tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3515805152357118002024-03-14T03:16:51.753-06:00Adventures in Al"brew"querqueWe both drink beer. One of us posts. The other one comments, snarks, and rebuts (in italics).Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-68820286821507282542014-06-04T14:18:00.001-06:002014-06-04T15:05:50.240-06:00Firkin AroundAs writers, we face prejudice every day. <i>(Yeah! People assume we're all literate, unemployed bums with drug and alcohol problems. But that's not fair! Unemployed is NOT the same as underpaid!)</i> Here we are, hard-working Americans, our pens working full time and our brains triple-time, and all sorts of other people have the gall, the nerve, the audacity! to presume that we live on permanent holiday. <i>(...he says, pulling his robe tighter over his pajamas several hours past lunch time...)</i><br />
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As beer-drinkers, we must lament that this is not the case. In fact, we find in our lives a distinct lack of holidays. <i>(Er, wait. What about those three hours each night when we close our eyes?)</i> We love what we do, and we love the writing life. But whatever Hemingway and Hollywood might have you believe, we do not get to enjoy pint-sized libations whenever we please.<br />
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For Frigg's sake, we've lived in Durango nearly two years, and alas, not one single month have we made our way to Steamworks for Firkin Friday!<br />
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Firkin Friday is a beautiful holiday <i>(even more so than Talk Like a Pirate Day)</i>. Or so we heard. On every first Friday, the brewery taps a single cask of a unique small-batch concoction. We've seen tell of Bailey's liqueur stouts, and pumpkin pie lagers, and peach blossom cream stouts, and rum'n'IPAs.*<br />
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*All combinations are probably original creations of this blog, but in lock step with the spirit of Firkin Friday drafts.<br />
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But then... on a magical day at the beginning of May, we were out running errands and happened to walk by Steamworks. It could have been any day. For us, it was just another day. But then we spotted the flier for Firkin Friday. That day. 3:00. And right then was 2:00. <i>(Jumpin Jack Flash, what a gasp gasp gasp!)</i><br />
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We had shit to get done. But then we shouted, "Screw it all! All of it, anyway, that we can't do at the pub!" We dashed home, dropped some stuff, picked up other stuff, and skedaddled back to the bar, where we straight away ordered two of the very first pints of Berliner Weisse brewed with wild cherry.<br />
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Berliner Weisses are strange members of the beer family. <i>(Oh, you mean like those cousin-grandmas and uncle-daddies that sprout off of twisted family trees?)</i> They come -- shockingly -- from Berlin, and are often sour and nearly always flavored. In Berlin, you either order your Weisse "rot" or "grun" <i>(sounds sooo medieval)</i>, which means red or green <i>(ohhh)</i> and makes a New Mexican feel weirdly right at home. Except that red = raspberry, and green = Waldbeere, or "wood berry," whatever the eff that is. <i>(Ah, my dad's a carpenter, so I should know what that is. Lemme' think. Wood berries.... Trunk burls! Uh...wood chips! Plank knots?)</i> So although I often shy away from additives in my beer, the wild cherries went right along with the Berliner Weisse style -- and promised to taste more natural than a shot of flavored syrup.<br />
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And my oh my, was this beer tangy <i>(and also a bit watery, like well, Tang)</i>. Not the least bit over sweet like the flavor-injected beers in Berlin <i>(and not like Otter Pops in the summer)</i>. This beer, the warm color of apricot jam, felt as zingy as fresh lemonade. <i>(Unfortunately it had about as much cherry as thirteen-year-old Lindsay Lohan.)</i> Berliner Weisses are notoriously light in alcohol -- often under 3% <i>(shame on them)</i> -- and I couldn't honestly tell if this beer was that light, or if the zippy flavors simply masked the alcohol. Either way, on the first warm day of summer, it enabled us to have another.<br />
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Evening rolled around, and Jenny had to leave for aikido practice <i>(hiccup-hi-yaw!)</i>. What was a boy to do but stay, have dinner, read his book, and try another brew? From Steamworks' extensive menu on any given day, I couldn't decide between the Irish Red and the Tax Alement ESB. So I sampled them both. The Irish Red was good -- smooth in malty caramel flavor as well as texture. (It was nitrogenated, which explains the silky suds.) The ESB ran higher in alcohol, with greater interaction between the spiced hops and lightly roasted malt.<br />
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I chose the ESB for my full pint, but got an Irish Red instead... ah well, there's worse in life than mistakenly receiving an excellent beer. (And it's not like I needed the extra alcohol anyway, what with an Iron Horse training ride the next day!)<br />
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All in all, what a jolly holiday. We really ought to firk around more often. <i>(I'll drink to that! Cheers!)</i>Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-59291822913116390142013-10-16T12:14:00.002-06:002013-10-16T12:14:47.595-06:00Steamworks: Not Just Blowing SmokeA year of living in Durango <i>(a year? really? no way it's been that long! we moved here October 2012 and now it's...uh...wait, what day is it?) </i>has given us plenty of reasons to celebrate, and in retrospect, I realize that many of those celebrations ended up at <a href="http://steamworksbrewing.com/" target="_blank">Steamworks Brewing Co</a>. on the corner of 2nd Avenue and 8th Street. <i>(How could we not, though? The Steamer's master brewers, Spencer and Ken, are Certified Cicerones! And no, that does not have anything to do with Italian food. It means they are to craft beer what a sommeliers are to fine wine! E.x.p.e.r.t.s. And they've got their beertenders and servers training to be experts, too! In short, these guys know what they're doing.)</i><br />
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The day we moved in, the Steamer was our first stop after dropping off the U-Haul. We capped a celebration of life and beauty and random happenstance in the dead of winter by <a href="http://albrewquerque.blogspot.com/2013/02/night-flying-fire.html" target="_blank">being adventurous in our beer choices</a>. Two of our dear friends escaped Albuquerque in order to raise Steamworks glasses to their new endeavor, the <a href="http://newmexicomercury.com/" target="_blank"><i>New Mexico Mercury</i></a>, and to our own contributions to the online meeting-of-the-minds. And we've gone there to celebrate a year of supporting ourselves as writers, editors, and teachers, which is to say, to a year of working in our pajamas any time we so choose <i>(like right now)</i>.<br />
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Also, when crispness is in the air, and it's both autumn and winter <i>at the same time (you mean like in our apartment...cuz you keep the thermostat set at "Antarctica" while I crank the space heater up to "Bahamas"?)</i>, you just have to get out and enjoy it. <i>(Y-y-yeah, g-g-get out-t-t there, f-f-f-folks!)</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside our front door last Thursday.</td></tr>
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So today, we escaped for an autumnal walk around the residential side of downtown and a bite n' sip at Steamworks.<br />
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The obvious choice of brew was the Slam Dunkel, which took home the gold medal for German-style wheat ales from the Great American Beer Festival. Alas, the Slam Dunkel had already won the gold medal that counts: it was so popular with locals that Steamworks ran it dry two days before it won the Brew-lympics. <i>(The poor bartender had to wait around a while as we collapsed prostrate on the peanut-shelled floor and cry out: Noooooooo! Not fair! Waaaaahhhh!)</i><br />
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Our secondary choices were hardly consolation prizes. This barfly buzzed around a pint of Colorado Proud, which earns my personal gold medal, as just about the most drinkable IPA ever. <i>(Like Ever ever? In the history of ever? Wow.) </i><br />
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Imagine if you could eat your whole sack of Halloween candy without puking, and then tackle your little sister's, too. It tastes floral but not sweet, sharp but not bitter. I'm sure some self-proclaimed hopheads would scoff at its wimpiness, but I would point the finger right back and say they are insecure in their masculinity. (Even the lady hopheads.) <i>(I pretty much agree on this one. The Colorado Proud is the most gentlemanly I.P.A. I've ever come across. The kind that holds doors open, or drapes its coat over puddles so ladies may ambulate without soiling their slippers! It is pride without prejudice. It is genteel. Rather than bitter, tongue-walloping hop, I tasted a bit of buttery tang. And I liked it!) </i><br />
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See? The most dapper gentleman can wear a flower in his lapel without feeling threatened.<br />
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Oh, and the Colorado Proud is made of all locally grown ingredients. Chalk one up for the home team!<br />
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<i>(Although I liked my sample of CO Proud, I did not order it because there was a barleywine on the menu! So, I ordered the "17," which tasted deliciously thick with quenching, succulent plums, but rich like a good fall cider. Its scent was slightly oak-y, like an old forest just after a drenching rain. And that is probably why I will always like barleywines. They a transportational beverages, capable of whisking back in time or through the portals between dimensions. One moment you're in Durango's Steamworks, and the next, you're basking in Sherwood Forest!) </i><br />
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We sipped our steam-beers, while an employee brought out the Slam Dunkel's gold medal. He hung it off some pipe near the cash register, but I hollered that we couldn't see it from there. So, he draped it across the chalkboard beer menu. Applause bubbled up, boisterous enough to embarrass the fellow, then that was it. No ceremony or fuss. Back to <i>beers-ness</i> as usual. Which, honestly, is enough to celebrate right there.Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-78574200253449022192013-08-22T13:39:00.003-06:002013-08-22T13:39:37.860-06:00Over the River and Through the Woods...A Drinkin' We Will GoAs seasoned brew-hunters, Zach and I know full well that not every beer we try is going to be awesome, or blow-your-hair-back, or taste bud-dazzling, or even just delicious. We know that brewers are artisans. They experiment with recipes and take risks with ingredients. <i>It's a different take on experimental substances. </i>Their aim is not to craft a reasonable beer that everyone can chug, because beers like that often lack anything approaching "taste."<br />
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Writing is a lot like that, too. Not every book on the shelf will blow your hair back and, often enough, the ones advertisers tell you that everyone likes are too watered down to be worth the read. Some writers experiment to the point of incomprehension (think James Joyce), while others push the boundaries only enough to make them zing (think Raymond Chandler).<br />
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So, when we find a beer that doesn't quite delight (but tries), we don't slam it. We tell you potential tasters what we tasted (as accurately as possible) so you'll know what to expect when the barkeep slides the suds your way. In other words, we seek the malty high ground. Sometimes quite literally. Like when our drink expectations fell a little flat in Burlington, we took off to tromp the peaks of the Green Mountains, where they intersect with the Appalachian Trail! <br />
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Hiking (<i>a very small segment of</i>) the AT had become a bit of an obsession for us after reading Bill Bryson's hysterical narrative <i>A Walk in the Woods</i>. Bryson's misadventures just prep-shopping for a hike on the AT were as side-splitting as his written renderings of the forests were startling and vivid. He made us want to be there.<br />
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And suddenly, we were. Old wood forests dense with ragged trunks, fractal branches, and coil-coy ferns. Shadows splotched everywhere, shrouding the sources of tick-and-bibble noises.<br />
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We moved through the woods and pressed into a reverent
silence. Our path broke at a pond. Once again, language proved muddy,
because what are evidently ponds in New England, we know as lakes in the
Southwest. We snacked on a simple lunch and listened to the trees
applaud the coming rainstorm.<br />
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Sheets of silver slickness surrounded us. Protected by our Irish-weather-proof coats, we splunch-and-squished our way back to the trail head. While maneuvering across a tumble-down patch of boulders, I slipped and fell, turning my backside biscuits to pancakes. No severe injuries, save for the bruising that would surface later, but I was definitely "bummed" to end our trek that way. Zach resolved to get me back to town and to a beer.<br />
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We returned to Burlington and cleaned up. Then we struck out for downtown's pedestrian-only Church Street. This delightful, brick-paved path was a quarter-mile facsimile of most downtown districts in Europe, where cars are curbed far away and only the fortified-footers may roam.<br />
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Since it was still too early to eat, we stopped in at the Church St. Tavern and ordered a pair of Otter Creek Lager. Otter Creek hails from Middlebury, Vermont, and makes plenty of beers I enjoyed on past visits to Vermont. <i>We'd passed the turn-off to the Otter Creek Brewery while driving back from the AT, far too stinky and sodden to enjoy a beer properly. So this stop made up for the earlier miss.</i> This particular mellow-gold liquid fits the light-bright, clean and refreshing mold of its European Pislner forbears, but adds an odd and enjoyable twist. The sniffer picks up on malty, bready, sweet aromas while the tongue tastes...lemons...no -- marigolds. Then the brain says, "Hey, dummy, were you eating marigolds while I wasn't looking?"<br />
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But that's the quirk of this particular beer. It's floral-bitter and citrus-sweet. It's like dining on marmalade-glazed toast next to a big bouquet of flowers. And then you take another drink because your senses are so tangled, you think another sip will untie the knot. But it doesn't. The second sip goes like like the first: yum! <br />
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When the sun set, we set off in search of food. We came upon Ken's Pizza & Sub which had a busy, traditional Italian-styled patio dining area up front and an oddly configured tiki lounge off the side. Opting for the tiki lounge -- <i>opting, in that the tiki lounge is where the available tables were</i> -- we sidled up to a tall table and ordered a pizza and -- what else -- beer. While we waited for our order to arrive, we noticed the tiki lounge played nothing but Jimmy Buffet. <i>And I realized that I somehow know ALL THE WORDS TO ALL THE SONGS. What subliminal mind-warping did my parents put me through?</i><br />
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About the time we started worrying we were gonna catch a bad case of crabs (<i>there are no virgin margaritas in Margaritaville, and you know what they say about what goes around</i>), our drinks arrived. We shared a Rockart Ridgerunner Barleywine and a Switchback Ale. I've <a href="http://albrewquerque.blogspot.com/2012/07/landlubbers-beware-or-bo-and-ogres-ode.html" target="_blank">posted on the Ridgerunner before</a>, so I'll let Zach have a crack at it here.<br />
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<i>Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmers.</i><br />
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<i>Oy, you want more of a crack than that? Well, this beer is done right -- it's not one of those "A for effort" beers Jenny talks about above. Aside from the out-of-place Kokopelli on the bottle, everything in this beer hits your senses where it counts. It bore its sweetness on a litter of complex hop and malt flavors that some might call "bitter" but I found intriguing. I can't say this brew is balanced, because that would discredit its richness, its not-quite-smokiness, and its evolving character as it warms. Kokopelli is the god of fertility, and I would believe that the Ridgerunner has begot more than one young Vermonter.</i><br />
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As for the Switchback, I will say that it was good. It comes cloudy and unfiltered and blushing like a virgin. The Switchback brewers mix a lot of malts into this recipe, resulting in a taste that some might call "complex," but I would say is more like "multiple-personality-disorder." First taste sweet-wheaty, next taste bitter-rye, with a bland, white bread wash-down. Texturally, this beer makes an impression on your mouth. Dry like a wine, it almost peels the paint, so swallow fast.<br />
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<i>Whazzat? I's still sipping my... my... balls, who drank all 'e Ridgenunner?</i> <br />
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When our bellies were full and our pint glasses were empty, we left Jimmy Buffet in Margaritaville. We took a stroll down to the waterfront and drank in more of the nighttime breezes blowing in off Lake Champlain. We watched the metallic slither of light on the water surface and thought back on own amazing walk in the woods. Then we thought forward on our future path as writers, a trail we hike every day. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-5622079961701944202013-08-10T10:13:00.000-06:002013-08-10T10:13:09.427-06:00Swampy SippinsWell, I finally did it!<br />
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I finally graduated and got my MFA! All it took was two years, [<i>more than we care to admit</i>] in student loans, 20 packets of work consisting of 750,000 words written, and over 250 books read.<br />
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And what better way to celebrate the culmination of all that work than to take a hike with my beloved Zach and my parents through a boggy, bug-filled swamp! <i>It was *almost* Canada!</i><br />
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Okay, we didn't set out to hike through a swamp. We looked at a map of Vermont (where my grad program is located) and saw there was a wild bird preserve about two hours north of our B&B. Two hours is a no-time drive for desert dwellers like us, who are used to driving two hours or more to work every day -- not to mention 4 hours to a dentist or go bulk-shopping at the nearest wholesale store. <i>I, Zach, am not included in this "us." To me, a place as close as Rio Rancho is too far to drive for ANYTHING. And it's only four hours away during rush hour.</i><br />
