Recently I toured the Stone brewery in Escondido, and boy is it pretty. Anyone who lives in the area should take a spin in that direction. But this isn’t about the building, this is about the beer they make in it. I’ll be the first to admit, hoppy beers aren’t my normal drink of choice. And Stone beers are nothing if not hoppy. But I’m learning to appreciate quality beer even if it takes bitter beer face to the extreme. All told, I tried their Pale Ale, IPA, Arrogant Bastard, Smoked Porter, Russian Imperial Stout, and Old Guardian barley wine. The first four were part of a sampler that they offer after the tour. The stout and the barley wine we took home and drank later. All of their beers were good, but suffered from a bit too much flavor, text book 3’s all around.

When I finally got to the barley wine, it didn’t take long to get to me. With the word “wine” in the name, it seems like it could be classy. But at 11% abv, the 1 pint, 6 oz. bottle that they sell it in is more than enough to get me feeling… loopy. I got to admit though, I think Old Guardian is my favorite of all the Stone brews. It has that signature hoppiness that all Stone brews have, but it doesn’t kick quite as much. Maybe the high alcohol content and the high hop content cancel each other out, I don’t know. All I know is that I liked it.

Hoegaarden Witbier - When shopping at Haggen for an appropriate beer for break-time-post-Home-Demolition-101-swillage at Frosty’s place, this beer practically lept off of the shelf into my shopping cart. It’s name was that good. Heck, I bought this beer for the name alone. That fact that it’s a style I like was just a bonus. After the wife saw what I had chosen, I got one of “those looks” from her, but we’ve all learned when we can safely ignore those. This was one of those times.

Around 11:30 on sunday, the time came to till the Hoegaarden. Of the eight people and one NEW beer at Frosty’s house on Sunday, only four of them were even remotely possibly candidates for wrapping my lips around. Doing so to the first of those four, Mrs. Frosty, would have resulted in rifts in the space-time continuum that I’m not prepared to deal with. Doing so to the second of those four, Mrs. Jockey, would have just been plain awkward in a public venue with children around. Doing so to the third of those four, Frosty….well let’s not go there, he’s not my type…..and he was just plain filthy by this time anyway. Alas, the fourth option was my only real choice.

With quivering lips and fluttering eyes, I watched Frosty pour the golden elixer into a frosty glass for me. I almost had to excuse myself. My first taste was WOW, this is interesting stuff! Let me try more and continue to deflower the Hoehaagarden with my quivering lips. The wildly different Belgian Hoe’s yeasty, fruity but not fruity flavor started to become more natural. I finished the glass quickly and savored every elicit drop.

This is good stuff, contrary to what the women in the room thought. Mrs. Frosty’s comment will live forever in my mind along with memories of this beir: “Hoegaarden - It tastes like a hotdog.”

You can tell this isn’t a woman’s beer from comments like that. The tasting of hotdogs is something this not often spoken of inside the sanctity of marriage unless you’re one of those lucky few most of us envy. Since my lovely, caring, radiantly beautiful, and nurturing spouse had similar, although much more interesting facial reactions to this bier, she’ll not be drinking more of it either.

More for me! I can quietly relish the remaining four and ponder my hotdog in peace.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoegaarden_Brewery

…aka Aftertaste attack, OMG the aftertaste…did I mention the aftertaste?

Some time ago, Skylark was waxing poetic about this brewery in Eugene, Oregon called Ninkasi. It had something to do with the brewmaster but I can’t remember whether he met him, slept with him, stole his dog or what. He spoke with a salvating tone about the opportunity to try one of these hard to find beers.

So imagine my delight when I saw a bottle at my local beer pusher. ‘Here’s my chance to see what all the fuss is about’, I thought. I’ve often been a big fan of the red ales (Karl Strauss Red Trolley was an early favorite), so I decided to grab the intriguingly titled “Believer Double Red Ale”. From the bottle:

The ancient Sumerians worshipped the beer they made, and praised the Goddess Ninkasi for the miracle of fermentation. Beer is a staple of civilization. Worship the Goddess.

Well, my friends, count me among the non-believers. ‘Cause OMG the aftertaste. The shame is that the flavor of the beer as you drink it is actually pretty good. Its when you stop that all hell breaks loose. Its like it alive. The face twisting after taste literally feels like it wandering around my mouth, punching every taste bud it finds. I’ve had cheek smash before, but this is more like cheek ultra-violence. “Like rubbing a piece of cedar on your cheeks”, the wife says.

