a big damn bottle, so there's plenty more.  Nice friggin' work, whoever-the-hell Strange Land Brewery is!

OK, so look at this picture over here.  Burn the label art into your memory banks, hard drives, cloud servers, and gelatinous meat-brains.  Now go buy some.  Then drink it.

Assuming you followed my instructions, you are now a much happier person.  A happier person who is currently enjoying a bouquet of fancy flavors like fresh bread, sweet honey, caramel, raisins, and fuckin' good beer.

Here are a few fact about this beer and how much I give damn about each of them: my bottle came from batch #2 (I don't give a shit), it is bottle conditioned (more fun than being gassed, but I don't care), it derives its name from a whiskey which derives its name from when the Earl of Atholl poisoned a well (OK, I actually think that is pretty cool, but it has nothing to do with enjoying this beer), it registers a fancy 16 IBUs (part of my brain just hanged itself out of boredom), 8.9% ABV (good to know, but not impressive enough of a number to make me care), and it says it is "hand crafted" (... just fuck that guy, to whoever spawned that bullshit phrase).  I hope you learned something about this beer from those facts, and I hope you learned something about skipping the trivia and just drinking the damn beer, too.  Drinking beer is a good thing, maybe the best of things.

I'm two glasses into this beast of a 22oz bottle, and the going is getting rough.  Sure, I've had four beer earlier today, but not within the last hour.  Yes, I ate a big tasty cheeseburger and fries for dinner.  Certainly I'm feeling shooting pains down my arm.  Dammit, I'm short of breath.  And, of course, I'm dizzy and nauseous.  But, none of that is important right now.  The most important thing right now is to keep drinking my tasty tasty beer. It is a struggle, but I'll stiffen my lip, gird my loins, stand up straight, clutch my chest, and soldier right on down to the bottom of this glass!  It's gonna be a long trip though.

As good as this beer is, and despite my normal position that a good beer should be horded, this would be a great bottle to share with a friend.  You'll both have plenty of tasty drinky-booze but not enough to land you in the cardiac wing.  It would be great shared between two people on a comfy couch watching some baaaaad asssssss blacksploitation cinema or a grainy kung-fu, Shaw Brothers epic.  Try it, you'll see.

This beer has balls, but it also has class.  If you've been jonesing to swallow some classy balls then this is just the thing for you.  So, go on, get out of here.  Have some fun.  Drink too much.  Take a cab to the bedroom and watch the world spin.  Do me a favor, though: when you're drunk and talking too loud, don't turn to a stranger near you and slur loudly, "Atholl Brose".  I like your nose just fine the way it is now.

Saint Arnold Brewing Co., Icon Amarillo Hefe

Hey! You want a nice clean and pleasant beer?  Then go grab the hell out of this Icon Amarillo Hefe.  It's like drinking a beer flavored air conditioner, and who hasn't dreamed of doing that?

This bottle of cool beauty has a number of things going for it.  First off, the label is slick as shit.  Matte black with green foil, damn.  Secondly, there is some stupid shit printed on the under-side of the cap.  I think it said, "What's cooking?" or "What's brewing?" or some dumb shit, but, still, it's fun to find a little bottle cap note.  Third, it tastes great.  It was more fun to drink it out of a glass but the same taste-joy can be achieved straight from the bottle (if pretentiousness isn't your thing).  Finally, and this is in many ways a generic claim, if you say "Diet" before "Amarillo Hefe" is has fewer calories.  That last one is a lie, but it is totally true.  I'm digging this beer.

Seriously.  Look at that beautiful bottle.  So dark, so mysterious, so full of promise.  Often a good looking bottle is just a last ditch effort to make a bad beer more marketable (I'm looking at you, Shiner Blonde).  But they just did this beer up proper, soup to nuts.

It has this rich malty flavor, with a nice chewiness, without being overly heavy, and maintaining a light but layered flavor.  It smells a bit like summer, but the hops just sings harmony.  It's like they wanted to step back from the trend of going balls-out in one direction or the other, malty or hoppy, and really put in the effort to make a balanced beer, a good beer.  Who knew Houston could produce anything but horrible shit?

Houston, which has taken to much precious from us all and returned nothing but filth and hate, has finally produced something the rest of the world can approve of, or, dare I say, can even like.  All it took to begin to redeem Houston was Amarillo.

Drink the beer.  You'll enjoy it.  Or, if you don't enjoy it, you are un-American, and the ghost of Senator McCarthy will wait for you under your bed.