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As it turns out, "wild bird preserve" in Vermont actually translates into "mosquito-infested bog land."<br />
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No problem. Zach and I had already stopped by a pharmacy to pick up some bug spray. Mom and Dad said to get something with DEET in it. But I'm not into salving aerosol poison on my skin. No, sirree. Instead, we found a brand sporting a natural pheromone guaranteed to make the bugs pinch their noses and fly far away.<br />
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With our pest-repellent force field applied, we bravely forged the puddles forming the hiking loop around the preserve. We swatted bugs until our arms were sore. We doused each other with more and more bug spray, but it was no good. That pheromone must have been some kind of hubba-hubba bug perfume because those mosquitoes and black flies harassed us until hour skin looked like bubble wrap!<i> Mine didn't. Not that I'm saying neener-neener. </i><br />
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<i>Okay, I am saying neener-neener. </i> <br />
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After surviving swamplandia, Mom, Dad, Zach and I sought refuge at the <a href="http://vermontbrewery.com/" target="_blank">Vermont Pub & Brewery</a>. We were super excited to visit this particular brewpub because its founder, Greg Noonan, is a kind of godfather to American microbrewing. His 1986 book, Brewing Lager Beers, was one of the early textbooks for home brewers. He opened the VPB in 1988 and ran it until his death in 2009.<br />
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The day was sunny and the humidity was mild, so when we arrived at the large, brick-slathered corner building, we asked to sit on the patio. Lucky us: a local jazz band was setting up for a gig. Unluckily for us, we got the waitress who felt serving up grub 'n' suds was beneath her ambitions.<br />
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When lil' miss I-hate-my-bar-apron finally stopped by the table, Mom and Dad got some local hard ciders and Zach ordered the Grand Slam Baseball Beer. Just seeing it on the menu made us think of Isoptopes Amber -- the best ballpark beer in the world! <i>And I was feeling in quite the baseball mood, let me tell you. I had just watched three Kansas City Royals in the same All-Star game for the first time since the late '80s -- and they were all on the diamond at the same time. This, not entirely coincidentally, has led to my first taste of a pennant race since I was old enough to understand that I would never understand the infield fly rule.</i><br />
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<i>The menu touts the Grand Slam as a light-bodied American pale ale. I took that to mean: not quite as in-your-face as a strong IPA, but a foundation of flavor you could build your stadium on. And... well, the emphasis was on "light-bodied." The brew didn't do anything special; it wasn't watery, but it wasn't rich. It had all the right components, but not in any way that made you sit back and sigh. Like watching a Little League contest: the love of the game was there, the know-how was mostly present, but it just wasn't executed as beautifully as a major-league double play. I'm glad I tasted it, but I wouldn't go back for the second half of a doubleheader. </i><br />
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I ordered the house Weissebier: the Beetlejuice. (I guess I hadn't had enough bugs out on the trail). Honestly, I was attracted to the menu description of the Beetle where its subtle banana and clove flavors were touted. Just thinking about that odd yet magical combination whisked me nostalgically away to the <a href="http://www.franciscanwellbrewery.com/index.html" target="_blank">Franciscan Well</a> in Co. Cork, Ireland, with its banana-y...clove-y...bubblegummy...Friar Weisse! Ssssttthhooo delissshhhuttthhh!<br />
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Oopsstthhh! Ssstthhhorry, I'm drooling again. Well, one sip of the Beetlejuice was enough for me to know that "subtle" in Vermont translates about as well as "wild bird preserve." This beer was a banana-bananza! It unified all banana splits around the world! By the time I finished it, I had Gwen Stefani's Ain't No Holla Back Girl stuck in my head (It's bananas! B-AN-AN-AS!) Too bad the waitress weren't no holla back girl, either. I might have been able to try another of VPB's beers. But our meal was done and the jazz band had played their last song of the afternoon. So we departed from Vermont Pub & Brewery a bit disappointed and underwhelmed by the overall experience. <i>Cheers to the jazz band for elevating our time as high as they did!</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-16464671502067305262013-05-29T11:20:00.000-06:002013-08-07T11:22:44.671-06:00Royal Loggers"Everyone to the Palace!"<br />
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And so it was that the merry revelers sallied forth to yon Palace for much mirth and festivity.<br />
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No, you have not just stumbled on to some weird fairy tale blog. That's actually what happened a few nights ago after my friend successfully passed his 1st kyu test in aikido. On a technical scale, the test was darn-near perfect. Well, on all other scales, it was darn-near perfect, too. There was extra high praise for the paired weapons demos involving none other than yours truly.<br />
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Test participants and audience members all made their way to The Palace for some late-night drinks, appetizers, and general good times. <i>If I ever join the military, I want to be in HIS platoon.</i><br />
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Now, The Palace is probably the third restaurant Zach and I have been to in Durango. We're often a.) too frugal to eat out, b.) too busy, or c.) too pragmatic to go anywhere other than one or another favorite suds-sippin or food-munchin' spot (like Steamworks or Home Slice). <i>d) We make some rockin' food ourselves, and e) we know how to cook it without inducing nasty crease-crinklers afterwards.</i><br />
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The Palace was not as palatial as the name suggested. It looked more like a good-time saloon, with dark wood paneling, stained glass hanging lamp shades, and sturdy, basic chairs and tables. But the juxtaposition of name and setting did not prevent the ensuing hootenanny!<br />
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Along with a shared plate of gnocci (no-chi? no-ki? nyo-gki?), Zach and I asked to hear a rundown of the local beers on tap. The waitress responded: Ska. We're not trying to curry favor with only the one brewer, honest. The Palace simply didn't have any other local choices. <i>Not that we're complaining. We are NOT complaining. Ska's beers are yummerlicious!</i> Remaining your staunch artisan advocates (avid craftbeer "sipporters"), we both went for a pint of seasonal Mexican Logger.<br />
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Yes, you read that right. Logger instead of lager. It had to be the cleverest pun I had ever seen. That's saying something because I'm a devoted pun-master who had never once made that whimsical, linguistical flip. <i>Liar. We came up with at least a dozen better puns that night we stayed up, punning all fifty state names.</i><br />
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We toasted (and roasted) the successful, new 1st kyu seated at the head of the table, and then we took our first slurps of the logger lager. My tongue's first thought was: bashful beer, but then as the liquid spread through my mouth, I got a big yummy dose of lager toasty nuttiness.<br />
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<i>This beer reminded me that Mexican-style lagers really are the children of European-style pilsners. Tingly and zingy, with rich yeastiness. A whiff of nuttiness on the exhale. I have to agree with Jenny that the taste here is a bit timid up front. The rest of the Logger experience makes you quickly view that first encounter with friendly remembrance, though. This is a quality summer brew. Inferior beers require a lime to add some pizzazz, but this one? Not so much. It's become my crusade to teach local waitstaff and barkeeps to ditch the fruit.</i> <br />
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In the end, Zach and I wound up giving the Mexican Logger a five-chain, top rating! Sure, we risk looking like a couple of kiss-axes, always praising Ska. But can we help it if those west slope brewers "saw" the right way to craft the perfect summer sipper? <i>Caution: reader should wear protective eyewear. Such sharp wit may become dislodged and sent airborne!</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-11821939884233446192013-05-07T18:42:00.000-06:002013-05-07T18:42:17.489-06:00Be More PaganFor the first time in months -- and I mean "months" without any undue authorial exaggeration -- Zach and I had a Saturday. A weekend day kind of day. Sort of.<br />
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We had to get up early, which goes against the usual Saturday doctrine of sleeping in and shambling about in house slippers and pajamas til four or five in the afternoon. But, I have aikido practice every Saturday and one of my classmates is prepping for a 1st kyu test, which is one step below black belt -- shodan -- and a very very very Big Deal. Like anyone on the mat the day of the test, I'll be there and a part of the demonstration, getting pinned and thrown and rolled and flipped. I've also been asked to be a demonstration partner for paired weapons demonstrations, or katas. These take a ton of practice with the sword (bokkend) and the jo (long wooden staff) and in some ways, I need to be better than the tester so I don't embarrass him. But again, just being asked is another very very very Big Deal.<br />
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So that was my morning.<br />
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Zach morning involved a bike ride. Okay, a Herculean bike ride! Zach has been prepping and training to ride in the annual Iron Horse bike tour, which spans 50 miles from Durango to Silverton. On a bike. Over two mountains. Uphill. Up like 6,000 feet of hill, in fact! And yes, as you might have guessed, this too, is a very very very Big Deal. Prior to when training started back in October, Zach had hardly been on a bike since he was less than four feet tall. And while he has always battled an antagonistic sciatic nerve, he also survived a bad car wreck before we went to Ireland. His recovery inspired both of us to be as healthy as possible (without giving up the good stuff in life, like food and beer) so that we live as long as possible doing all the things we enjoy doing! And back in October, when we moved to Durango, it seemed perfectly logical to have Zach get in excellent shape by riding the Iron Horse with his dad -- whose age also spans over fifty, but who has successfully completed the Iron Horse three times, along with other death-defying bike races gruesomely named things like Triple By-Pass or Death Ride.<br />
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Okay, so we did our very very very Big Deal things in the morning. I came home from aikido and Zach slogged back from his bike ride. Now, what normally happens at this point on Saturdays is that we shower and sink behind our laptops where there is always work awaiting to be done. We look up some time after the sun has gone down and we resolve to eat some kind of dinner before going to bed, knowing full well that more work awaits us on Sundays.<br />
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But on this day, we did not do that.<br />
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Gleefully, and out of breath, Zach announced that he had successfully tackled the monster climb up to Coal Bank, the first of the two mountains on the trek. We were so ecstatic!<br />
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We saw the golden sun filling up our valley, like honey on gingerbread. We saw sugary blossoms and trembling baby aspen leaves. We saw wayward silk threads flung from traveling spiders. We saw spring and joy and mirth everywhere. And we did what people used to do after a season of dark, cold toil: we celebrated! We ran to the store and bought a fresh batch of brew and then we hightailed it back to the porch. We did nothing but sit on our bums, sip our suds, soak up the sun. And it.was.excellent!<br />
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That's right, we turned pagan! We caroused. We celebrated the magic of spring, the magic of our relationship, and the wonderful life we are scraping together. It must be a life worth supporting, for all the work we put into supporting it.<br />
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But that's just it -- you can't just work for the life you want. You have to stop and take stock of what you've got, rather than always pining for something you don't yet have. And once you've taken stock, acknowledge, toast, jubilate, and laud everything around you. Friends, family, home...whatever you discover, be just a little more pagan and celebrate! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-75071952666313859802013-04-30T15:06:00.002-06:002013-05-01T15:03:09.194-06:00Dirty Girl Scouts Make Good Beer Floats<br />
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Your dedicated beer bloggers have been swamped under piles
of work that get us out of bed before sunup and keep us working well past
decent darkling hours. <i>I keep saying we should be MORE dedicated to our vicarious beer-drinking readers.</i> We’ve had few chances to go out for a beer, let alone go
get groceries. Dinner sometimes consisted of whatever could be scrounged from
the pantry. Fruit cocktail-Grape Nuts-sautéed onion surprise! <i>Just kidding. We'd never pair fruit cocktail with cereal.</i></div>
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<img height="320" src="http://craftcans.com/craftcanspics/skamenthe1.png" width="247" /> </div>
But on a particularly sunny afternoon, I escaped to the
fancy li'l mini-mart up the road where they (mercifully) stock lots of craft
beer. Elated to be out of the house for the first time in days and
perhaps in need of something dramatic to snap me and Zach out of our
zombie-like states, I grabbed a pack of Ska Brewing Co.’s Vernal Minthe Stout. The comical psycho Barbie-gone-toga-party image on the front caught my eye. What’s
a minthe stout, you say? As did I.</div>
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Well, one day, peppermint and spearmint meet up with cocoa and vanilla beans. They have a few drinks, they go to a bar, and then wind up having an orgy with a batch of dark roast malt. And oh
what a time they have. It’s probably appeared in a Tom Robbins novel, somewhere
in a sloshy, sloppy chapter.<i> You need to be more specific, darling.</i></div>
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When I got to the register, a bit of my whimsy was wearing
off. I worried that maybe I was not in a suitable state of mind to buy such an
odd beer. Ska is a solid brewer in these here parts. I’ve yet to try something
I didn’t like from them. I’m pretty sure their quirky, zesty Molé Stout will
become a regular in our fridge every holiday season (assuming they make it
again).</div>
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I must have looked trepidatious when I put the beer on the
counter because the clerk—a wizened old man who needs only a monocle to look
like the Monopoly guy with a wicked white goatee (<i>he's named Rich "Uncle" Pennybags. Everyone knows that. Right? Anyone...?</i>)—volunteered his take on the
Minthe. “Oh, I’ve had this one. It’s good. Have you had it?”</div>
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I admitted I had not but was curious.</div>
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“It reminded me of a dirty girl scout,” he said.</div>
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I blinked. “You mean like one who hasn’t sold all of
her cookies?”</div>
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He blinked. Then he laughed. “I mean the drink.” He rambled
off the blend of liqueurs and hard liquor that make up the tincture, then we
both enjoyed a good laugh. <i>That's it? Not a hearty guffaw? Not a convivial chuckle? Man. Laughing standards have gone down since Uncle Pennybags' day.</i></div>
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I got the Minthe Stout home and lured Zach out of his work chair. It was a bit like coaxing a zombie with the promise of, "Brains. C'mon. Brains." Only I was taunting with, "Beer. C'mon. Beer."<br />
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<i>Hrrnnnnmmmmm.</i> </div>
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We sat out on our porch looking over the Animas Valley with micro-explosions of green. Spring has come late to our area with a few lingering snow storms, but the blossoms are bursting and the magpies are nesting and there was something in the air Zach and I have not felt for at least two years. I think you call it warmth....</div>
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And in that alien-feeling "warmth" we sipped our mint beers, which tasted just like a liquified version of Girl Scout thin mints. We didn't say ewww, but we didn't say oh.my.god.i.love.this.beer, either. <i>Mostly I just made more zombie sounds.</i> It was good, better than you might think beer with mint could be. Ska is reliable like that. Where most beers go wrong with additives like chili, Ska balances it out and make it work. What we found was that the mint comes on super strong while the brew is cold, but let it warm, and the cocoa tones regain a little self-esteem. This helps put the mint in its place and you get a delicious blend of bitter, cooling, and sweet. </div>
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This beer would make the perfect accompaniment to a night on the patio supping desserts. In fact, a few nights later we poured the beer over some vanilla bean ice cream and had beer floats! Now those were YUM. The super-sweet ice cream brought out the bitter cocoa and muted the mint just enough. And as an added bonus you don't usually get with root beer floats, we were drunk when our mugs were drained! <i>Speak for yourself. I wasn't drunk. I was simply floating.</i></div>
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So the lesson may be: you don't have to sell all your cookies in order to reward yourself with a beer. And, don't be afraid of the novelty seasonal, especially when it comes from a brewery you trust! That said, I'd be curious to hear from readers who bought a novelty seasonal that didn't exactly float their boat. Did you find a way to make the beer worth the bucks or did you have to dump it down the sink or ladle it to the dog/cat/parakeet or pawn it off on unsuspecting neighbors/friends? <i>We've never pawned off <strike>birdie</strike> bogey beers. (Meaning worse than par. Not feeding it to parakeets. Why is sub-par a bad thing everywhere but the golf course, anyway?) Not once. And especially not with a green chile beer that tasted like the bottom of a roasting drum.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-57971493245477325832013-04-17T16:13:00.000-06:002013-04-17T16:13:55.830-06:00Closed for the WinterHow many times can we point out that, despite the drought that's becoming the norm, we live in one of the lushest corners of the world? (<i>Zero -- it's rude to point.</i>) Good beer flows ever more freely than water 'round here. Never mind that Albuquerque is a mecca frequently on top-ten-beer-cities lists (<i>it's numero uno <a href="http://livability.com/top-10/top-10-beer-cities/albuquerque/nm" target="_blank">according to Livability.com</a>, and numero cinco on <span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://amog.com/lifestyle/155665-10-american-cities-brew-beer/" target="_blank">AMOG's "wort"while vacation stops)</a></span></i>; Durango and its environs must have one of the densest brewery populations per capita in the world. (<i>Just to clarify, I think he means "dense" in the mass-per-unit-volume way, and not in a these-people-chew-bowling-balls-like-Bubble-Yum way.</i>)<br />
