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!

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.

Seguin Brewing Co., Honey Pecan cream Ale #5

Do you remember the excitement of trying a new beer?  I always get a tickle when I pull something new and exciting from the shelf, chill it in the fridge, get out my favorite beer glass, and pour a nice fancy glass of adventure.  Even if the beer is nothing special (or often terrible), I'm gonna have a good time finding out.  I am Yuri Gagarin, Tenzing Norgay, and a dude eating truck stop sushi all rolled into one.

Seguin Brewing Co. has offered up this Honey Pecan Cream Ale #5, and I, Yuri Norgay the sushi adventurer, am bored shit-less by it.  It isn't bad or anything.  If it was bad, I'd have something to write about.  It isn't good either.  It's just... well... it might as well be beige.  If someone told me I had to throw the rest of the bottle away, I could do it without a second thought.  It tastes like a medium bodied, honey tinged, generic ale-flavored ale.  It is perfectly acceptable and tastes just fine.  I'm thinking of having some chips.

I'm not even sure why it is so dull.  More than that, I super don't care.  As a beer lover (snicker snicker), I feel like I should have an opinion, be reminded of something, or give even a modest fuck about a new beer.  But, no.  I've watched 3 tv shows and part of a movie while writing this, I still have plenty of beer left, and not a single damn to give.

The lesson to take away from all this is simple: when life give you lemons, make lemonade, but when life gives you plain white sandwich bread, enjoy your dry toast.

Dogfish Head Punkin Ale

I really hate pumpkin beverage season.  It is that part of the year when America yanks down it's pants and shines a pale moon on decency and taste.  Sadly, it feels more and more like I'm one of the few reasonable people left who didn't drink the pumpkin spice kool-aid.  The good folks at Dogfish Head, who's experimental beers have been both an inspiration and a disappointment, have put on their paper pants, shaved their heads and pledged their souls to the goddam gourd.  Hope is dead.

This week's beer combines the pumpkin I despise and the brewery I respect but don't like, Dogfish Head Pumpkin Ale.  I figured, why not kill myself with two birds while getting stoned.  Flawless plan, right?

So, here is how I screwed up my plan: I liked the beer.

Yeah, for seriously. Punkin Ale is a far cry from the best beer I've ever had (I miss you, Fifty/Fifty), but, dammit, it was just fine.  I might even say it was, amazingly, not bad.  The "punkin" is understated enough not to get my heckles in an upright and locked position.  The "ale" was mild, reasonable, and restrained, unusual in a Dogfish Head.  Combine those two and you have a drinkable, interesting, not hateful, beer.  You won't run back out for a six-pack, but you won't vomit a little in your mouth either.

When I realized I was kinda enjoying a pumpkin beer, then I threw up a little in my mouth.  A gastric expression of the shame I felt, tempered only by my ability to keep my mouth shut.  What do I do next?  I go and write a blog about it.  You're disappointed in me.  I'm disappointed in me.  Nobody is happy with the way this beer drinkin' turned out.  I was looking forward to drinking pumpkin-piss beer and spitting vitriol.  It seems that the hated seasonal squash and Dogfish Head Brewery have teamed up to rob me of my hate.  I finished the beer.  Maybe I even allowed myself to enjoy it for a second.  Now I feel 12 oz emptier, with a beer-size hole in my heart where my hate should have been.

Save yourselves from this existential nightmare, this fall stay away from all things liquid pumpkin, don't make my mistakes.

Texas Keeper Cider Weizen

Lets take a moment to appreciate good beer.

Mmmmmmm.... beer...

OK.  Did you do it?  You're a horrible bastard if you didn't, you know.  Beer, good beer more so, has done so much for us, you and me personally, that it deserves a moment of appreciation.  So, if you skipped it, take that moment now.

In the last few weeks, I have dunked my head in the finest of the world's beer rivers (pictured below).

The Fifty-Fifty Eclipse Imperial Stout, was,without a doubt, one of the finest beers ever aged in a whisky barrel and bottled for my personal joy.  I won't say much about it, except that it redefined what a goddam great beer is.  (Not available in Texas).

The Fifty-Fifty was so good, in fact, that I was tempted to try something... different for this week's beer blog.  A cider.  