Monchshof Kellerbier

If there is one thing that understands me, it is German lagers.  Which is good, 'cause I sure as hell don't understand them.  I mean, what the fluff does "Kellerbier" even mean?  Does anyone even know?  It's just a random collection of letters, like "Monchshof" and "German."  One thing I do know about German lagers is this: I like 'em.  They taste like good beer.  If I had to die tomorrow I'd want to go out drinking German Lagers, rolling nude in my Skittles pool, spoiled nasty from a lifetime of riches and excess, and surrounded by my spurned and disowned loved ones.

Did you know that the Germans are legally barred from putting any weird shit in their beer?  It's true.  I read about it on the interwebs (those things you are on now)!  The Germans, I believe, hate both weird (non-sex related) shit and bad beers, and I show my approval by drinking their good beers to excess.

Monchshof Kellerbier, from Kulmbacher Brauerei,  is some tasty (non-sex related) beer.  There is a malty perfection, and smoothness of smokey beer liquid in my face.  It has a good body and nice legs.  Not so much by way of tits.  Two out of three, though...  Yup, good beer.

I'd like to wax poetic and ramble on about it if I wasn't so busy drinking.  So, clearly, good beer.  Drink this beer.

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.

NBBCo Mexican Cannon

I smell like bug spray, sweat, and sunshine.  The temperature is a brisk 91. I've got a special Mariachi Puro radio playlist on the speakers.  The lawn is mowed, and it is time for the second installment of post lawn mowing beer reviews.

In honor of Omar's love of Texas history, his current absence from the city, and how he can't drink booze while he's on some meds, I have chosen New Braunfels Brewing Co.'s Mexico Cannon, a "hand made wheat ale."  It was brewed in honor of a cannon given to the colony of Gonzales blah, blah, blah, some other stuff, blah... beer.  Omar does that history shit.  I focus on drinking beer.

I've set the scene for you, so now I take a sip, aaannnnnd... this beer is horrible.  It sucks on a Dyson cyclone technology level.

Have you ever received a present that looks super cool in the wrapping, but when you open it, is really just a punch in the balls?  It is an overrated experience, and best avoided.  But if you're looking for the thrill, this beer is for you.

The label talks about a "briskly sour [taste] with a puckeringly salty lime punch [in the balls]."  It tastes like I dropped my rancid margarita in the gulf, tried to scoop it back into my glass, then took leave of my reason and drank it.  When I read the label at the shop, I thought it could be good.  I still think the idea is sound, but holy hell, this is aweful.  This beer has tainted my post-mow beer ritual.

A part of life's beauty is now dead.

On principle, I'm going to finish this wretched bottle of salty malted shit.  Afterwords, I'll probably have to blow a ship-full of sailors just to get this horrible taste out of my mouth.  I like to think the worst that can happen if I try a bad beer is that I have a beer, which ain't so bad.  After this bad beer, however, I will have to re-mow my lawn just so I can drink a decent post-mow beer.  That may seem extreme, but this beer is seriously terrible.  Now I have to get the lawn mower back out and hope to hell that I have a modelo in the fridge.

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.

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.

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 Birthday Beer Bonanza

It is important to start off your birthday with a bit of your favorite booze.  I started with a sip of the Bruichladdich favorite, the Classic Laddie.  My scotch was the perfect start to what would turn out to be a fantastic birthday.  I would try many new beers, enjoy a day out-doors, drink and eat with my friends, overindulge appropriately, and really roll around in the one day a year that I don't have any responsibilities or cares.

One very important element in a carefree day is to get someone else to drive.  As luck would have it, I have a very good friend who was willing to haul my ass around all day.  Diego is good like that, and we set out for Jester King Brewery just before noon.  I don't know if you've ever been, but I'll assume you have.  Do you remember how the traffic was oddly terrible driving out there?  No changes to that yet.  One minute you're in heavy traffic, then less so, rinse and repeat.  The brewery is still way the hell out there, and traffic is the only real point of interest on the drive.

The place opens at noon, and by the time we got there at 12:40 it was already packed.  They waved us to the overflow parking field where we got to look in to one of the greatest mysteries of all time.  Take a look at the picture below:

That is a big nearly empty field.  So nearly empty it could be passed off as a mere overflow parking area.  But, is it?  No, that thingy in the middle:

This thingy...

Vent for a nuclear silo/fat-cat bunker.  Sure, they dressed it down to keep the riff raff away, but we know.  We know.  When the bombs start falling, this field is destination #1 to watch our mighty retaliation fly and then duck and cover.  It is just that kind of advanced observation and comprehension skills that earned me the nickname "The Sherlock of the South."  It's true.  Ask anyone.