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That includes Silverton, a tiny mining town-turned-tourist locale. You think Durango's doing well with <strike>four</strike> five breweries to its 17,000 folks? Try Silverton's two breweries to its 531 residents.<br />
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Yup. This little town at 9300 feet has both the Silverton Brewing Company and the newer Avalanche Brewing Company. And we had tried neither of them. So when family came to town last week and wanted to take the scenic drive north, Jenny and I grabbed our muy-expensivo growler and wondered all the way up the winding road: which brew would come home with us?<br />
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The decision was ultimately simple: No beer. (<i>And, for the record, it was not because we are two helpless, habitual dithering debaters. We are, but that's not why we went home with an empty growler.</i>)<br />
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See, the Durango & Silverton train doesn't resume service to Silverton until May. Until then, apparently NO ONE visits the tiny town. No one. The main street is boarded up, the lights are off, and you'd be hard pressed to find five hundred people anywhere.I think we saw one gift shop and two cafes/restaurants open for business. In both establishments we entered, the only employee inside asked, "You folks just passing through?" (<i>Which was probably a polite way of asking, Are you idiots lost?</i>)<br />
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You should have seen the looks we got when we admitted we were willingly visiting for the afternoon. (<i>Walk up to a stranger, hand them a rubix cube, and demand they solve it, then you'll see a close approximation.</i>)<br />
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Unfortunately for us, the brewing companies follow a similar schedule. Silverton Brewing's windows still have painted decorations from Christmas, as well as a proclamation that Oktoberfest beer is now available. At least the wind and the dancing snowflakes made the signs feel seasonally appropriate during our visit. Avalanche's exterior looks remarkably colorful and inviting, but for the sign in the window that declares they're closed until May. (<i>Ah, so that's where the distress signal "Mayday! Mayday!" comes from....</i>)<br />
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Our tongues were dry (<i>and our beer-hearts were broken</i>), but that didn't stop us from having a good time. Our little troupe walked the length of the main street from the near end to the far, where the rust-colored Cement Creek runs through town. (I was fascinated by this part, as I had just written about the creek <a href="http://newmexicomercury.com/blog/comments/toxic_stalemate_on_the_animas_river" target="_blank">here</a>.) (<i>The rest of us made moronic attempts to push each other into the mustard-yellow river. Oh, Freud would have a field day with my family!</i>) We poked around in the gift shop and gave the smiling attendant someone to chat with for a while (<i>yeah, like my ten-year-old nephew who wanted to know the price of every single coonskin cap and wood-carved doodad</i>). We enjoyed coffee and chili cheese fries under old-school Budweiser mirrors adorning all the walls (<i>not in the gift shop -- he means down the street at a cafe</i>). And, perhaps best of all, we got to enjoy the high-peak scenery while it was still snow-capped and windswept (<i>he means blizzarding and gust-scraped</i>).<br />
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Up there, this time of year, you can feel isolated in the best kind of way (<i>like, I'm-running-around-naked-and-no-one-can-see way. No? Ooohh, you meant in a peaceful-I-am-one-with-the-world way. Oops.</i>). Folks visit Silverton by the trainload all summer long, thinking they are stepping back in time, which is ironic because mining towns were never intended to be tourist traps. But now, what they see is what the town presents them (<i>like how to chew bowling balls</i>). We saw Silverton without her makeup on, and the experience was a treat in its own way (<i>yeah, I'm sure that's what Christine Daaé thought when she saw the Phantom of the Opera without his mask on</i>). We might not have found beer during our early April visit, but I think we experienced the town a little closer to reality.<br />
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This summer, we'll go back and find out how she compares after a couple high-mountain brews.Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-11855806015168399292013-02-18T10:15:00.000-07:002013-02-18T10:15:06.288-07:00Night-Flying FireNothing cheers away the doldrums of winter like power saw racing. Or street bowling. Or build-and-race-your-own-sled competitions. Basically, any of the zany events held during Durango's infamous Snowdown celebration are more than capable of taking the chill from your cockles. Snowdown has been running (hobbling, sashaying, and prancing) for thirty-five years. Like many snowbound civilians, Durangoans turn spring fever into a tradition of getting wild in order to shake off the many layers of winter snow.<br />
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This meant Zach and I had over a week's worth of festivities to enjoy. Trivia nights. Doggie and kitty fashion shows. Broom ball. A drag show (which Zach could have won, and not just cuz he would have shaved his slender legs!). <i>No, I would have won because I would NOT have dressed as an overweight Princess Leia. In a bikini. I still can't sleep.</i> A light parade that packed the sidewalks like New Year's in Time Square.<br />
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Every bar and every restaurant participated. And all events this year were geek-themed. Audience members and competitors all had to don their best (and worst) nerd-garb. Locals (young, old, sober, and otherwise) took this year's theme very seriously. On any given night, Zach and I saw more knee-high socks, mismatched striped shirts, sweater vests, cow-licks, and thick-rimmed glasses than we care to describe -- and that was before we'd stepped out the front door. <i>She'd never admit it, but Jenny really gets into the spirit of the season.</i><br />
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On the last night of Snowdown, we made our way to what we thought would be the perfect spot to watch the fireworks display. According to the information in the Snowdown calendar -- a professionally printed and bound chunk of paper thick enough to masquerade as a Bible -- the fireworks show was shooting off of a "West Rim Road." Google maps pinpointed this road as the road wrapping around Fort Lewis College, which made perfect sense to us. The college sits on a high plateau overlooking the town. That seemed like a reasonable place to launch a fireworks display. <i>We should have known nothing about Snowdown was "reasonable."</i><br />
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Zach and I parked the car just under the rim, opened the sunroof and waited for the show to start.<br />
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Boom! Boom-fizz!<br />
Crack-crack-crack!<br />
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We could hear the fireworks, but we could not see them. The dark sky before us was blank as a chalkboard. Then I spotted a bright flash in the rearview mirror. The firework show was located behind us, somewhere on the other end of town. We debated for a moment about racing across town to get a better view, but after seeing how all other Snowdown events packed in spectators, we sensed that we wouldn't find an adequate parking/viewing spot until well after the show was over.<br />
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From where we stood, we could at least see the the tops of the brilliant explosions. And half was better than none. Then the sight of what I thought was a wayward glowing ember drew my attention away from the fireworks. I turned and saw a ball of glowing yellow light drifting above the trees. Zach and I marveled at the flickering little orb, trying to figure out what it was. Then we saw another one waft up out of a nearby backyard. Someone was releasing candle-fed hot air balloons -- something I had not seen since elementary school when a science teacher had students sew up the delicate silk balloons and launch them from the quad.<br />
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The fireballs floated gently away, like little stars looking for a home in the sky. When we could no longer tell which balls of light in the sky were man-made or god-made, Zach and I retired to Steamworks, just a few blocks down.<br />
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Sheets of corrugated metal jut across the ceiling. Piles of peanut shells carpet the floor. Its seating areas mingle with multiple bars, indoor and outdoor. And from open until close, Steamworks is chockablock full of people. Families drift in for leisurely meals. Coworkers gather, no doubt to blow off steam. Friends flock to watch the game on the flat screens mounted under the rafters.<br />
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On this night (like previous visits), I got lost in the maze of gangways and raucous hordes. Zach often has to navigate by nudging my shoulders this way or that. I began to wonder if Steamworks is always full because people can't find their way out.<br />
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Truly, though, why would they bother? Steamworks has it all. Great location. Stupendous atmosphere. And of course, an expansive list of masterful craft brews to boot. After a week of splendid geekery capped off with the rarity of observing night-flying fire, we decided to be adventurous with our beer selections.<br />
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I picked out the Lizard Head Red, even though I tend to not like reds. <i>I went with a Backside Stout, even though I'm more of a boob man myself.</i> The first sip of the Lizard Head did not pack the bitter punch I expected. Instead, I got a splash of caramel. Zingy. Tangy. Like hearing fireworks while not actually seeing them. The Lizard Head swung like a pendulum. As soon as my taste buds registered "mmmm malty" the Lizard wiggled and wriggled its way over to "zzzinnnggg hops!" Sip after sip, I admired how this beer could balance the scales without ever tipping them.<br />
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<i>The Backside Stout, as it turns out, is named for the backside of a mountain, NOT a lady. In either case, it's the stout Guinness could be if it were made with care, attention, quality, and just a pinch of boldness. Instead, Arthur's ale falters in trying to appeal to every palate. Not the Backside. Steamworks' version of the black stuff is velvety smooth and rich in maltiness, with just enough roasted tones to draw your attention. These tones grow as the beer warms, but that's about the only change -- the creaminess sustains itself, and the beer never tastes flat or bland. (Well, maybe not never. But not in the time you'll take to enjoy it.) Just as everyone has different taste in derrieres, not everyone would pick this stout off the roster. That's the risk with going bold. But I believe that this is a brew most people, regardless of personal taste, could at least appreciate.</i><br />
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We leaned back in our high chairs, feeling very satisfied with Snowdown, our beers, and a wintry week of nerdy revelry. Outside, overhead, the fire in the sky showed Mother Nature we were there and ready for spring already. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-24740882278289996032013-02-04T08:52:00.002-07:002013-02-04T08:52:40.536-07:00Hibernating with Grape Juice, or Enter the Eden of BeerIn January, we at Al"brew"querque (<i>are forced to</i>) continue our tradition of sipping beers in different locations. Jenny undertook her semiannual <strike>abandonment</strike> trip to Vermont for her graduate program, while I (<i><strike>refused to come along</strike></i>) stayed home. "Home sweet home" was, to be exact, our third place of residence in four semesters, which at least mixes up the beer selection.<br />
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And what a selection it is! We've had no problem waxing prosaic about the Durango brewing culture, with four microbreweries within fifteen minutes of our door. With all these choices, deciding on a six-pack to take home should be difficult. Right? (<i>Right!</i>)<br />
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Wrong. (<i>Oh. Frown. I hate being wrong. Meh!</i>) After the razzmatazz performance of Molé Stout on our taste buds, I seized the plastic handles on Ska Brewing's latest seasonal, Hibernal Vinifera Stout. This stout is best summed up by Ska's own website:<br />
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"Who the fu*k put grapes in my beer?"<br />
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I wish I hadn't read the can first, because now I'll never know if I would have discerned grape flavors without the aluminum cheat sheet (<i>a lesson for all would-be cheaters</i>). But I swear to all things that grow on vines (<i>pumpkins... cucumbers...</i>), this beer really does have a sense of grapes about it (<i>you mean like how Natalie Portman has a sense of swans about her in Black Swan?</i>). I don't taste the fruit in the liquid itself, which has the delightful fullness of being cask-aged without tasting like you just licked the inside of a barrel -- a feat rarer than finding spare barrels to lick. (<i>This is why I can't leave you alone.</i>) But in the air that fills the bubbles of this brew, I found the scent of grape juice or a hint of grape soda. Hibernal Vinifera tastes like grape juice smells.<br />
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It's good the whole way through, too (<i>like Burl Ives</i>), unlike so many gimmicky beers that intrigue on first sip and gag by the end. Ska has got this additive concept down. Hibernal Vinifera wows at the start (<i>like a stripper</i>), maintains its virtues throughout (<i>like a virgin</i>), dances the tango and the waltz with any food you pair it with (I tried it with a green chile burrito and with cookies), and polishes off just this side of sweet. (<i>Folks, he was home alone, so please feel free to picture him literally cutting the rug with a beer in hand and a burrito snapped between his teeth like a long-stem rose.</i>)<br />
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This brew made the lonely cold Colorado evenings bearable, until my darling could steal away from the <strike>oppressive regime</strike> heavy scheduling in Vermont and sign in to video chat. Then, I was pleased to tip my can to her and enjoy Ska's latest with the best company around.<br />
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<i>While Zach was in our living room waltzing around with a six pack, I was trudging through several feet of snow in subzero temperatures down the steep hill separating Vermont College's campus from the groovy Victorian town of Montpelier. </i>(Swinging 1860s, here we come!)<br />
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<i>That's right, groovy Victorian. Montpelier, also the state capitol of Vermont, is what would have happened to the real Victorians if left in isolation -- like the marsupials of Australia. Some features go untouched, while others undergo bizarre-yet-inevitable mutations. Meticulous layers of fancy clothing with lots of buttons, fasteners, and hooks are replaced by North Face outerwear (with lots of clasps, buttons, and fasteners). </i><i>Buggies turn to Subarus. And the old religious snobbery which would have disdained alcoholic beverages transforms into elitist snobbery for locally microbrewed. </i><br />
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<i>That said, I should also point out that Durango and Montpelier share this marsupial Victorianism. </i><br />
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<i>Down the hill I journeyed, taking my roommate, Jenn, with me. (Yes, they dared to room two Jenns together. Oh the hijinx that ensue...) We were on our way to the Three Penny Taproom, a vast menagerie of microbrews from around the state and around the country.</i><br />
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<i>I was particularly excited to visit the Taproom because all the previous residencies proved too jam-packed with events and lectures to allow me enough time to go and enjoy a drink there. (Okay, there had been time to drink, but never enough time to sober up before my brains were needed again.) Also, I had promised to perform my famous flavor-profile test on Jenn so that she could drink a beer that wouldn't make her gag. It had been a while since I could profile anyone who said they didn't like beer, and I was a little nervous that maybe I'd lost my knack for it.</i><br />
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<i>Into the Taproom we went, and there we froze. The Taproom was loaded with real plants. Compared to the barren, icy streets, the Taproom felt like a blooming garden or a thriving greenhouse. Crossing the threshold was an almost Biblical experience -- I had unwittingly sauntered into the Eden of Beer.</i><br />
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<i>And besides the thick fronds and plentiful vines chewing into the cramped quarters, Jenn and I had to maneuver around all the jolly people, mostly men whose quasi-Saxon facial hair bristled out into the remaining scant snips of elbow room. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>Shuffle-stepping up to the bar, Jenn and I studied the chalkboard with a super-long and super-detailed list of beers, including who brewed them, their ABV figures, and the states they hailed from. I first asked Jenn if any of the titles caught her fancy. When she put up her hands and shook her head, saying she did not know a brown ale from a lager, I quickly performed my flavor profile wherein I ask a very short list of comparative questions. What do you like better, chocolate or coffee? Bread or pastries? Nuts or berries? And so on. </i><br />
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<i>In a matter of seconds, I determined that Jenn would love a warm, aromatic Belgian beer. So I ordered the Vermont-made McChouffe "blushing" Belgian brown ale. To her delight, it came in a wine-like glass and looked and smelled much like a wine. The ruby tint was seductive and when she gave me a sip, I delighted in the cozy, brandy-like flavor. Jenn enjoyed her beer and remarked (as many do) that she had no idea beer could taste like that.</i><br />