I’m not ready to write of Ninkasi just yet, as they have some good sounding beers in the stable. Instead I just warn you to proceed with caution, its “that time of the month” and  this Goddess is vengeful.

Yikes! Whooo!!! As I write this, I’m about halfway through a bottle of Samichlaus, and I’m quite loopy — this beer is advertised as officially rated by the Guinness Book of Records as the strongest beer in the world, at 14% alcohol, more even than the malt liquors I’ve been reviewing. This is not a beer for the mild at heart — the flavor more than stands up to the bite from all the alcohol, and needless to say the alcohol itself will cause some complications in your life if you have one, say, on an empty stomach at the start of a business lunch. (”No sir, we didn’t land the Stevens account, because I burped up my spinach omelet into the salad bar…”) It has a licorice taste reminiscent of McEwan’s (or about eight McEwan’s distilled down into a thick slurry) to go along with the kick from the alcohol. All beers over 7 or 8 percent alcohol have a punch-in-the-teeth “Holy Crud!” bite to them, probably from the unexpected combination of beer taste and ethanol. I just dunno if it works, though — ale flavor can’t really stand up well to the alcohol kick as well as other boozy non-beer beverages in the same range, for example cinnamon schnapps (whose taste could overwhelm coal tar).

The label is strangely understated (though the font is so gothic and serif-advanced that I can barely make out the name), much as the champagnes that are superior have the bland labels — they don’t need lots of fuss and business for Jay-Z to know to buy them. Plenty of fuss goes into making this beer, however — it is brewed only once a year on December 6th (St. Nicholas’ birthday — “Samichlaus” translates as Santa Claus), then is left to age for ten months to age before escaping to specialty beer stores. Hardly needs to be said, completely wasted on me. For the average joe like me, this is the beer equivalent of $100 wine that you and 19 of your friends bought together just to see what all the fuss is. And for me, the fuss with Samichlaus turned out to be not much more than getting unexpectedly plowed on a Tuesday night…

I haven’t had this beer in a long time. And yet, it hasn’t been long enough. I can’t even describe the bad that was the taste of this beer. This beer, if you want to call it that, holds the distinction of being the only beer I would not and could not finish. I know that Trader Joe’s isn’t known for its proper beer storage ways, but that can’t be the reason behind the flavor of the Bavarian Hefeweizen. It goes way beyond that. Only a temporary lack of sanity could lead to this sorry beer’s release.

Our next installment of the Beers of Evil comes to us from jolly old England. Brewsters Brewing Company has the distinction of being one of the few breweries with a female brewmaster. Kudos to you sister. And kudos on this beer! Wicked Women Mata Hari is named after a World War I woman labeled as “Europe’s queen of unbridled eroticism, an exotic dancer, courtesan, harlot, great lover, spendthrift, liar, deceiver and thief.” She was later convicted by the french, virtually without evidence, of being a spy for Germany and was executed by firing squad. If that’s not inspiration for a beer, then I don’t know what is.

I’ll admit, I was totally gun shy after installment one. For no good reason, I cringed as I started to drink this beer. But you know what, it was good! Its a nice copper colored ale, with a real smooth drinkability. It has a bit of fruity wheat taste, kind of like the summer wheats I dig so much. All in all, quite enjoyable. Sort of the British equivalent to “Easy Drinkin’”.

In addition to the good taste, I also have to give kudos to the Brits for the bottle. It has that funny British bottle shape, but unlike their smelly southern neighbors, it holds 1 pint, 9 ounces. That my friends, is appreciation for the drinker. And just another reason why England won the war. I’m not sure which war, but damn it I’m sure they won.

It was an indecisive day at the wall of beer. As I sat contemplating what to buy, my local beer pusher, Sally, remarked how many of the beers on the wall seemed to have a devil, evil, end of the world theme. Perhaps the brewers of America know something we don’t? I figured, well, if I have to go, I should heed the message at hand. Theme week! What better way to understand brewmaster revelations than to drink the beers themselves. For the next couple weeks or until the world ends, whichever comes first, I will be subjecting myself to and revealing to you … the Beers of Evil.

This first beer I chose, some french* job named Belzebuth, immediately grabbed my attention with its gratuitous marketing. Taking up most of the neck was the massive announcement that this beer was 13% alcohol. Savoring dreams of being piss drunk after just one bottle, I poured the bottle into a glass and realized the second thing evil about this beer.