I was conflicted at first: is it really a beer, does it have a place in this blog, am I being wild and brash, what are these feelings I'm feeling, do I dare do all that may become a man?  After a period of reflection and meditation, I decided to go ahead and try the cider.  What is the worst that can happen?

Texas Keeper Cider Weizen, cider made with fancy beer yeasts.  It is a dry cider, with an interesting idea behind it.  It is also horse-piss swill, and I don't even think that horse was a diabetic.  Sure I choked it down, but only to decide how much I hated it.  I hated it very many and super much.  

I have enjoyed many ciders.  Most of them were acceptable, some were even good, but there are always a few bad apples.  

"I'm funny as hell and deserve this award for Best Pun Of The Century."

~J. "Bad Apples" Dodson

9-2015

Pun Awards Dinner acceptance speech

This cider sucks, but mainly because it is a very dry cider.  I accept that some weirdos like dry ciders.  That's fine.  As long as they don't try to force their beliefs on me (I'm looking at you, IPA people).  If that's your bag, then by all means, chug away.  For me, I will continue to look for a decent and respectable beverage, something more in line with my system of beliefs.  I'm a decent person.  That's how I roll.

I hope that, if you take something away from this blog, you make an effort to drink good beverages instead of bad ones, and where bad ones enter your life, you have the good sense to recognize and shun them.  In that spirit, I invite you to join with me in a pledge:

"I, (state your name), pledge to drink mostly exclusively good booze, and will cast my vote

for the Author of this blog to win the Best Pun Of The Century Award, just as soon as I can."

Thank you

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.

Big Bend Hefeweizen

Outdoor drinking has two very important components: booze and dedication. You need the booze to have something to drink, obviously. But you need the dedication to get you through the compromises you will need to make.

I have chosen Big Bend Hefeweizen as my booze today. It looked light, flavorful, refreshing, and thoroughly Texan. Also, I thought it might make for a decent supplemental beer blog. It's 5.5% ABV, comes in a pleasing looking can, and spews some "Hurray! Texas!" crap that is always fun to read. It's chewier and creamier than I thought it would be (or should be), but has an overall pleasing taste. If they'd called it a cream ale I would have no complaints. But in general, I'm happy to drink it. Outdoors. Because I have dedication, dammit!

The compromises of outdoor drinking are serious. How much comfort are you willing to sacrifice? Can you carry as much as you want to drink? How warm is cold enough for your booze? What is your plan when you have to pee? Can you deal with sunscreen sweat mixing with your drink? Ants? Fucking Ants?! You'll almost certainly need non-booze hydration, and that's going to affect your hard-earned buzz. I don't know what your limits are, but here is how I packed to go to Blues On the Green with a few other folks:

1 large insulated shopping bag 1 smaller insulated shopping bag
1 pocket sunscreen
1 collapsible chair and carry bag
1 bag lime ranch chips
6 pack Big Bend Hefeweizen
6 pack diet Dr. Pepper (beer calories only)
500 ml Rex-Goliath box chardonnay
1 liter bottle water
1 extra bag for empties and other trash

The chilled liquids go in the smaller bag, which Russian nesting-dolls into the larger bag along with the chips. No ice! Not only would ice add weight, but would also result in needing to dry out my grocery bags once the condensation puddles. The pocket sunscreen goes in a pocket. One bag and one folding chair are portable enough to get me to a shady spot comfortably, even with cane taking up my other hand. The chair folds out. The shoes come off. A beer is cracked. Sunscreen if you're pale. And begin.

Buffalo Bayou Brewing Co., 1836 A Copper Ale

"If you have to ask what 1836 stands for, please put down this beer and leave our country."

This Houstonian beer has a request.  You probably read what that request is.  I wrote it down, in bold and italics, centered, as the first line of this week's beer blog.  It's right up there at the top.  Go read it again.

So, what does 1836 stand for?  If you aren't sure, don't know, or know exactly what the fuck it stands for, then you are probably right.  I looked it up*.  Let me just say this: whatever you think or don't know at all, more than one thing happened that year.

I'll go into details at the end of the blog, but first, let's all raise a glass to the hopes of one day razing Houston (the city that shares a slogan with Bruges) to the ground.  If you toasted that disgusting swamp with this 1836, then you already know that you are holding 12oz of 5.7% ABV of "handcrafted" (whatever that means) ale from the good people at Buffalo Bayou Brewing Co.  And you also know that it isn't half bad.