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<i>I settled on the Hill Farmstead Earl oatmeal coffee stout, also local out of Vermont. It was strong and roasty. The presence of oats was boisterous and delicious, tinged with a bitter coffee aftertaste. The stout finished off kind of mellow, like a rockin' Metallica song that just fades out for the next track -- which is not a fault. A stout like that is just being polite to your palate, clearing the way and settling down so you can enjoy the next drink.</i><br />
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<i>And enjoy we did, squeezed in between the beards, fronds, and vines. I kicked back knowing my flavor profile skills had not faded, and in a few days, I would be going home to rescue my love from his solo hibernation and lonely malt-waltzing. </i>Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-55314141668270595142013-01-12T15:20:00.002-07:002013-01-12T15:20:24.058-07:00Railroaded at the BrewpubJenny says that if you want to get a seat at the Durango Brewing Company, you better get there by... oh, 1989 ought to do. I haven't told her yet that such punctuality would guarantee a year-long wait, since DBC has only been concocting since 1990. Besides, we showed up there Friday night about 6:45 and still claimed a table <i>and</i> two stools (<i>yeah, but only after edging around the crowds, squeezing into corners, and forging our way to the bar through a blizzard of people!</i>).<br />
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This place is a bit out of the way, by Durango standards. It's on Main Street, but up north out of the downtown district most frequented by visitors. And the brewery's ambiance is pretty cool (<i>especially if you are a gunslinger and former train-robber who traded guns for skis</i>). It has the wood and warmth of a ski lodge in a warehouse. In tune with the logo's steam locomotive theme, one wall by the bar is old red boxcar siding with stenciled white letters and the old Denver & Rio Grande Western logos. (Real old boxcars or well-approximated faux interior design? Heck if I know.) The exposed rafters are filled with black-painted insulation that kind of looks like an open coal tender. And there's at least nine of their own beers on tap.<br />
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Why stick with the standards that we can pick up in bottles at the grocery store any day? We pounced on two seasonal beers (<i>like cats on string or the white disc of flashlight light</i>). I claimed the Winter Ale (<i>like a viking who claims most things with an ax</i>), a dark dark brown brew with the warmth and spices of so many ideal winter drinks. The roasted malts make this beer hearty and satisfying to the stomach, while it also has a caramelized (but not sugary) hint around the edges. Think of a rich savory dinner with a candied glaze (<i>pineapple upside down cake!</i>), like roast ham or sauteed onions (<i>oh, we have different ideas of dinner, I guess</i>). The beer doesn't taste like any meal in particular, but it has the same delectable balance. As it warms, it maintained its best qualities (<i>unlike most people</i>). Perfect for a winter brew!<br />
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The Purgatory Ale had nothing distinct (<i>she leans away at a skeptical angle</i>) -- and when that includes no noticeable faults, that makes for a steady drink. It is full and smooth (not in a Miller way) front to back (<i>wait this sounds like a description of me...</i>). A straight-up good beer, even if it doesn't cause any surprises. It's the kind of beer you would go on a second date with, but you certainly wouldn't expect anything kinky afterward (<i>While that sounds like an accurate description of Purgatory the place, it does not paint an accurate picture of Purgatory the beer. Maybe Zach's been mixing the primary colors on his taste "palette" again. I thought the Purgatory glowed like autumn gold. It smelled bready and fresh. And the taste was like hot-butter biscuits with a touch of marmalade. In other words, delicious!</i>)<br />
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With so many seasonal and limited beers on the menu, we wished we could justify sticking around and drinking the evening away (DWI = Drink Without Inhibition, right?). Instead, we opted to take home a growler (<i>no, he does not mean one of the red-cheeked and rugged mountain men hunched over the bar who growl when you try to place your order</i>). We asked the waitress if we could sample the Helles lager and the Ghost Train pumpkin beer to aid our decision. The Helles is a fine enough pilsner in the German/Czech vein of yeasty, flavorful lagers (again, not that watered-down gnat's piss that parades as mass-produced lager). It has the right bready introduction with a touch of bitterness... but it doesn't delight in the finish like the truly exceptional pilsners of the world. All the action is up front with this beer. (<i>Perhaps I ought to defer to the guy who lived in the land of pilsners for a year, but to me the Helles was yeasty, but also exotically floral, tasting a bit like magnolias. Please don's ask why or how I know what those taste like.</i>)<br />
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The Ghost Train, however, is unique (<i>starting with its poltergeist passengers!</i>). I've tasted many pumpkin beers (<i>like a grown-up Charlie Brown</i>), and all of them lack in some way, as if the brewer were afraid to go full-out gourd on the brew (<i>dear Gourd, be merciful</i>). The Ghost Train takes the flavors and embraces them. I can't say it tastes particularly of pumpkin (<i>oh gourd, I was worried</i>) -- have you ever eaten just a spoonful of Libby's? (<i>not something to admit that on the internet, by the way</i>) -- but it has the spices in conjunction with the pumpkin that most of us crave in the autumn and winter. That last part is key to this beer: it doesn't taste like a pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks, but more like a pumpkin pie that's just as appropriate after Christmas as it was before Halloween. The spices are tingly and magical (<i>like reindeer droppings</i>). (The beer actually reminds us both of the <a href="http://albrewquerque.blogspot.com/2012/12/merry-mole.html" target="_blank">Molé Stout</a> from Ska Brewing in the way the unexpected zing of spices play with the tongue.) And unlike many novelty beers (<i>and unlike most reindeer droppings</i>), this one tastes like it will be good the whole way down -- no tiring of the flavor midway into a pint!<br />
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So we ordered a growler of the Ghost-juice* and disembarked from the DBC brewin' locomotive.<br />
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*Buyer beware: Durango is notoriously expensive in every way, including pints up to and above $4.00. (The "special" this Friday night was $3 and $4 pints.) And many of us from outside Durango are used to growlers (64-oz take-home jugs) costing anywhere from $12 to $20, reasonable enough for four pints of beer. So imagine our shock when the bill came with the growler -- <i>thirty eight dollars!!!</i><br />
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At least the jug is pretty cool. And we made damn sure we enjoyed each and every drop of that pumpkin beer over the next two nights. Whatever the cost, the beer is truly delicious. And it may just be magical, after all: it turned our vegetable stir-fry into a gourmet experience, just by being so blasted expensive!Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-71980671367974022872013-01-03T11:57:00.000-07:002013-01-12T15:23:51.565-07:00Feral in the BarrelWith all the rush-and-tumble and rip-a-gifting of the holidays winking by faster than reindeer over rooftops, Zach and I took a few (okay, more like 90) (<i>oh-KAY, more like 128</i>) selfish minutes to enjoy good beers and good friends at the <a href="http://lacumbrebrewing.com/aboutus.html" target="_blank">La Cumbre Brewing Co</a>. in Albuquerque.<br />
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We are, after all, two firm believers that auld acquaintances should not be forgot, regardless of the length of lang or syne. (<i>Or cosine. Or tangent. Math jokes!</i>)<br />
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I was first to arrive and claim one of the precious few open tables. Even at three o'clock on a lazy post-holiday Friday, La Cumbre is not just busy, but bursting at its industrial seams. For reasons I do no know, film director John Houston was driving the universe that day, which meant that a series of comical mix-ups, misunderstandings, delays, and misfired texts would cause me to spend the following hour alone, defending my table and its vacant chairs from swooping social vultures.<br />
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At last, Zach arrived! After spending the day helping his mother schlep bulk baking ingredients out of bulk-buying stores to her North Valley bakery, he was more than ready to enjoy a craft brew. Not long after he sidled up to the table and shooed away a jovial bench-stealing buzzard (<i>tougher than it sounds</i>), our auld friends Gabe and Leighanna arrived. I say auld not because they are auld folks, or because our friendship has lasted a decade or three (although we surely hope it does), but because it had been such a lang syne since we had last seen them.<br />
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While spending the last year in Ireland, Zach and I enjoyed a pre-Christmas getaway to Germany to see the twinkling and sizzling splendors that make up the Weihnachtsmärkte, or Christmas markets. Gabe and Leighanna, who were studying abroad in Germany for the year, took the train to Cologne to meet us for a day and a night out on the town. The four of us had a blast, but had only been in touch online ever since.<br />
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We ordered our drinks, reminisced about the glühwein (said like <i>glue-vine</i>, though it tastes too wonderful to be anything like glue in wine), and got up-to-date on each other's lives and job situations. We were just about to tear into the bad economy making job searches tougher than usual when our waitress -- a dark-haired Sheryl Crow, I kid you not -- delivered our drinks.<br />
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I got LCBC's 2nd Anniversary Stout, a seasonal brewed to celebrate their second year in business. How could I not partake of the celebration? I love supporting local businesses! And, the bulletin broadcasting the beer's flavor profile and brew process bragged about 1700 pounds of British malts, countless gallons of molasses, 100 pounds of dextrose, and an "astronomical" quantity of hops. The bulletin also noted how the the beer was left to mellow out in Pinot Noir and Syrah wine barrels for about three months. My curiosity was piqued, but my tastebuds were ultimately assaulted.<br />
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When the stout arrived in a snifter, I knew I was in for something strong, but I still nearly choked on my very first sip. That dark and sultry stout had wreaking wine-breath, worse than my Aunt Mable. (I don't actually have an Aunt Mable, but if I did, I'm sure she'd be a wino.) The wine vapors inherited from the barrels overwhelmed all other flavors leaving the stout tasting dry and almost antiseptic. Clearly that beer had gone feral in the barrel. I finally had to quit sipping and leave the beer alone. Warmed to room temperature, the beer's overpowering aroma and zing of wine-breath dissipated, opening up a comforting yet complex palate of sweet cocoa and bitter raisin flavors, which is to say, a very enjoyable beer! (<i>Meanwhile, she stared longingly at all of our drinks, wishing for a two-foot straw so she could delicately steal sips from our pints.</i>)<br />
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Now, you're all probably saying, "Jenny, dear -- Raisinets are not complex." But should you find yourself sipping a snifter of Anniversary Stout -- comfortably cooled, and less crazy at room temperature -- you'll see, or taste, exactly what I mean.<br />
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Meanwhile, across the table, Zach was trying to fish the flavors out of another of La Cumbre's seasonals, the Trout. <i>She makes it sound like I struggled to find something to enjoy. On the contrary, the fishing here was much more like a beautiful day out by the lake -- mild, chill, relaxing, and just warm enough. The Trout plays on its more famous (and decidedly fishier) English counterpart, but this English-style pale ale is much prouder of its flavors. It has its hops, but they don't kick in your teeth like in so many American-style <strike>hooligans</strike> IPAs enjoy doing. Instead, they impart a delightful citrus profile; not so much bitter lemons as sweetly tart tangerines. The grassiness of some pale ales wasn't to be found here, and the beer was just as enjoyable at the end as at the beginning. The Brits know how to spend a day-long session in the pub, and just like a day spent dangling empty hooks in the lake, I could have enjoyed the Trout from noon to night.</i><br />
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Just before the sun went down, our happy quadra-quaffing group became a quintet when Thomas, another auld friend, beer-lover, and local coffee roaster, breezed through La Cumbre's doors. Another round was ordered, but because John Houston was still at the wheel of the universe, I wound up with a sample of the Hot Shots Rauch. Essentially, a lot of words were misunderstood when the new waiter (<i>who looked decidedly less like Sheryl Crow, for better or for worse</i>) asked what I wanted. I thought he asked to see my ID. When I said I would have to get it out of my wallet, he somehow heard the words "Rauch" and "sample." (<i>Hold your fingers ID-width apart. Then hold them sample-glass-height apart. You'll begin to see how this happened.</i>) Lucky for me it was just a sample, too. The Rauch turned out to be too much for my tastebuds after the feral-barrel stout. Touted as smokey, bready, and full of apples, the Rauch reminded me of the gravy-makin' Liquid Smoke ale we'd sampled in <a href="http://albrewquerque.blogspot.com/2011_04_01_archive.html" target="_blank">San Antonio</a>. This beer was smokey, but to put it more accurately, and to quote Leighanna when she sipped the sampler, "It tastes like someone put their sparkler out in it." (<i>You mean it tasted like extinguished patriotism? Oh... like sulfur. Got it.</i>)<br />
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The waiter seemed all but demoralized when I told him I did not want a full pint of Rauch. He assured me that the brewers had worked extra hard to make those flavors super-subtle. I assured him that the only Hot Shot capable of saving my tongue from the Rauch's pungent singe was a cool and refreshing South Peak Pilsner -- one of LCBC's rock-solid year-round beer selections! He obliged, and with beers in hand, the five of us enjoyed some more "quint"essential quaffing! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-73891063942815732842012-12-05T12:43:00.000-07:002012-12-05T12:43:37.049-07:00Merry MoléSurviving two car wrecks and one study-abroad year in Ireland was all it took to uproot these two faithful beer-bloggers out of the Albrewquerque area. But don't worry, we're not changing the blog name, and we're still going to drink beer and write about it regularly. Only now we'll be posting from Durango (<i>Colorado, not Mexico or Spain</i>), which is not only not far away from what's brewin' in the 5-0-5, but also is a microbrew mecca in the four corners region.<br />
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The move north seems inevitable for a craft-beer-couple like us. Colorado's history is closely linked to beers and brewing. The state is the home of Left Hand Brewing, Wyncoop, New Belgium, and Rock Bottom. Denver is not only the birthplace of Coors, but also the "Napa Valley" of beer. Heck, this state is literally ruled by beer. (<i>Beer in the House! Beer in the Senate! Beer in the capitol! Beer makes bad decisions, but it sure makes fun laws!</i>) After all, the good people of Colorado, with their malty-hearts and hoppy-heads, saw fit to elect John Hickenlooper as their governor. More than a fun name, Hickenlooper is also a former microbrewer and Wyncoop founder. (<i>Oh... you mean... got it. If only a beer could actually be governor...</i>) <br />
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And the concentration of award-winning breweries is a big part of why we picked Durango for our new beer-tasting headquarters. Also, we could not resist the stunning mountain views. The vigorous outdoor recreation. The diverse wildlife. Oh, and what about the quirky, old-timey downtown full of Victorian architecture and huffin' and chuffin' steam trains chugging back and forth with whistles a'tooting! Seriously, this town still looks like the 1890s fin de siècle is in full "siècle," only better caffeinated with a Starbucks. (<i>And Durango Joe's. And Durango Coffee.</i>)<br />
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Plus our old-timey downtown plays host to an oasis of breweries, from Carver Brewing Co. to Steamworks Brewing Co. Up the road is the HQ for Durango Brewing Co. and down the road is the pub and grub stop <span style="font-family: inherit;">for Ska Brewing. Trek out from Durango in any direction and guess what you'll run into! Elk, deer, coyotes? No! (<i>Well, yes, but the answer we were looking for was...</i>) More craft brewers! There's <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Amicas, Bristol Brewing Company, Pagosa Brewing Company, Phantom Canyon Brewing Company, Silverton Brewery, Smuggler’s Brewpub, and Trinity -- just to name a few. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That said, we've got our work cut out for us. So, with holiday lights strung from one end of the house to the other, a pagan tree bedecked with sentimental ornaments, and an eclectic mix of nostalgic December-only tunes humming through the living room sound system, we begin our Rocky Mountain brew-quest with Ska Brewing's Molé Stout. (<i>Eclectic doesn't begin to cover this music. Some of this stuff sounds like you're in a ballpark elevator in 1967.</i>)</span><br />
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This brew comes in a can depicting a wildly flailing skeleton costumed in funky Aztec garb, strung with necklaces of jingle-jangle-chili beads. The imagery is no doubt a warning for drinkers who ordinarily balk at chili-flavored, chili-seasoned, chili-inspired, or chili-hinted beers.<br />
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We were two such balkers once, and ended up being unfortunate victims. On a whim at the grocery store, we picked up a six-pack of Rio Grande & Sierra Blanca's green chile beer, dubbed the Pancho Verde Chile Cerveza. We found that we could only "enjoy" half a Pancho with the right kind of dinner (beans, tortillas, etc.). (<i>At which point our tongues realized we were drinking green chile... which, as much as I love green chile, is actually pretty much blech.</i>) In the end, the remaining bottles sat in our fridge until it was time to move to Ireland, at which point they became going-away-gifts! (<i>In one family-member-who-shall-remain-anonymous's fridge, we found one of these gifts unwrapped and yet mysteriously un-drunk upon our return. Don't think we didn't notice! We're not bitter, just jealous that your self-preservation instincts are stronger than ours.</i>)<br />