It didn’t fill the glass! (See the picture to the right). I knew the french were annoying, but to make me angry before I’ve even had a single sip was a special accomplishment. I soon discovered however, that the bottler was actual doing me a favor.

A little bitter, but still excited, I took a sip. Reaction: “WTF is this?”. It was like I was chewing it. Full of all sorts of heavy flavors, like gulping a rotten fruit salad. I was a trooper though and resolved to get through a bit more. Thankfully the next sip didn’t taste so rotten. As a matter of fact, it didn’t taste like beer at all. It was more like tonic water with a bunch of whiskey poured in. The kind of whiskey that comes in a plastic bottle. Evil indeed. This stuff was so nasty that even though I poured it out after only three small swigs, the boozy hobo aftertaste stuck with me for the rest of the evening.

If one can call this beer, then I wouldn’t hesitate to call it about the worst beer ever. Quoth Mike Myers: “It’s not just evil, its ‘e-veel’. Like the fru-its of the de-veel”

I like Nut Browns. Anyone who has ever tried Rogue’s Hazelnut Nectar can attest to its total awesomeness. Even perennial disappointment Deschutes Brewery makes a pretty tasty Brown.

So you can imagine my total shock and dismay when I took a swig of Hale’s Irish Style Nut Brown, and immediately cringed with an intense cheek smash. Hale’s Brewery best never go to the Emerald Isle, because apparently they consider “Irish Style” to mean “tastes like crap”.

You see, where I was hoping for a nice nutty flavor, possibly with a hint of “brown tang”, I was met instead with an insane amount of hoppy teeth kick. Admittedly, I don’t like IPAs all that much (even when they taste like crotch), but I don’t even think IPA guys would like this. Its like a beer that can’t decide what to be. I can only imagine the brewers sitting around … “We can’t get this to taste right, lets just throw a bunch of hops in it”.

To their credit, Hale’s only offers this as a seasonal brew. I mean, why offend the Irish all year round?

The next entry in my tongue-pummeling series on malt licka’s, Country Club Malt Liquor is interestingly one of the very few not to go with uber-macho iconography like Steel Reserve or King Cobra. Maybe only Old English, in the world of low-class beverages, even attempts to masquerade as similar heights of culture, but both brews are equally tragic in the futility of trying to fit in as a cheap malt liquor in the grocery store next to all the genuinely classy foodstuff like water crackers or the wines they keep behind glass. Old English at least has thinly veiled menace to keep it from being outright ridiculed by the high-class food — no amount of gothic font will hide that it could call on cousins Colt 45 and Steel Reserve to kick some butt in the fine cheese aisle if need be.  Snoop Dogg probably drinks Old English, after all.  Country Club, on the other hand, leads a pitiable existence, shunned (of course) by the food and beverages you actually would expect to find consumed in a country club, and equally scorned by the other malt liquors for being such a dweeb. Country Club is perhaps the only malt licka whose artwork most definitely cannot kick your ass, whose artwork in fact you could steal lunch money from, give a wedie, then a swirlie. I wonder if it hangs out with other supermarket outcasts, like the sardines, or the little thin cigars with plastic mouthpieces.

The picture I include with this post is intended as testimony that I actually drank the thing. And I did make it all the way through, though just barely. It’s not outright undrinkable, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.  It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had (see my post on Schlitz), but if you’re looking for a 2-dollar night of fun, you could do better than this.  It is actually pretty bland for a malt liquor — the flavor is bad, but in just a general way, without any of the surprising and novel petrochemical pungencies you get with Schlitz or Steel Reserve.  Heck, Mickey’s may not be much better, but it’s at least got character.  I may not enjoy drinking Mickey’s, but I can at least imagine myself while drinking to be a South Boston street rat who’s tryin’ to make good on his lousy life by makin’ a new start in the boxin’ ring.  Drinking Country Club, what possible scenario can I envision myself in?  A WASP-y guy named Bennett with a trust fund who incongruously drives a beat-up Pinto?  Nah, the cognitive dissonance between the pretensions of the wrapper and the contents inside are just too much for me.

But it is still better than Schlitz.

This review is going to be short. Real short, because sadly, Lagunitas Censored Ale is one of those forgettable beers. It’s not awesome and not terrible. Ale-y with a slight hoppy kick, but not too obnoxious. I suppose I could try and say something funny about the fact they had to censor its original name, but much like the real Kronic, I’ve had too much and can’t feel my face….man these keys are so big…wow look at my hands!