But onto the brewerying, and the satellite bars of many joys.  When you, for your birthday, go out to Jester King, don't get roped into the disturbingly long and slow line for the pizza/beer bar like we did.  Well, like Diego did.  I'm a cripple.  I got's privileges, yo. I camped, lump-like, at one of the many picnic table in the main beer hall, while Diego double-kneed it through the line to get us started.  You will not be so gullible.  You will head straight for the quietly pleasant...

Where the beer flows like beer.

Diego slogged through the line, Atreyu-like, suffering the loss of his own personal Artax (dignity), and my first wish was granted.  I named it

Jolly Pumpkin Artisan Ale: Oro de Calabaza

From Dexter, MI

8% ABV

Biere de Garde (French for "Fancy Pants")

This beer had every chance to suck completely.  I has a pompous name.  It is French-sounding.  It is available in half-pints.  All the red flags of snob-brew.  The first thing you taste is the distinctive sourness, then the hops do a little dance, you make a face, did someone see your sour face, but, the catch is, you kind of like it.  The next sip is better still.  I would call this a mildly challenging beer.  By the bottom of the glass I was pretty into it.  But I knew I wasn't going back for seconds.

We sat.  We talked.  We saw twin albino kids playing in the sun without hats on.  An Asian child (with a hat on) made a break for the parking lot when his mother wasn't looking.  Several usurpers were celebrating their birthdays there too.  Imitation is the least profitable form of flattery.  It was my turn to buy the beer.

Clever me, I hobbled attractively to the Pasture Bar, with its short line.  The dice were rolled on a stout.

Prairie Artisan Ales: Limo Tint

From Krebs, OK

5.65% ABV

Milk/Sweet Stout

"What is life without challenge?  What value is success without struggle?"

~said the gimp carrying two beers~

The Limo ain't half bad.  Dark, cold, and smooth with a milky and velvety follow through.  But, a bit thin for my tastes.  Diego found it to be like a porter, but a lot thinner and very carbonated.

Towards the bottom of the Limo Tint, Thomas, Katie, and the wee-baby Thor rolled in.  So did our pizza coincidentally.  It was a tasty combo of tomatoes, arugula, and bacon.  Very yum.  The crust was just the right kind of chewy.  The kind that makes you ask:

"Chewy, is that you?"

~J. Dodson (Superfly)

After a lifetime of sexual deviance, Thomas can no longer eat a pizza.  Katie joined us for a slice while Thomas braved the line, returning with garlic knots and another beer.

Revolver Brewing: Blood and Honey

From Granbury, TX

7% ABV

Pale Wheat Ale

It is very possible my experience with this beer was unduly influence by uninspired dish-washing, because my first thought on putting this one in my face was, "soap."  After the soap, there was a light malt, then light and sweet orange and coriander flavors.  This is a very drinkable beer.  Easy to find around town, and pretty enjoyable.  Also, it has a kick-ass name.  It doesn't have much of a "wow" factor.  Does that matter?  I'd drink this again any time.  Not sure that I'd buy a six pack for the house, though.

The scene was set for the cake that Diego had bought and inscribed with friendly sentiment.  We had painstakingly smuggled in this beast of a confection past the watchful "No outside food or beverages" sign.  Yep, we bad!

I went back for another stout.  With family, music and and beer, I play favorites.  And me and stout, we got history enough for favorites.  Stouts first opened my eyes to the world of beer beyond wimpy, down-stream lagers.  It was the search for an elusive stout that lead me to home brewing.  They are my go-to brew.  At the bar I had seen an impressive name:

 Bear Republic Brewing Co.: Big Bear Black Stout

From Healdsburg, CA

8.1% ABV

Imperial Stout

As you can see, this is an impressive looking brew, like a mason jar of espresso with a kiss of creme.  And that name, Big Bear Black Stout, it wears that name like it was a lumberjack's codpiece (plaid flannel, with the sleeves rolled up).  The flavors are fundamental, malt, chocolate, coffee, and *goddamit* soap again.  But it is all sound and fury.  This beer doesn't deliver on the in-your-face big flavor the name implies.  Diego summed it up as run of the mill, was certain he could take it in a fight, and renamed it "Sickly Cub."  

Around this beer, Team Reidy threw in the spit-up towel.  I eventually found the can with its unforgivable man-trough, and later we captured an escaped chihuahua. Diego and I eventually packed up the table and headed for one of the other satellite bars.  The one with the barrel aged beers.  

Jester King: Coquetier

From Austin, TX

7.5% ABV

Brandy Barrel Aged Farmhouse Ale with Cubeb, Anise, and Lemon

At this point, my jotted-down notes become a little unclear, so I will quote the full text of what I have for this beer.