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So with some reservation, we sampled this seasonal stout made with peppers, cocoa, and spices. Ska calls it autumnal -- a word I had hitherto reserved for the "other half" of Jane Austen's novels. But if <i>Emma </i>can be adapted into <i>Clueless</i>, then I suppose a beer can be autumnal. That is not to say that this beer is for the snootiest of samplers. On the contrary! Cocoa, dark velvety and rich, greets the nose like the sweet fragrance of a chocolate flower garden. With every sip, it warms the mouth. Then comes the zing of those peppers. But in this beer, they do not get out of control. Instead, they are smoothed down to a not-unpleasant nub by the mingling spices. Coriander? Nutmeg, perhaps? Who cares? This beer is good. And the warmer it gets, the better it tastes--like all Aztecs, I suppose. This beer tastes deliciously and distinctively like the holidays in the southwest! (<i>No disagreements here, for once. The cocoa really blossoms as it warms, all the while strolling the line this side of bitter and spicy-hot. It's smooth and prickly. Like running your hand the right way over shark skin.</i>)<br />
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Sure, we all hold tight to our aptly formed conceptions and deeply rooted misgivings about the chili pepper's place in beer brewing. And this prejudice is not just limited to chili-beers. Even cities get a reputation that either attracts or repels. Take Durango, for example. Thought to be a ritzy and glitzy exclusive ski-resort town, Durango is actually much more inclusive and practical than we ever expected. Don't believe us? What if we told you that many of its public works projects were funded by hookers? (<i>Well, a special tax assessed on brothel earnings. Same dif! No matter how you slice it, this park is brought to you by Betty's Boom-Boom Room. Your municipal water pump runs courtesy of your other municipal pumps.</i>) (Oh-ho, two can play at puns, honey: The City of Durango hereby dedicates this here new train platform to Selma's Slam Shack & Saloon. Their beneficence means more people can now <i>get off</i> in Durango.)<br />
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So, we get it. We're human. We judge books by their covers in order to survive. And chili peppers can easily overpower an unsuspecting tongue, be they in a drink or in enchiladas.<br />
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But for this beer we ask you to set aside those notions and take a sip of the holiday season as it can only taste when distilled through the jewel-tones of a December sunset in the desert southwest!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-33620333824669376072012-09-05T12:28:00.002-06:002013-01-12T15:24:56.305-07:00There's No Drink Like HomeLast night marked a sort of homecoming epoch for these two beer bloggers. In the span of a few hours, we were re-initiated into the American ethos after a year abroad spent walking instead of driving, and saying "cheers" instead of "thanks" and "grand" instead of "cool." <i>Not to mention telling time by the sun instead of by the tides.</i><br />
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For those who need it, here is the recipe:<br />
We went (<i>drove</i>) to a baseball game.<br />
We ate (<i>gorged ourselves on</i>) over-sized and over-greased stadium food.<br />
We watched (<i>gawked at</i>) a brilliant fireworks display.<br />
We sang (<i>howled</i>) along to American rock standards spanning several decades.<br />
And, most important of all, we picked up a couple of blondes to sit on our laps as we did all of the above! <i>Don't I have the best woman in the world? The stuff she lets me get away with...</i><br />
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Actually, the blondes were a couple of Isotopes Brewing Triple A Blondes. Great debates transpire all over the web and at beer festivals challenging the definition and true character of a blonde ale. Are they a Kolsch-style or a hop-light I.P.A.? Or are they something else, wiggling and dancing between those standards? <i>Wiggling and dancing? We should set up a pole... erm, I mean, take a poll.</i> For our purposes, the litmus test is simple: Is the blonde an enjoyable beer to drink?<br />
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The Isotopes blondes absolutely are. They are quenching, meaning you can take a big swig and not feel parch-mouthed after swallowing. Some beers do this to great effect, but not the blonde. These blondes were also light, without being ditzy or vacuous. I could smell a hint of fruitiness, but could not pick it apart on the palate. The Triple A blends its hop-bitter with malt-mellow. <i>Of course, you can only get <b>so </b>particular when you're drinking it out of a plastic cup... but honestly, that particular bit of Americana only adds to the enjoyment when you're lounging along the right-field foul line.</i><br />
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Equally enjoyable is the <a href="http://albrewquerque.blogspot.com/2011/06/top-off-my-topes-in-top-of-third-please.html" target="_blank">Isotopes Amber Ale</a>, which we have posted on before. But on this night there was something more to the beer than just enjoyment. There was more to the ball game than the double plays, force outs, and home runs. There was even more behind those good laughs with the family members seated with us and more still within the sparkle, flash, and boom of the fireworks. There was a resounding click embedded and echoing through all of it.<br />
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Perhaps it was the click of one door closing on our year abroad. The completion of that chapter in our lives. Perhaps it was the click of another door opening. That next chapter waiting to be written in lands as yet unseen with beers untasted. It could have also been the sound of life as we knew it synchronizing back in to place, back into familiarity.<br />
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And then again, it could have just been the sound of that really weird guest mascot, Bird-Zerk, snapping his feathered fingers as he encouraged small children to sway their hips and swing their shirts over their heads (No joke! He did this!).<i> Yup. We're back in 'Merka, alright...</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-56182992354408907652012-08-19T05:22:00.001-06:002012-08-19T05:22:18.924-06:00Gimme a Pint with those Galoshes and Bike ChainsSure, the whole point of drinking beer is to relax <i>(Not get crazy and do wild stunts like keg stands? Interesting theory...continue)</i>. So you might think that the whole concept of "multitasking" is at odds with proper beer drinking etiquette <i>(Well chuh, it's why one never guzzles AND smashes the can on one's forehead at the same time)</i>.<br />
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Turns out, not even a little bit. Not when you multitask like they do in Dingle.<br />
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Earlier this year, with family visiting, we traveled waaaaaay out to one of Ireland's western fingers: Dingle Peninsula, in County Kerry. This little town has some renowned pubs that recall the ancient purpose of a public house as a place of cozy communal gathering <i>(fortunately, so unlike the Branch Davidians, who had a different kind of cozy communal gathering)</i>. Dick Mack's may well have been an old house, with its multiple rooms and coal-burning fireplace and ancient woodwork <i>(I think he means dilapidated...like House of Usher meets the Shrieking Shack)</i>. Foxy John's could well have been the workroom of that same house. (And no joke, I think these pubs were connected by some labyrinthine network of hallways... and they weren't by any means next door.)<br />
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The most fascinating aspect of these pubs, though, wasn't the beer (mostly the Irish usuals - with one exception), and it wasn't even the inhabitants (though they might have come a close second). It was their multi-purposeness.<br />
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Dick Mack's may be a world-famous pub, but it's also a leather-working shop and a shoe shop from way back inna day <i>(yes, when solid floors, walls, and ceilings were optional or even kitsch)</i>. Drinks may be their primary focus now, but on the shelves next to a painted portrait of Dick Mack himself (being served by a leggy waitress, no less), there are still bright blue Wellies and strips of hide and old cardboard shoe boxes with varying quantities of dust <i>(Oh is that what that was? I didn't know dust could husk...)</i>. But unlike any Bennigan's you ever visited, none of the items was mere decor. Everything was for sale, and if you were lucky, you could still get your leather punched.<br />
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Foxy John's didn't bother to trade in leather and shoes. Nope. Instead, it decided to be your grandpa's garage combined with a bike shop. We only got to sit there for 45 minutes or so, and no joke, in that time people bought a bike chain, a flashlight, and some washers. More home repair must be attempted per capita in Dingle than anywhere else in the world - "Honey, the toilet's broken again, and I need a... er... a bolt to fix it! I'll be right back!" An hour later: "Oh shoot! I got the wrong size. I gotta head over to the hardware store again!"<br />
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Like I said, the beer was pretty much the usual at these shopubs. Foxy John's, though, carried the local selection from the Dingle Brewing Company: Tom Crean's Lager. It's named for the Antarctic explorer, and (like an Irish beer named for an Antarctic explorer) it defies your expectations of a lager. The head is wide and white -- fair enough so far -- but it's also thick, like you'd expect on a much stouter beer <i>(and how apt for a beer from the land of thick-eternal-fog)</i>. And the lager itself is, in a word, creamy <i>(like sarsaparilla, root beer, or cream soda creamy! I wanted to pour my Crean's over ice cream, it was that good!)</i>. I had to make sure my brain wasn't simply applying a misspelling of "Crean" to my taste sensations, because I hardly believed it. Sure enough, it's a creamy feeling and tasting lager. What a treat!<br />
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Dingle proved to be a tiny beer mecca <i>(which was some consolation, considering your family went there intent on its stunning coastal views which were perpetually bashful and shrouded in that eternal-fog the whole time)</i>. If you should be there in the on-season (oh, late March to probably September), see if you can find the Canteen. The food was heeeeeeeeavenly (I've been craving pork and applesauce ever since), but the owners are also big supporters of Irish beer and cider. We learned about three or four different brands while we were there, and poof! our horizons were broadened. Not bad for a little town barely accessible by car!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-6368395828266449782012-08-04T08:33:00.002-06:002012-08-04T08:33:42.937-06:00Stirrin' Up Pub TroubleOne of the best parts of living abroad in Ireland is living in a small village with a neighborhood pub. While bars in Dublin city proper transform into seething, swilling jabberwockies by 5:30 p.m. (<i>you should see the people inside!</i>), the neighborhood pub is different beast altogether. Most nights the neighborhood pub is chill. Most afternoons, it sports the kind of quiet and lonely desolation that two desert dwellers can appreciate. But when Leinster is playing Ulster in a rugby tourney, or when Tipperary is going head to head with Kilkenny in a hurling final, the neighborhood pub metamorphoses. It swells with people, food, drink, and laughter. (<i>Sports fans, you know to read that as collective groaning, whooping, cheering, and cursing.</i>) Zach and I had the fortunate experience of relaxing in the pub when it unexpectedly transformed. We did not know a game would be on, but we soon discovered how lucky we were to have seats.<br />
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Recently we squeezed our way into the local pub, Fitzgerald's, when the Euro Cup was on the telly. Ireland's team had already been tragically, embarrassingly eliminated early on (<i>I hear they mistakenly sent their Gaelic football team to play soccer</i>), which meant that the mood in the pub was a little more dour than usual. But Germany was up against Greece, and for the locals, this was the perfect opportunity to cheer on underdog Greece and boo the evil Sith Lord of the Euro Zone (Germany). (<i>Yeah, if the Sith were... shit, you're right! They ARE the Sith Lords of Europe!</i>) To be clear, Germany is not evil for dumping hundreds of millions of euros into the coffers of struggling countries like Ireland, Greece, and others, but from the perspective of those struggling, they do feel as if Germany has them by the short-hairs. (<i>Darth Pube?</i>) So how better to exorcise those frustrations than to raucously ring a big leaden bell every time Greece scores against Germany?<br />
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I say all this as preface to the following: Zach is a huge Germanophile. He lived there for a year, teaching English on a Fulbright (I know, he's such a smarty). And public attitudes in Ireland be damned--there was no way he was going to sit through one of Germany's games and not cheer each and every time they scored. Loving him devotedly as I do, I lent my voice to the cause.<br />
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Happily, I can report that while we were the only two people cheering for Germany in the whole pub (<i>I now know how awkwardly delightful clapping loudly in a silent pub, and following it up with a German cheer can be</i>), we were never threatened, slugged, clobbered, or refused service, which was handy because we were very keen to try some of the local Irish brews newly available.<br />
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I had the Currim Gold Celtic Wheat, made by the Carlow Brewing Co. Being the rapscallion he is, Zach ordered trouble...that is to say, he got the Dark Arts Porter by Trouble Brewing. I'd like to give a glowing, perhaps even golden, review of the Currim, but there was just something not right between it and my taste buds. The smell rising up from the thin head was fishier than a barrel of trout. The taste was metallic, reminiscent of, well, the top of a 6-volt battery (you know the big block kind with springs on top; the ones your prank-loving dad or uncle is always trying to get you to lick when you're young and don't know any better) (<i>ahem. Some of us </i>always <i>knew better</i>), which was a doubly-unfortunate way to taste given the copper-top color of the brew.<br />
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Knowing that not all beers are best at an icy cold temperature, I decided to let my Currim warm up a little. This proved a moderately worthwhile decision. The warmth turned my fishy Duracell into something almost akin to a lager, a bit like Red Stripe. Because it was not enough of a change to turn this frothy frog into a pintly prince, I let my tongue and Currim part ways--both citing irreconcilable differences--and asked the barman for a Stonewell Cider. Somehow, perhaps magically, the Nohoval Brewing Co. out in Cork has managed to bottle the crisp taste and feel of a dewy, apple-harvesting autumn sunrise in New England. Now, there are plenty of wonderful Irish ciders worth trying when you're here, but unlike a lot of others, the Stonewall does not candy-coat the mouth. It drinks dry like a good wine, only it bubbles with the fun of an even better champagne.<br />
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<i>I stuck with one of my Fitzgerald standbys: not the Beamish, though I do prefer a pint of the southern stout to Guinness, but the aforementioned Dark Arts Porter, reportedly named for the mystical part of the brewing process not quite explainable by science. The Fitz has Trouble bottled, rather than on tap, so I also get to enjoy their sense of humor on the label (think cartoonish voodoo doll). Being bottled, it's not overly carbonated; nor does it have the nitrogenated head people expect from an Irish stout. (I've never tried it on tap, and would be curious to know what the head is like on one of those.) This porter is a strong example of what a stout can be when it's not afraid to have flavor; some may not like it, but those who enjoy their beer leaning toward the chocolate, coffee, and toffee side of the spectrum will enjoy the Dark Arts. Sometimes by the end of a bottle it's a bit too sweet for my preference--not too much of the ol' bitterness by any means--but not so sweet that it can't be enjoyed with a meal, or on its own. Though it would be an excellent dessert beer...</i> <br />
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And it was in the midst of enjoying this cider, cheering yet another of Germany's goals when the kingly old gent sitting beside us on the built-in wall-bench took up a sudden cussing-finger-flipping contest with another man on his way out of the pub. Now, I say kingly, because up til then, this benevolent ol' chap had sat in the corner, sipping his pint of the black stuff, leisurely reading the paper. He'd even leaned over a few times to consult Zach on the score of the match, the state of German affairs, and occassionally practice speaking the language. (Personally, I think he was 90% of the reason why we weren't thrown out for cheering for Germany.) Besides that, the chap flirted with the young waitresses, coaxing them to bend over and count his change (verifying he was paying enough for each beer) so that he could indulge in the wonders of their young cleavages. He was right ol' sovereign, a regular who clearly conducted court. Indeed, none of the other locals could leave the bar for the day unless they had stopped by this gent and paid their respects. And so it was that as one such local man was about to leave, he spotted the sovereign, smiled, and flipped up his middle finger. The ol' gent responded in kind, giving the bird the European way, which is to flash the back side of your peace sign. (He leaned over to Zach to say, "He gives me one finger, well I'll give him two!") Then there was playful repartee, along the lines of:<br />
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Local Man<br />
You bleepity-bleep-blank-blank! <br />
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Ol' Gent<br />
Where have you been all evening, you blankety-bleeper?<br />
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Local Man<br />
How long were you sitting there all by y'self? Oh, sorry, miss (to me), I don't mean to cuss in front of a lady, but I was going to call him a bleepity-bleep-blank-blank and a bleep with bleep's blank, until I saw you sitting there. (Everyone laughed then.)<br />
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<i>This is all so accurate that I can't add anything. He was bleepity-bleep-blanking hilarious. And the buxom waitresses didn't seem to mind him, either.</i> <br />
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It was a funny moment to get caught in the middle of, but otherwise, it so encapsulated the magic of the neighborhood pub.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-79636281465165511852012-07-19T05:46:00.000-06:002012-07-19T05:47:35.447-06:00Landlubbers Beware (of B.O.) and an Ogres' OdeLast summer, while Jenny was at her grad-school residency in Vermont and I was basking in the heat of an Albuquerque summer, we did a duel-post a bit different than the Albrewquerque standard. We proved in the process that we can snark each other from two time zones away (<i>yeah, we're awesome like that</i>)!<br />
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Now it's time to raise the bar. Can our snark (and our love of trying new beers) bridge <i>five</i> time zones and an ocean?<br />