This is a very clean beer.  While mostly balanced, and certainly with a solid malty chewiness, the flavor finishes towards a slightly citrus-y and mildly bitter hoppiness.  There are no frills, no bells or whistles.  Excitement and exceptionalism aren't the point of this beer.  This a beer for a beer drinker, and the aficionados can go to hell.  I'd drink this in a bar with my friends, and I'd be having a good time doing it.

One glass in, and no signs of slowing down.  I was worried the malt might get heavy, or the hop finish might turn my sour stomach, but, no.  I think I need a six of this in the fridge.  I'm glad that I'm drinking this Hoth-cold.  It seems right.  I don't think this a beer that would still work as it warms up.

Hey!  Ben Mallott's Shotgun Suzy just came on, and it might be just the perfect pace and tone to fully enjoy the 1836.  Go find it**, crack a can, pour, sit, sip, and listen.  I think you'll agree that your life is now a slight, but important bit better.  See if your local beer DJ can't hook you up.

But, back to the elephant on the label: 1836.  Did you think of the Alamo?  How about Texas independence from Mexico (because fuck you, Mexico, with your sovereignty and slaveless-ness)?  Did you perhaps conjure images of Charles Darwin and the Beagle returning to Englad?  Well, I don't know what this can was thinking specifically, but it has an old-time-y looking map and a fringed-sleeved arm lofting a rifle, so probably either the Alamo or Texas independence.  For the sake of shitting in Buffalo Bayou's breakfast cereal (for the crime of lacking specificity), here is a short list of some of the notable events of 1836:

Jan 5th - Davy Crockett arrives in Texas, just in time for the Alamo
Feb 23rd - Alamo besieged for 13 days until 6th March by Mexican army under General Santa Anna; entire garrison eventually killed
Feb 25th - Samuel Colt patents 1st revolving barrel multishot firearm
Mar 2nd - Republic of Texas declares independence from Mexico in Columbia
Mar 5th - Samuel Colt manufactures 1st pistol, 34-caliber "Texas" model
Mar 6th - Battle of the Alamo: after 13 days of fighting 1,500-3,000 Mexicans overwhelm the Texans at the Alamo, killing 182-257 Texans including William Travis, Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett
Mar 16th - Texas approves a constitution
Mar 17th - Texas abolishes slavery
Apr 14th - Congress forms Territory of Wisconsin
Apr 20th - Territory of Wisconsin created
Apr 21st - Battle of San Jacinto, in which Texas wins independence from Mexico
Jun 15th - Arkansas becomes 25th state of the Union
Jul 4th - Wisconsin Territory forms
Aug 30th - The city of Houston is founded by Augustus Chapman Allen and John Kirby Allen
Sep 5th - Sam Houston elected president of Republic of Texas
Oct 2nd - Darwin returns to England aboard HMS Beagle (after 5 years)
Oct 22nd - Sam Houston inaugurated as 1st elected pres of Republic of Texas
Dec 7th - Martin Van Buren elected 8th president
Dec 14th - The Toledo War unofficially ends.
Dec 28th - Spain recognizes independence of Mexico
Dec 30th - Lehman Theater in St Petersburg catches fire; 100s die

Did you guess right?  Do you have to put down your beer and leave the country?  Either way, Houston sucks and you don't have to do anything they tell you to.  But do try the beer because I tell you to.  S'good beer.

*Googled it

**https://youtu.be/h1JMp0_Yjvs This is not the best recording, so go buy the album you pirate!

Magic Hat Stealin' Time Summer Wheat while watching Alien3

What happens when you combine Magic Hat's Stealin' Time summer wheat ale with a few hours watching Aline3?

It wasn't the best Alien movie.  It isn't the best beer.  But I have an evening to myself and nothing to do but write about beer.  So, I started the movie and cracked my first beer.

The beer was cold when Newt and Hicks died.  By the time Ripley woke up and the dog was clearly going to be in trouble, the bottle had started to sweat.  When the bodies started dropping the crispness of the cold wheat beer was cutting through the heavy handed set designs and color palettes, No beer will ever be enjoyable when a dog is killed (theatrical or not, that was a cute rottweiler).  And by the cafeteria scene I was on beer number 2.