"coquetier

-puppy dog drink = diego

-sour, zesty, cirtus [sic], sour, omar in belton, lemon (citrus)"

Make of that what you will, but I think I means I was really enjoying myself.  I didn't finish, and didn't want to finish this beer.  It would have been a very long trip from the top to the bottom and I didn't have the heart for it.  I enjoyed drinking what I did drink of this beer, but don't remember liking it.

It was time to leave.  I needed leeks and onions for a soup, so we thought we might go by Central Market and have a beer and a nosh while we grabbed my groceries.  We ate our snacks and drank our beer.  We watched the people as they went about their day, we sat, and we talked.  I had a bottle of Lone  Star, so, for those of you who are interested:

Afterwords we hung out at the house for a while.  We might have watched some TV.  Omar eventually joined us.  And then, I made soup.

 Happy Birthday, me.

Drinking Night with the Fella(s) 4-23-15 or The Ayenbite of Inwyt

I have regrets.

The "ayenbite of inwyt", or the "prick of one's conscious" to us normals,  let's just call it, "regret."  Or, maybe we should call it The Donk.  I learned of The Donk today and am filled with ayenbite, probably of inwyt and sausage.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.  On Thursdays, I have drinks with the fellas, and I indulge.  I occasionally over-indulge.  Tonight, for this mid week interlude, I will tell you all about it.

After work on Thursdays, I sit through the happiest traffic in the world because I am going to meet the fellas for a beers.  Generally speaking, I get to look forward to 45 minutes to an hour of traffic, and it is worth it.  I actually look forward to it.  Not only am I out of work for the day, but I'm on my way to drinking night.  This week, I only met up with Diego, because Omar was sick, and Thomas has "responsibilities" (like a chump).  We met at Mr. Tramps.

Sometimes Mr. Tramps has trivia night, so we don't go there on those nights.  We also don't eat there anymore, having learned our lesson in our bathrooms late at night.  When I arrived tonight, Diego was already one beer ahead of me, the sneaky bastard.  So I sat down and ordered one of what he was having, a nitous infused double chocolate stout, and a side of onion rings.  I was hungry enough to risk the food, which was a mistake.  The beer was delightful, full bodied, frothy, rich, malty, and everything it should be.  A fine post-work starter beer.  The onion rings... well, I knew better, and I now I felt that specter, that ghoul, that ayenbite of inwyt (to stretch a definition way too far).  A plate of greasy, crunchy circles both delicious and revolting.  We ate them with gusto and remorse (and some kind of dipping sauce).  That was the first regret of the evening.  Then we left to get bar-b-que.

I had never been to Slab BBQ, but I saw they had an all-day special on "domestic" beer and sliders.  When we got there I learned two very important things: 1, don't let Diego pick our your dinner, and 2, I seem to have been very confused about what the word "domestic" means.

First, let us talk about The Donk.  This is what Diego decided I should eat for dinner, and I, like a lemming, decided to go with it.  Here is a link to the menu for Slab BBQ (http://realdopebbq.com/menu/).  Go, and see the description of The Donk.  Begin to understand my pain.  I ate that.  All of that.  I am not proud.  The cute bar tender egged me on maliciously.  Diego was remorseless.  Even now, I have gut-full of hate for him and another regret for the evening.  Later, I will begin to partially rid myself of this hate, most likely starting at 3 in the morning.  Did I mention the cute bar tender?  She was cute.

Secondly, the word "domestic" seems to mean "shitty".  That's just an FYI, at a bar domestic = shitty, and those rates definitely don't apply to any beer you would ever want to drink.

I skipped the "domestic" beer and had a cider.  According to my note, I had a TV Honkey Cider.  Perhaps I wrote that down poorly.  It was a tasty cider all the same.  I wonder what it was really called.  Unlike the cider brewing in my kitchen, this one was sweet and crisp.  Sadly, it had to fight for attention with The Donk.  The Goddam Donk.  Despite (or because of) the adorable chiding of the cute bartender, I finished The Donk (pictured below).

Who's hungry?  Not friggin' me.  I had regrets, so, I had a Robert Honey Pils.  That's a different kind of beer.  I drank it.  It wasn't half bad.  To be honest, I don't remember it.  I think I was still reeling from The Donk when I drank it, but I have no negative feelings about the beer so I couldn't have been too bad.  

We drank, we solved many of the world's problems, there were some pop culture references, I think I probably said something embarrassing or awkward.  I love drinking night with the guy(s).

And then I got home OK.