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Vermont, I imagine, is much the same summer to summer. Here in Ireland, I'm still waiting for a hint of a taste of a drop of that New Mexican summer. So, to console myself, I visited the Brew Dock in Dublin with my friend and classmate, Katie.<br />
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The Brew Dock is a new establishment right across from Connolly Station. It's run by the same folks who operate Galway Bay Brewery, and in the spirit of microbrewing, their bar features dozens of craft beers from Ireland and around the world. (Fifteen or twenty are actually on tap -- the rest bottled.) Since it was a Galway Bay establishment, I opted first for the Galway Bay experience. I ordered their Stormy Port porter and sipped it while leaning against the wall, <span style="background-color: white;">reading a book,</span><span style="background-color: white;"> waiting for both an open table and my friend... on a Friday night. (Yeah, I was *that guy* in the bar.) (<i>What? The same guy you always are: smart and smokin' hot?</i>)</span><br />
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In many ways, the Stormy Port is the inverse-Guinness. (Man, I really don't like comparing every Irish stout or porter to Guinness. But what other universal point of comparison is there?) There was not an ounce of creaminess to this beer's head. It was one of the hoppier porters I've ever tasted, lively and tingly without being too bubbly (though of course, any fizz is more fizz than the fizz of that other Big Biz brew). Some of the flavor, I feel, was masked by the coldness of the beer on tap -- shockingly cold, even for an Irish summer evening. I would say that I'd love to try this beer warmer sometime, say at room-temperature. (<i>Well perhaps you either read or drank too fast....</i>)<br />
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But (there was clearly a but, wasn't there?)... I fear that this beer is like a German bus (<i>Punctual? Shiny? Crowded?</i>); the heat inside is directly proportionate to the degree of body odor (<i>Ooohhh, gotcha</i>). Yes. German transport is a blessing, but not in your drink. As my hand warmed the glass, and as I continued exploring this drink for flavors, there was an evasive flavor that I could not quite pin. It grew more unpleasant the warmer my beer became. At one point I might actually have checked my own shirt sleeves to make sure I wasn't somehow smelling myself in the beer.<br />
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It wasn't me.<br />
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Maybe it was just a bad batch; who knows? Maybe the mid-range of temperatures for this beer is as awkward as middle school was for me. Maybe once it reaches the adulthood of temperatures, the unpleasantness mellows out into something more palatable. Maybe; but I won't be the one to find out. (<i>Incredible! That pretty much sums up why I didn't date any guys in middle school or high school!</i>)<br />
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So for my chaser, I ordered a beer from a different microbrewery, a beer I've been anxious to try for quite some time: the Metalman Pale Ale, from a very new brewery in Waterford. Oh, what a godsend this beer was!<br />
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Jenny may or may not like it; the hop content is high (<i>oh, c'mon, have some faith. I love hops...sock-hops</i>), as you might expect in a beer described as an American-style pale ale, but not nearly as high as in a standard IPA. And I have nothing but good things to say about this beer. It too was served cold, but that works well for a pale ale. It has a rich tawny color, and a decently thick (but not overdone) white head (<i>like Mozart?</i>). Some pale ales like to kick you in the back of the throat with their hops; the Metalman rolls over your whole tongue, giving you a bit of citrus here, a whiff of floral notes there, the light bubbles cavorting the whole time like crickets at the Ugly Bug Ball (<i>Metalman, if you're reading this, I'm sure Zach does not mean to connote that your beer feels like bugs dancing on the tongue</i>). Of course, there's the bitter finish characteristic of a hoppy beer, but this one doesn't make you wince.<br />
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Despite the variety I had at my fingertips (<i>were you behind the bar helping yourself, or what?</i>), I ordered a second Metalman to go with my dinner, a Thai noodle salad. The spices in the food invited my beer over for a play date and had a grand ol' time. The Metalman Pale Ale proved itself worthy of my repeat business, and I enjoyed it down to the last drop. (<i>And that was when his friend Katie showed up and had to roll him home in the wheelbarrow. Just kidding.</i>)<br />
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Now for my (Jenny's) journey into Vermont and its beers (which are plentiful and diverse). I should preface this section by saying that I love barley wine. L.o.v.e. it. What do I love about a barley wine? (<i>Try fer shtarters that it getsh you pished rully fasht.</i>) Start with the name. <span style="background-color: white;">According to</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><i>The Naked Pint </i><span style="background-color: white;">(a fantastic read for any beer lover), barley wine arose in England at a time when they were pissed off at the French and did not want to drink French (grape-based) wines. So, they set about making their own "wines" and dubbed them barely wines. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Beyond mere history, for me, the name evokes olden times when men's fashion boiled down to cloaks and swords, and women wore low-cut green velvet wench-ware (<i>those times still exist on Saturday mornings at your local park's SCA gathering</i>); times when inns weren't out and tables were thick slabs of oak. In a time like that, thou woulds't ordereth a barley wine and play high stakes card games with yon ogres and dwarves! </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">For me, barley wines are all about merriment and mystique. They are imaginative and magical. Evocative and definitive. Thus there was no better beer to bring along when my classmates at Vermont College of Fine Arts gathered for a reading. You see, we are children's writers and we take great pride in our wild and vivid imaginations. We possess that unique ability to travel in and out of alternate realities, fantasies, middle school memories, and the horrors of high school at any given time. Thus, we gathered to read excerpts from our worlds and I sat back to Drink and Thoroughly Enjoy (note the A. A. Milne style "Pooh capitals") a Rock Art Brewery Ridge Runner Barley Wine. This was right on par with the Ol' Oku b.w. from Turtle Mountain back in Rio Rancho! It was sweet and zingy, floral and oaky-smokey. And like the stories, it was sweet and playful on one level, with deep, dark undertones. The Ridge Runner made for a perfect accompaniment and several of my classmates enjoyed a bottle or two. <i>Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: the folks who write the books your children read.</i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">And that really is the wonderment of genuine craft brewing. It is creative and imaginative and sometimes, if you're really lucky, that brew can transcend the ordinary world! </span>Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-63223382517437312612012-07-09T12:55:00.002-06:002012-07-09T12:55:56.495-06:00Pimmseldon, or WimblepimmsWhile queuing for tickets for Wimbledon, one must be always congenial and always ready for conversation. <i>Easier said than done. One is outside before dawn -- which, in England in June, is EARLY. </i>The queue for tickets is long (tens of thousands -- <i>though only about a thousand brave souls camp the night</i>) and the wait can be grueling (dozens of hours), but the people around you are more excited than tired. <i>This, however, says nothing of yourself... no matter how excited you are.</i> They want to chat and they want to know just how much you play tennis or don't, and just how many times you have been to Wimbledon.<br />
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Feeling like an unofficial envoy and goodwill ambassador, you <span style="background-color: white;">respond to all questions with a smile and an answer that doesn't make you look out of the loop or entirely stupid.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> <i>In the loop and partially stupid is entirely acceptable at all pre-dawn hours.</i> You know to be careful because by being an American -- more importantly, being an American abroad -- you know that Americans always get a bad rap for being rude or a little slow because we just talk louder than anyone else. </span></div>
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"Well, I don't play tennis, so much as dabble and enjoy it on the weekends," you say. "Actually, this is my first time at Wimbledon"<i> </i>(nothing wrong with a little humility after all). <i>Unless you're Jenny, then you try to avoid talking about that invitation-only international tournament that brought you to Wimbledon back in high school. Sense of modesty, or some such.</i></div>
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But then when the Aussies on either side ask you if you've had a Pimm's, you can do little else but gawk, shake your head, and ask, "What's a Pimm's?" <i>Or act affronted and say, "I beg your pardon!" Just for a laugh.</i> The question goes off like a bomb! The Aussies press their hands to their cheeks and foreheads in shock and dismay. How could you not know or never have tasted a Pimm's?</div>
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Well, that was more or less the situation we found ourselves in over a week ago (for a full description, see our <a href="http://writersgoneisled.blogspot.ie/2012/07/jolly-holiday-wimbledon-2012-pt-1.html" target="_blank">Writers blog</a>). It was just after dawn, and we had been queuing for tickets since about 3:30 a.m., when our neighbors in the line brought up Pimm's. They made such a convincing case for it that Zach and I resolved to have one as soon as there was a decent break between tennis matches. </div>
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We got our break and, even though we'd spent more than 8 hours in a line already, got in another line at one of the refreshment vendors under Court No. 1. We got our beverages and sat on the sunny knoll known as Henman Hill to drink them. <i>Dear American readers: "Sunny" means something different in a British dictionary.</i> According to more knowledgeable sources across the internet, Pimm's is a fruit cup. American readers are probably thinking of chunks of fruit in a cup <i>(I was)</i>, or maybe even along the lines of jungle juice, but that's not the case. Fruit cup, here, means a specialty drink, or a summer cocktail mixing a fizzy drink with a hard alcohol and other flavorings. </div>
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As a drink, Pimm's originated in the 1820s in England and is named for its maker, James Pimm. James was mass-producing by the 1850s and even managed to turn out seven styles of his fancy fruit cups. The brand was picked up by super-corporate drink-conglomerate Diageo in the 2000s, which is why it's getting only a quick mention on this blog. </div>
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(If you ever want to get me and Zach going on how the big, corporate Behemoths are wreaking havoc on anything good, from music to drinks, just say the word "Diageo." <i>Or "Clear Channel."</i> Look them up and you might just be surprised at the brands under their belt. We sure were!) </div>
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The Pimm's (mixed with lemonade, as is tradition at Wimbledon) was refreshing. It looks like iced tea, but it tastes a little sweet and a little dark, like figs. <i>Or a soda pop, light on the fizz, heavy on the flavors. Maybe these comparisons are heightened because we drank it with a straw...</i> Mix in the zing of lemons and the bite of gin, and you've got yourself a fine summer cocktail. </div>
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Now should you ever find yourself abroad, and are asked if you've ever had Pimm's, <span style="background-color: white;">you have some options. You could pull out your own soapbox and unload on the inquirer about the dangers and downsides of corporate brand acquisitions.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Then again, you could just admit the truth and soon as you're able, shell out the four or five pounds, and have a sip for yourself. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Or, y</span>ou could give thoughtful pause (as if searching your auxiliary memory databases), use our description to signify you know what they're talking about, and then riposte with your own question, a recommendation, perhaps, for a local beverage. That way, everyone walks away a winner. You look smart--even for an American. The "big guys" don't get your money. And, in the best of worlds, a new friendship arises between a couple of "little guys" having conversation about some other "little guys" who make good brews, good music, good whatever! </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-10471086908811910422012-06-19T11:23:00.000-06:002012-06-19T11:23:34.347-06:00The Teeny-Tiny Woman and Her Teeny-Tiny PubThis post is more about the location than the beer (though don't get me wrong, I'll cover that, too).<br />
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We have more on the rest of our visit to Moneygall over on our traveling writers' blog: <a href="http://writersgoneisled.blogspot.ie/2012/06/full-contact-egg-races-and-slice-of.html" target="_blank">Writers Gone Isled</a>. But we just have to talk about one of the more memorable Irish pubs here.<br />
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To set the stage: Moneygall is a teeny-tiny town with one main street <i>(now for the fairy-tale remix: Once there was a teeny tiny woman in a teeny tiny town with a teeny tiny pub...)</i>, and no one had heard of it until Barack and Michelle visited it in May of 2011 <i>(after they discovered they were really the O'bamas)</i>. Our friend and host Eimear just happens to have grown up there. It has precisely two pubs, as far as we could tell, and they are right across the street from one another <i>(huh, maybe that's where Starbucks got the idea...)</i>. The larger of the two is more or less what you expect out of an Irish pub <i>(leprechauns dancing on the tables? CCR and Bob Dylan cover bands?)</i>.<br />
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The smaller one is exceptional. Here it is from the outside:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9f_DgyY-30UrrUAYNQzknXEI5fBpWyDLT2jOhYwOZpzcm7mMIX5i-0-rBtRLQIpugkOieIV_2ceOKJ41upKhnF5h6Pk3IDSuciw6iF5vu8KAgKdIA19n4ij9XfnGce5JWyTlsj4tBg/s1600/DSC03759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD9f_DgyY-30UrrUAYNQzknXEI5fBpWyDLT2jOhYwOZpzcm7mMIX5i-0-rBtRLQIpugkOieIV_2ceOKJ41upKhnF5h6Pk3IDSuciw6iF5vu8KAgKdIA19n4ij9XfnGce5JWyTlsj4tBg/s320/DSC03759.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Instead of dim iridescent lighting, J Hayes Bar has a strip of bare fluorescent bulbs across the ceiling. The counter is Formica-topped, and just high enough that you feel slightly small leaning against it. There are two beers on tap (Guinness and Smithwick's) <i>(pronounced Smith-icks...emphasis on the "icks")</i>, a mini-fridge with bottles of Miller and cans of Heineken, a row of whiskeys and such along the back mirror, and a paper Obama mask above a small Obama bobblehead. The wall has framed pictures of various get-togethers that might have been in 1987 as easily as 2007.<br />
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All this might be strange on its own <i>(or potentially creepy)</i>. The woman behind the bar, though, turns it all into the most remarkable pub we've ever visited. Her name is Julia, she's about 81 years old, and she is the sole proprietor and bartender. <i>(To hear her tell it, she got behind the bar when she was 16 and basically never left that post!)</i><br />
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She greeted everyone who entered by name <i>(their real names, not the generic "Hey...guy" or "Howdy partner")</i>. I've never seen any barkeep do that for reals, or outside of Cheers. (Everyone except for Jenny and me, of course, but straight away she got our names down. I imagine for weeks she'll be talking about the two Mexicans who visited her. Sharp as a tack, Julia is, but deaf to the word "New," it seems.) Her handshake was firm, her smile genuine, and straight away you knew this woman was anything but doddering, no matter how much her pub resembles your grandma's kitchen <i>(yeah, if grandma left the liquor cabinet unlocked)</i>.<br />
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She poured and pulled our selections. She was adorable with the condensation on glasses and bottles -- for whatever reason, she could not stand a single drop to smudge the glass, so she would run her hands firmly down the sides until the unmarred glass glistened. My Guinness might not have been pulled perfectly to the Guinness corporate standards, but I've never seen a beer pulled more carefully or more caring. She got every drop into the glass that would fit, and with a slow and steady hand delivered it to my section of Formica.<br />
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Best Guinness I've ever had. It wasn't just the atmosphere, either. It was smoother, richer, less bitter. However Julia takes care of her draft lines, or whatever grandmotherly tenderness goes into her pub, the results shine through in her pints. Anyone going through Ireland and seeking the best Guinness can just skip the official Storehouse tour and go straight to Moneygall. <i>(This is a certifiable fact, as far as I'm concerned. I sipped that Guinness and could not believe my tongue! For once, this big-business brew did not taste flat or stale, as it usually does in any other pub! And here we thought we could go a whole year without blogging on the behemoth of dark barley...)</i><br />
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The back door opened at intervals so that some fellow (no idea who he was) could give us updates on the European soccer championships (Greece advanced, Russia was eliminated) <i>(the interruptions were delightfully surreal, like the cut-aways on Family Guy)</i>. Eimear's former coach, a swell guy named Rody, popped in for his usual, and he ended up buying us all a drink. (He missed his chance to say, "A round for the house!" You <i>always</i> say it when there's fewer than five folks in the pub.)<br />
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We chatted away with Rody, with Julia, and the whole evening was my first true experience of truly small-town life. Julia knows Eimear's family better than Eimear does, and the moment Eimear ducked out of the room, Julia leaned over and assured us in the most confidential of tones that you couldn't find a better family than the Ryans. <i>(Actually, Julia possessed that admirable quality of being able to talk honestly and openly about anyone in the room or absent. She mostly referred to everyone as "lovely," but I genuinely believed that's just how she sees the world.)</i><br />