Like I said, this isn't the best beer ever, but it is a good beer.  Pretty much everything Magic Hat puts out is good.  They do some excellent work and keep up a fun and light-hearted corporate nature.  This particular beer is a quality wheat beer.  Do you like wheat beer? If so, you'll like this one just fine.  You won't write home about it.  You won't taste the  tears of god in it.  You certainly won't need a change of pants after drinking it.  But, you'll like it just fine.

And similarly, the movie sure ain't getting a 100% on Rotten Tomatoes (it has a 44%).  The plot is half-assed and regurgitated.  Two thirds of the cast the fans wanted died before the opening credits rolled.  People keep on making fucking speeches and speeches and more goddam speeches. The only real saving grace for the cast that is in this movie is that most of them die horribly.  But, there are some decent performances.  The set design and photography is pretty good.  The whole thing would make a great Doctor Who episode (with barely any rewrites needed, just a few name changes).  Alien3, for all its many faults isn't totally without merit or entertainment value.

You know, by beer three, it's really easy to get into this flick.  I care about how viciously the xenomorph will demolish this prisoners.  And now that the company men are on scene, I want to down this beer to make sure I have a very cold, very crisp beer for when they get theirs'.  Oh, how I hope they get theirs'.

Beer says "F' yeah! Bishop!"  But, human Bishop is bad.  He's a bad bad man.  Magic Hat and Ripley don't trust human Bishop.  Aw, snap!  Human Bishop is a dirty company-man, a repulsive

hold on, need a new beer...

Anyway, he's a shit and Ripley just Terminator 2'd herself.  Perfect form too.  So, yeah... fluff Weyland/Yutani and their bio-weapons division.  And, fluff me, I drank a few beers and have to pee.

That movie mostly sucked, but the beer was mostly good.  I'm going to rename this beer Wastin' Time, because "stealin'", my ass.  This is a time wastin' beer.  I'm glad I wasted time with it, and you will be too.  Go for the 6-pack.

No Label Brewing Co., Forbidden Lavender

Ain't it cute when the Grim Reaper sneaks some plants into your beer?  That is the surface of the question posed by the label art on this interesting bottle from No Label Brewing Co. in Katy, TX.  I'll gloss over the part where there clearly is a label, and just point out what seems very odd about it.


You can see at first glance, it's not so bad.  Actually, it's sort of a pleasant label, good fonts, nice pleasing colors, mostly legible.  It has a femininity to the art and an overall curious appeal.  So, you buy it, take it home, chill it, and eventually pour yourself a glass.  But while you're pouring this refreshing beverage, you give the bottle a little twist.  The lines draw your eye to the right, following that strange curve to its terminus.  And then what the fluffy hell are you looking at?  It's the goddam Grim Reaper seemingly stuffing flowers in your beer.  Or is it?  Scratch that surface even a tiny bit, and what you've got there is a picture of the Grim Reaper stroking his bone and jizzing all over the name of the beer.

Go look for yourself.  I'll wait.

You see that shit?  What the hell, No Label Brewing Co.?  Was this lable worth abandoning what is clearly the basic conceit of your brewery?

And look at that smirk on Grimmy... He knows.  He knows you're looking.  He knows what you see.  And he loves it.  Now that he caught you staring, he's going to "finish the whole bottle," if you get my meaning.  What a perv.

Surprisingly, the Jizz Beer of Death is pretty good.  Maybe long-holing those stems is a great way to pack some flavor into a beer.  The methods are clearly questionable, but the results are great.

The label describes it as a "wit style ale brewed with lavender," which doesn't really describe what's going on here, flavor-wise.  The fist thing to hit you is the smell, light, but defined lavender (slightly on the soapy side).  Next the flavors of sweet malt, herb-y lavender, and maybe even a bit earthy on the finish all float across the palate on little happy bubbles.  It's good.  I like it.  Be warned, though: this is definitely a chick beer.  This is even more of a chick beer than Dos Equis, which is the very definition of a chick beer.

My plan is to one day buy another bottle of this Forbidden Lavender, chill it good and cold in the far-far-Narnia-back of the fridge where no one will ever see it, turn out all the lights, and pour my beer into my chilled glass under cover of darkness, sneak into my waiting pillow fort and enjoy another one of these beer as quietly as possible.  You can join me, if you don't tell nobody, OK.

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.

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.

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.