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We could have stayed in Julia's pub all night <i>(and might have if Eimear never stood up and put on her coat. Julia's atmosphere, though fluorescent and odd, is hypnotizing. The whole occasion zooms in on the microcosm of families, stories, and the mysteries of the human heart one can only properly discuss when under the influence. </i><i>You settle in and never again think of the outside world again. Kind of like going to Neverland. Now, i</i><i style="background-color: white;">sn't that what having a neighborhood snug is all about?)</i><span style="background-color: white;">. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Eimear, being a good tour guide, wanted to show us the competition across the street, and in fairness we wanted to see it -- the pub where the Obamas famously pulled and sipped a Guinness. But before we left, we were sure to capture the true spirit of the evening in a photograph:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvboCJRFhBetqHXuy52phR4pqEK-4xZEsWEBAMrT1K3-AJHwzvCnR055nQ731bE463UGo3oYWFDMMTF45NIEnwjLKV6VruW2uZgKG99Vav9nIMoQpB2gas9KcUsS1FY1i8dxjgpfKaw/s1600/DSC03757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBvboCJRFhBetqHXuy52phR4pqEK-4xZEsWEBAMrT1K3-AJHwzvCnR055nQ731bE463UGo3oYWFDMMTF45NIEnwjLKV6VruW2uZgKG99Vav9nIMoQpB2gas9KcUsS1FY1i8dxjgpfKaw/s320/DSC03757.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Note Julia's death grip <i>(a.k.a. grandmotherly love-grip)</i> on Jenny's arm, and how Jenny is only one centimeter shorter than the President. <i>(oh, does that mean I am tall enough to be president one day?)</i></div>Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-57569554322177139832012-06-18T14:04:00.002-06:002012-06-18T14:04:36.461-06:00Backyard Holiday, or Dwarf-RoastingEarlier this month, Jenny and I seized on a special summer opportunity -- we ATE OUTSIDE <i>(like deer! No, wait something cooler...like polar bears!)</i>. All of you back in Albuquerque are snickering right now because eating dinner on a back patio is a totally regular and normal activity. In Sandycove, if it's not raining, it's windy, and if it's not windy, it's cold, and if it's none of those things, then there are two <i>(hungry-and-adorable-beggin'-for-scraps)</i> dogs and various small children <i>(also adorable without beggin' for scraps)</i> in the backyard, not to mention the patio table and chairs are the favorite home of island spiders <i>(polar bears don't like spiders)</i>. We love the dogs, and our landlords and their family are wonderful -- but their backyard is not always conducive to dining.<br />
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So when we had the chance, we grabbed it. The "neighbors" were out of town with their dogs, and while the night might have been cooler than we prefer <i>(W-w-w-what is he t-t-t-talking ab-b-bout? It-t-t-t was f-f-f-f-fine...)</i>, it was at least clear and dry. So we took our homemade stir-fry out back, sat our own spider-free dining room chairs on the patio, and popped a couple brews that had been waiting in our fridge for just such a moment as this one.<br />
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On this night I sipped a Ginger Beard (Fiery Alcoholic Ginger Beer, 4.2%). The Wychwood Brewery of Oxfordshire, England proudly proclaims they are Brewers of Character. So with moral qualms aside, I was able to relax as the beer rolled over my tongue.<br />
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I'll admit my expectations were high for the Ginger Beard <i>(ironic, considering there's a dwarf on the label)</i> -- Wychwood is known for its Hobgoblin and Scarecrow beers, both of which Jenny and I have enjoyed on particularly fine Albuquerque summer evenings. And this one lived up to standard. You won't like it if you really don't like ginger <i>(what's not to like?)</i> -- but if you're only opposed to the harsh face-puckering bitterness of strong ginger <i>(oh yeah, that)</i>, this beer takes care of that problem <i>(oohh, sounds so...mobster)</i>. The ginger element was spicy and snappy -- honestly not as fiery as the label suggests, though I was perfectly fine with that, having recently tried a non-alcoholic ginger beer with enough fire to roast a dozen dwarves <i>(now that would be an episode of the Soprano's worth watching!)</i>. No, this ginger was smooth, like a well buffed car. You could run your finger over the polished taste of this one, and you wouldn't produce so much as a squeak <i>(oh yeah? well what happens when you start the beer's engine?)</i>. It was an excellent complementary beer for the right meal, which the stir fry was. Yummers!<br />
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Jenny also branched outside of the Republic, though she at least stayed on the island with her selection. Only she can do this oddly-named beer justice:<br />
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<i>I partook of the Clotworthy Dobbin from Whitewater Brewery in Northern Ireland. Yes, I know it sounds like I sat out back sucking on something from a hospital cabinet, but the Clotworthy's taste is worlds away from its name. According to the bottle, Mr. C. Dobbin was an old-timey brewer, ca. 1800s, and this beer was named to honor his legacy.<br /></i><br />
<i>And what an honor it is! The Clotworthy is definitely drinkworthy. It was smooth like a nut brown ale, only with a bit more bite. Not much more. Maybe as much as puppy teeth. </i><br />
<i style="background-color: white;"><br />Were I recommending this beer to my fellow-female bookish types, I might make the following comparison (in keeping with the spirit of the past, the British Empire, and all things literarily smooth and brown): (and please say this in your own snobbiest accent) If the Santa Fe Nut Brown is Rochester, then Whitewater's Dobbin is nothing short of Wickham! </i><br />
<i style="background-color: white;"><br />Okay, enough snooty references for now. Back to Zach and his dwarf-roasting! </i><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />The meals disappeared too quickly </span><i style="background-color: white;">(chattering teeth chew quicker is all)</i><span style="background-color: white;">, and the trace heat from the day's "sunshine" dissipated </span><i style="background-color: white;">(jeez, guess we should have kept those dwarf-fires burning, eh?)</i><span style="background-color: white;">. We stubbornly remained outside, sipping our beers and enjoying the pleasures of an Irish evening </span><i style="background-color: white;">(dwarves thinking of visiting Ireland: be warned)</i><span style="background-color: white;">. We whistled tunes on our beer bottle flutes, accompanied by the matchbox-castanets of cackling magpies scheming to steal... well, anything they could lay their beaks on.</span><br />
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With the little birds providing the entertainment, and Jenny providing the company, the beers were almost inconsequential <i>(a shame when you think of all the Gimli's who gave their lives...)</i>, despite how much we enjoyed them. (Hey, I said nearly!)Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-68590627013129032562012-05-20T14:15:00.000-06:002012-05-21T13:35:52.503-06:00the Perfect Pint-by-NumberWe are celebrating! My parents have traveled all the way to Ireland from the arid biome of southern New Mexico. This marks their first visit to the Emerald Isle and their first time in Europe! As such, we are celebrating. We are also restricted to a very brief beer-post because we are busily chasing those desert-dwellers from glen to glade! <i>Though we do try to give them head starts.</i><br />
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However, a beer-post there must be because what better way to welcome my folks than with a fine pint from a local brewer? <i>"With sunshine might be nice," the folks murmur in opposition.</i><br />
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We looked for just the right snug around 7 p.m. knowing the Irish summer sun would continue its dozy gazing until well after 9. <i>"Sure bet those clouds enjoy getting a tan," bemoan the less-pale desert dwellers.</i> Plenty of time to enjoy a round or two! Our dogs were barking after hiking Dublin city's hinterlands. <i>(Actually, the dogs here are remarkably silent; maybe our foxes were keening?)</i> We had traveled out to see the splendors of St. Patrick's Cathedral only to step into a choral rehearsal, courtesy of the Indiana University Chamber Choir. It was a dazzling experience to hear the voices soaring into the stone-carved vaulted rafters, where they mixed with the rainbow-splicing light of the stained glass windows. After that we ascended to the summit of the Guinness Storehouse where my parents pulled their own pints. We enjoyed views of the city and its surrounding hillsides from the 360-degree bar before making our way to the Temple Bar district.<br />
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Knowing Dublin as we do, Zach and I decided not to settle down in any pub in Temple Bar. No offense to the district, which is lovely and always so full of life, but it is touristy and consequently plays host to the usual big-brand taps that tourists expect. So, we navigated over to the Liffey and made ourselves at home among the cushy nooks of <a href="http://www.messrsmaguire.ie/beers" target="_blank">Messrs Maguire</a>, craft brewers since at least the 1830s. On their regular rosters, they list a Haus Lager, a Rusty Red Ale, and a Bock.<br />
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I ordered the Haus. Zach got the new Golden Ale <i>(celebrating the Olympics)</i>. And my Mom joined in the fun and ordered a half-pint of the Rusty. I guess we all balked at the Bock. Knowing Zach will jump in anywhere he likes to talk about the Golden Ale, I'll just start Mom's Rusty--respect fer'yer elders and all that fal-dee-rall.<br />
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Messrs say of the Rusty that it is a fruity auburn red ale, mixing malty caramel with citrus. And their assessment is not wrong. To Mom, it tasted "warm" even though the beer and its vessel were chilled. When I sipped the Rusty, I knew what she meant. It was not so much "warm" as "warming." My tongue warmed in response to the spice. It's like breathing in the aroma of cloves or eucalyptus. Sometimes, there's a physiological response to certain scents and flavors. Cells expand. Capillaries fill up. Who knows? Regardless of chemistry, this beer is a warming beer.<br />
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As Mom enjoyed her Rusty half-pint, I turned to my own Haus, which was in perfect order. This pilsner-style beer tasted...well, like a pilsner-style beer ought to taste. Nothing exotic. Nothing shocking. Nothing out of place. It was no less delicious or refreshing; no less crisp or subtly nutty. It was a paint-by-the-number pint, but I can hardly fault it for that. How many times have I tried a lurid, experimental brew only to be disappointed? Some brewers get bedazzled by the limitless combinations of hops, malts, roasts, quick or slow fermentation. They play with flavors and splice styles until their beers are like Sid's toys in Toy Story. <i>(Misunderstood, yet willing to help a fellow misfit escape certain exploding doom? Oh, right...)</i><br />
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<i>That said, my Golden Ale might not have been a mutant toy, but it kicked like a Mutant Ninja Turtle. It was darn good; I feared that the Golden, like so many beers of the name, would be too honey-sweet and lacking in the more bitter and bready tastes that I prefer to sweetness in a brew. My fears were far from realized. In fact, the beer was complex, and as diverse as the Olympic opening ceremonies. I honestly could never put my finger on the flavors: they were spicy, but not autumnal; they were full without being overly hoppy; they were tingly without being fizzy. The opening salvo was different than the rich finish, and the relationship between the two was one of the more balanced I can recall tasting in Ireland. Too bad this is a seasonal (and perhaps only a quadrennial!) offering.</i><br />
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<i>Now, back to how Maguire avoids beers-like-mutant-toys brewing fiascos:</i><br />
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Messrs just don't mess with beer that way. If you order their pilsner, it will taste like a pilsner. Order a bock and it will not mock. You, dear thirsty wander, can drink easy here. Order what tickles your taste-buds because the beers will be guaranteed not to sneak up on you like some eyeless-baby-doll-head-with-Erector-set-crab-body. <i>Though that would make for a pretty bitchin' beer bottle label.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-1764886148501743312012-05-05T12:22:00.000-06:002012-05-05T12:22:16.259-06:00Too Smooth with a Galway HookerWe have loads of good Irish beers to write about (<i>more than you could shake a shillelaugh at)</i> -- but rather than start at the beginning (of our time in Ireland, that is), let's flash back all the way to last weekend. Jenny and I spent it in and around Galway (ostensibly for the launch of <a href="http://znhively.blogspot.com/2012/04/thoroughly-good-blue-ebook-is-live.html" target="_blank">my program's anthology</a>), but of course we sampled a couple new brews while we were there.<br />
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In all honesty, we were too busy flying hawks and leaning over cliffs to spend much time in the pub our first three days in the west. However, after a harrowing day of driving Mario-Kart style (<i>invincibility star included...ie full insurance)</i>, Thursday evening called for a pre-dinner relaxation. We popped into Richardson's on the north-east corner of Eyre Square, and I ordered a beer I'd never heard of before -- a Caledonia Smooth.<br />
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I asked the bartender if it was a local brew, and he had no idea. One of the fellers <i>(let's just call them regulars...so regular they could help themselves to drinks and crisps)</i> at the bar sounded off pretty quickly that it must be Scottish because of the name, but no one (granted, there were all of six people in the building, and two of them were us) knew much of anything about the beer. It came in a handsome enough glass, one side lightly etched and the other side with a touch of gold leaf, and the clear ale certainly had a pleasing mellow tan look to it (<i>the kind of tan women long for in a new pair of springtime loafers)</i>.<br />
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We sat in our little nook and I eagerly sipped the beer <i>(I opted for a hot whiskey hoping to raise my temperature and lower my blood pressure)</i>. The beer was, as advertised, smooth... too smooth. <i>(You mean like a baby's bottom or a bald guy's forehead?)</i> The posters around the pub which advertised this particular brew pitched it as "triple hopped," and there may well be three kinds of hops in this beer. There's just not any significant amount of any of them. I'm no hophead <i>(isn't that what they all say?)</i>, but I appreciate the snap that they add to the back end of a good beer. The flavor on the front of the tongue was crisp and hinted at warmth <i>(much like a date with a bank teller)</i>, but the taste going down was flat, watery, and disappointing <i>(yeah, that's what she said)</i>. My particular glass was cool, and I wondered if the taste might grow richer as the ale warmed -- after all, most ales aren't meant to be chilled. Yet we sat there for an hour, and the beer hardly raised a temperature. I almost wonder if the glass was made to hold the cold. I'll be fair -- the flavors became slightly more noticeable as my tongue acclimated to the liquid <i>(kinda like insisting on holding your tongue to the prongs of a 9-volt battery)</i>, so that the swallow was not quite so bland. But it was still nothing remarkable. I suspected at the time that maybe this was a beer made to appeal to the masses: enough flavor to be different from the usual Irish offerings, but weak enough to be inoffensive to most <i>(Oh, like the Labor Party, says our Irish friend Katie)</i>.<br />
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My post-trip research proved that I wasn't wrong. The beer was made to seem craft-brewed (a disturbing if not at all shocking trend in brewing -- the big boys pretending to be craft is happening all over the place), but is really made by the same folks who produce Bulmer's, the ubiquitous cider. That is to say, it's not exactly made by two people risking their day-jobs to follow their passion. <i>(It's what I'm labeling a "glamour-craft." A crummy beer disguised as craft, but made and distributed by a multi-million dollar company to trick the craft beer lovers and supporters.)</i><br />
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Caledonia is currently only available in Ireland (and only since about March of this year), though it is made in Glasgow (guess that barfly did know something after all--<i>besides where the crisps were stashed</i>). It's brewed to appeal to the 28-44 age group who want a better session beer -- and based on the language from Bulmer's Director of Marketing, this beer was indeed made to be middle-of-the-road: not too gassy or too flat, not too bitter or too sweet. They were actually looking to brew a beer "somewhere in the middle" -- which to me means it may not be anyone's favorite, but it certainly won't be anyone's least favorite <i>(Oh, like Ron Paul?)</i>.<br />
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Now that I read that again, this beer sounds like many politicians <i>(he says before I've snarked this post--amazing!)</i>. And it may work well for marketing <i>(or running for Congress! Vote Caledonia 2013)</i> -- just like so many politicians manage to get elected -- but it's not what I want in a beer <i>(yes, but would you have a beer with...oh...hey, wait a sec...)</i>.<br />
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Saturday evening after our book launch proved to be at least a bit more interesting. To celebrate, my lovely Jenny decided to treat me to a Hooker of my very own <i>(I'm a firm believer in positive reinforcement!)</i>. I think everyone else in the group was averse to trying a Hooker <i>(in their defense, they are grad students)</i>, but I'm learning that most people are pretty bland in their tastes and their experiences, unwilling to branch out into the unfamiliar <i>(again, in their defense: grad students)</i>. Why give up what's comfy and familiar for a Hooker that might not go down so well <i>(or more than once)</i>? Whereas my attitude is that you don't know how a Hooker'll work for you until you try one <i>(or four)</i>.<br />
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In Galway, Hookers always stand out -- they're so much taller than all the other options, top-heavy and nicely tapered. I don't remember the name of the place where we all went after dinner (not the alcohol's fault -- I never knew the name) , but the band was playing decent covers of John Cougar Mellencamp and we were all cozy in one dark-wooden corner near the stage and no one seemed bothered by my enjoying the Hooker. There's not many feelings quite like celebrating on an evening out, one arm around your lady and your lips to a Hooker. When I finished, I saw that everyone else was still enjoying themselves, so I got greedy and opted for a second Hooker -- Jenny didn't treat me this time, it was all up to me <i>(like I said, positive reinforcement)</i>. Unfortunately, by the time I returned, I realized that everyone else had moved on to their glasses of water and were preparing to pack it in before heading to some other part of town. So I had to rush -- and the slow pleasure was ruined by having to pound my second Hooker so quickly.<br />
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Okay, I've had my fun -- Galway Hooker seems to be one of the better-known craft breweries in Ireland, though we were disappointed to find that it's actually brewed in Roscommon, not Galway, so we weren't able to visit the brewery itself on this trip. It's named for a famous type of ship that traditionally sailed out of Galway, not for nightwalkers at all (though the brewers certainly have fun with the name, too). And... I have to be honest, the Hooker isn't for me. It's better than a lot of the usual options in an Irish bar, if only because it's made locally, freshly, and doesn't have all the chemicals and preservatives. But think about it: it's a Pale Ale served in a Hefeweizen-style glass <i>(what's that, like Brittney Spears in a chautauqua show?)</i>... and that's sort of the combination of the taste, too. It tends to carry a nice, frothy (if not too thick) head, and has a good range of flavors to look for. But the particular combination of hoppy-and-fruity just doesn't quite cut it for me. (Jenny's had bad after-the-fact luck with this beer, too, though my system didn't seem to have trouble with it that night or the next morning.) <i>(He's being polite, but I'd pull out my soapbox on this issue in a heartbeat! Not enough talk or time or effort goes into the serious prevention of bad-beer farts. Note where that hyphen is, people. Bad beers cause bad-beer farts, and well, friends don't let friends suffer the Dutch-oven rumblers! And another thing -- oh, Zach's telling me I have to put my soapbox away now...sigh.) </i><br />
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Boy, does it feel good to be posting about beer again. We'll have to do a post soon on our favorite Dublin brewpub... but gee, to refresh my memory on all nine or ten of their beers, we might have to conduct some <strike>refreshing</strike> refresher research...Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-11908495501280739912012-04-20T08:20:00.000-06:002012-04-20T08:20:51.350-06:00Back in the Sud-Saddle (You Mean Suddle)?Most people would not believe the amount of work that goes into doing a graduate program...or three. We certainly didn't until we enrolled, moved abroad, started classes, had lots to read, made friends, went out for drinks, had more to read, turned in some essays...and on and on it went. <i>(That's the academic grad student version. Mine is more like, "started classes, did fun writing, read lots for fun, fun writing, start calling my favorite pub 'the library' to justify all the 'work' I did there, fun writing, Christmas, mess with my program's expectations of what I write." Oh yeah, and I finally had a real assignment due this week.)</i><br />
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But the key word in all that is "drinks." Yes, we've been out to many a pub and guzzled many a pint while on the island, and we're nowhere near through, either. No, we haven't forgotten our civic duty <i>(heh, she said "duty")</i> to drink beers and report back to you, our readers, who want to know what to have when you're thirsty, when you're curious, when you're feeling just a bit dangerous.<br />
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So hang on to your hats and get ready for some updates. We're brewing up a whole heap of posts on the beers we've tried in Ireland. We've pulled ourselves back into the sud-saddle (I'd call it a suddle, but the spelling's too subtle)! Our puns might be rusty, but our pints are still brave! (Or maybe I meant that with minds and hearts... eh, oh well.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13307659474340770559noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-62926992402505592292011-08-08T16:04:00.000-06:002011-08-08T16:04:53.220-06:00Well. We have finally recovered from the Route 66 Cork & Tap festival (waaaaay back on July 23) and my fingers will now listen to my brain again without bitching about all the beer I made them hold in tiny plastic cups for about six hours. <i>And let's not forget our poor asphalt-fried feet!</i><br />
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Fortunately, we were staying at a house in very easy walking distance from the festival, which other than being all eco-friendly meant we could enjoy samples to our tongue's content without even the slightest worry about our capability to maneuver a large piece of vehicular machinery at any point in the day. We met our friend Kim just outside the barriers for the event, one of several portions of Summerfest which justified shutting down Central Avenue for the day.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_wBV9UlBR6oJYWMzpIq3KsdEilRw3TUGKnbr7JY6aCXy0HJ7aFQTe3VwM533ObCz3grG_dq26WNn-QsAhd66TbjgONi1UUH2eEy6tOVl3JO_5TYMXtt18LYXdosFQ0_mQKBGBmdN2A/s1600/100_4905.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636771487683315554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_wBV9UlBR6oJYWMzpIq3KsdEilRw3TUGKnbr7JY6aCXy0HJ7aFQTe3VwM533ObCz3grG_dq26WNn-QsAhd66TbjgONi1UUH2eEy6tOVl3JO_5TYMXtt18LYXdosFQ0_mQKBGBmdN2A/s320/100_4905.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
(Kim was also our paparazzo for the day -- it's amazing how people think you're important when someone with a nice camera follows you around!) (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tFancwCVDM">Paparazzo is singular for paparazzi</a>, btw.)<br />
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At first, the size of the alcohol-driven portion of Central struck me as... inadequate. Because each of the tents given to brewers and winers (there's got to be a word for wine-maker, and I'm apparently too lazy to Google even that--<i>fortunately for our readers, I'm never too lazy to look something up. The word Zach is fumbling for is a vintner.</i>) was relatively small, they crammed a lot of drinkable options into a one-block stretch of asphalt. <i>One block of astronomically hot, molten-magma-esque asphalt is what he means to say. </i>The tents might have stretched further south, but part of the Cork & Tap party bulged out sideways into a parking lot.<br />
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Was this one-block of beer really worth the ten dollars' admission (plus service charges, of course)? <i>Did I really pay ten clams to fricassee my poor feet?</i><br />
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For the way the event was pumped as a showcase for nearly all the New Mexico-based breweries and wineries, and knowing how many of the breweries in Albuquerque <span style="font-style: italic;">alone</span> we have already visited together, we thought that we'd blow through the whole event in an hour and be done.<br />
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All in all, we were able to make a day of it, without becoming incoherently inebriated. <i>Although Zach has somehow forgotten to tell our good readers about the height of his tipsy-times when he left Kim and me doubled over in cackling laughter because he suddenly had to--just had to--call my mom and convince her to become an Irish citizen, or at least research the possibility.</i><br />
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Of course, it still would have been possible to blow through the whole event in an hour.<br />
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We arrived maybe sixty minutes after the gates opened, and there were plenty of folks who had clearly used up their ten 3-oz drink tickets and moved on to finding bigger cups to gulp. And I'll admit -- four little servings go down the gullet much more quickly than a 12-oz longneck. I think you fool yourself into thinking you're not drinking anything significant. But credit goes to someone -- either the vendors or the event staff or maybe even the patrons, because we didn't see a single instance of drunken disturbance.<br />
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I should mention that Kim was joining us at the fest for more than our company; she had only been exposed to the tip of the mountain in the realm of beer-drinking--<i>one might say Kim only knew the froth on the mug where beer is concerned. </i>Thanks to this little hobby of ours, she wanted to see just what wonders beer could hold for her. <i>And Kim, if you're reading this, please feel free to let folks know what you thought of the beers you tried.</i> Rather than throw her to the winds, Jenny and I tried to determine what sorts of beers she might like based on her preferences for taste in other areas. Kim apparently likes spiced meats and chocolates (but not coffee), and on those hints alone we determined that she needed to try a good stout.<br />
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We also learned quite quickly that good stouts, being more sensitive to temperatures than other brews, were left at home with the brewery babysitters. As such, some of our favorites -- the State Pen Porter from Santa Fe Brewing Company and the Malpais Stout from La Cumbre -- were unavailable at the fest. Well, shit. But still, props to Kim for trying some beers, and beginning to discover what she likes. And what she doesn't. (Equally important discoveries, we at Al"brew"querque believe.)<br />
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Jenny and I failed to note every single beer we tried--<i>which is not to say that we failed to give them all a fair sip, gulp, or glug</i>. But here are the highlights (and some lowlights) in no particular order:<br />
<ul><li><a href="http://demingbrew.com/">Mimbres Valley Brewing Company</a> (Deming, NM): Mimbres Valley is a new brewery -- the fellow behind the table said they are less than a year old, and do not yet distribute very far from home. They had a small selection of Belgian-style beers. I had the Belgian Special. I found it to be less full-flavored than the Trippel (Jenny "Belgophile" Mason, take it away! <i>I will, I will, dear. Finish your thoughts.</i>), but still tasty. It had a sharp bite that might turn some folks off, and the finish was uneven -- definitely weaker than the initial taste, and I wanted some final flourish to round it off. But still, a valiant effort. <i>I actually agree with Zach on his assessment of the Special. You wouldn't drink it and gag, but bite he refers to dissipated without ever really asserting itself. While Zach took a sample of the Special, I opted to try the Liquid Nap, the 9.2% Belgium Trippel Mimbres Valley hauled all the way to Albuquerque. I, for one, am glad they did, too. The Trippel was peachy, fresh, and well-crafted. And like any Trippel, it packed a wallop, even the little Dixie cup-sample I had.</i></li>
</ul><ul><li><a href="http://www.turtlemountainbrewing.com/">Turtle Mountain Brewing Company</a> (Rio Rancho, NM): Turtle Mountain is a long-time favorite of Jenny's, and we're hoping to make it there before we leave for Ireland. At the fest, I tried the Pork & Brew Brown (name not guaranteed to be accurate). <i>For the Rio Ranchers who read this, they'll know Zach has nothing to fear in his philology. The Pork & Brew is a time-honored event in ol' Rio. </i>This beer was designed to accompany a meaty barbecue, so yes, it was a peculiar choice for a largely vegetarian fellow like myself. But just as I find ways to enjoy all the advantages of meat without actually eating much of it, I thought of so many ways to enjoy this beer. It was roasty and malty without tasting like the walls of a smokehouse. Definitely perfect for a barbecue, whether you're roasting up chops or portobella mushrooms. <i>I took a sample of the Cabo Lager, which was a new-to-me TMBC brew. Hey, I haven't lived in Rio this past year and a half, cut me slack, Jack! The Cabo was smooth on the tongue--no abrasive flavors scraping on your tastebuds. But it also tasted just a bit flat...or flavorless. Perhaps the heat got to TMBC's keg like it got to my feet.</i></li>
</ul><ul><li><a href="http://www.sierrablancabrewery.com/">Rio Grande Brewing Company</a> (Moriarty, NM): Rio Grande is part of a conglomerate of brewers in Moriarty that, as I understand it, also includes Monk's Ale, Isotopes Brewing, and Roswell Alien. <i>Coincidentally, I tried the Alien Wheat and can only report that it was the most refreshing free sample of water I'd had all day.</i> I sampled two of Rio Grande's beers at the fest. The Rio Grande IPA certainly had a hoppiness to it... but was certainly weak (in hoppiness and I think in ABV) for an <span style="font-style: italic;">India </span>Pale Ale. The IPA breed was originally developed with higher hop content to preserve it for travel from England to India, and it has become a sort of litmus test for craft brewers and a lightning rod for hop-heads. Meiner Meinung nach, the marketers at Rio Grande should rebrand this brew as a regular ol' Pale Ale. I also tried the Rio Grande Outlaw Lager, which was surprisingly dark (I had to remind myself that while lagers are frequently light in color, they are by no means required to be so by definition or by the brewing process -- <i>man, I know some people who could stand to remember that when voting for presidents</i>). The draft was full, yet not quite as rich and diverse as the palate had potential for. All in all, a disappointing selection from Rio Grande, but not so shabby that I wouldn't go back again (we've had their pilsner on another occasion, and I recall it being a perfect summer-day beer).</li>
</ul><ul><li><a href="http://ilvicino.com/brewery/tag/canteen/">Il Vicino Brewing Company</a> (Albuquerque, New Mexico): Known mostly for its classy-pizzeria feel, it turns out Il Vicino is growing increasingly serious about its beer. I've had several of their brews in the past, so this time, well into a fiery Saturday afternoon, I opted for the classic summer option: the Hefeweizen. Theirs was not the absolute finest Hefe I've ever tasted... but that is not to detract from it. It had a very good citrus quality, the right amount of opacity, a clean and crisp refreshing feel to it, and is all in all a very solid example of the style. I'd go visit their "Canteen" for more.</li>
</ul>There were plenty of other varieties we sampled, and I'll let Jenny take over for a few of those:<br />
<ul><li><a href="http://albrewquerque.blogspot.com/2011/06/lofty-lunchers-at-la-cumbre.html">La Cumbre Brewing Company</a> (Albuquerque, New Mexico): We've posted on La Cumbre before and I'm happy to report that word is getting around about this place. La Cumbre brought a frisky little red beer they called La Roja. This red advertised a belligerent level of hops, and boy they weren't kidding. La Roja slaps your tongue around with every sip, and in the end your tongue stand up on shaky knees, muttering, "Please sir, may I have another?" </li>
<li><a href="http://www.nexusbrewery.com/">Nexus Brewery</a> (Albuquerque, New Mexico): Here is yet another diamond in Albuquerque's bosque-rough that we must try before leaving for the Emerald Isle. Nexus was new to us, and I'm a little surprised Zach gave me the microphone to belt their praise alone. We went back for an additional sample of their Scottish Ale, which was the creamiest, most authentic of such a breed of ale that I've ever had in these here parts of the desert Southwest! This beer had complimentary flavors of toffee and chocolate malt. So. Effing. Good. I wrote in my notebook: Finishes soft like a virgin's first night. And, while I might have been pretty tipsy at that point, I think Nexus really hit the nail on the head! After snooping around their website, I think I know how Nexus managed it! Their Brewmaster is one Paul Farnsworth, a British beer bodger straight out of the brew-centered town of Burton-on-Trent! What's more, their Head Brewer, one Manuel Massen, learned is craft in Cornwall. We met the benevolent, always grinning Maun Massen who genuinely loves beer, and really loves talking about it!</li>
<li><a href="http://www.santafebrewing.com/age_verification.php">Santa Fe Brewing Company</a> (Santa Fe, New Mexico): No beer fest would be complete without this gang of dedicated brewers. Santa Fe beers are some of my most favorite brews! I tried the Free Style Pilsner, which was watery, but I'd be willing to bet that the heat got to it, just like TMBC's Cabo. Did I mention my poor charred feet? While I've had it before, I just had to get a sample of their Nut Brown, which is always good--an all-occasion, all-weather beer! And for shits and giggles, I tried their Sour Ale which tweeked and jerked my tastebuds in many a direction. It was like playing pin the tale on the donkey and as I finished the sample, I couldn't help but think that this Sour Ale would make the perfect drink for a Halloween Party! Fun and freaky, just like some people's costumes!</li>
</ul>Back to you Zach!<div><br />
The atmosphere at Cork & Tap was generally very convivial throughout the afternoon. Live music helped, particularly because unless you were right by the stage it was never so loud that you could not hear your friends. One band kicked up with Django Reinhardt-style tunes, and we kicked back, enjoying fresh-fried potato curls -- <i>don't forget with cheese! Gooey-yummy cheese!</i> Soon, the wonderfully kind folks at the<a href="http://www.mgriesmeyer.com/doatest/mn/"> Dukes of Ale</a> table (if you're in Albuquerque and into learning more about home brewing, check these folks out) passed along some of their drink coupons to us... which meant we had more samples available to us than we could drink. So while Kim snapped pictures of us, we started doing some serious schmoozing for <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/zachandjenny/slainte-a-his-and-her-guide-to-irish-beer">Sláinte, our his-and-her Irish beer project</a> (modeled, in large part, on this here blog!). Here we are passing out our own business cards with free drink coupons, and being surprised at how long people would stand and chat with us:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEPF8gKacfqbKkiJFZJ7ffZYb0qAPaTtnDx9WrR1WRUAX6sB6IOeqTnVptuNjt3_oopPyO0yeerE7DooT07OH3KI0mRCA4F-qcu1c3hss5lUs-7Tb6dQuAYPjf-539hyphenhyphen8FamfQkneig/s1600/100_4893.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636771945415073858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidEPF8gKacfqbKkiJFZJ7ffZYb0qAPaTtnDx9WrR1WRUAX6sB6IOeqTnVptuNjt3_oopPyO0yeerE7DooT07OH3KI0mRCA4F-qcu1c3hss5lUs-7Tb6dQuAYPjf-539hyphenhyphen8FamfQkneig/s320/100_4893.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
(Did I mention that these shirts advertised Al"brew"querque, too? It's on the back of the shirts, right below the part you can see on Jenny's back there.)<br />
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Then, with a surprising amount of sobriety still spread between us, we meandered away from the fest a bit before sundown. We were tired, we were hoarse, we were not nearly as dehydrated as we had rights to be (thank you, backpacks with water bottles!). And despite its low points, we were proud of just how far craft brewing has come in the state of New Mexico.<br />
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If I could offer one bit of advice for the Cork & Tap: if it is to become a regular feature of the Albuquerque summer, they should consider ponying up for actual glassware, and encourage their vendors to rinse out the glasses upon each tasting. Like I noted earlier, outrageous drunkenness seemed to be no problem at all, and the wine festival counterpart in Bernalillo each year has a souvenir wine glass to aid in tasting. <i>Zach, you've take the brave, outspoken trail here, and I follow you on it! I would also add that Cork & Tap need not be a summer event. Early fall weather in Albuquerque is never so severe that you can't enjoy an outdoor event--it's the springtime that's schizophrenic. Why not have this even in the early fall when brewers might be able to haul out their porters, stouts, and spicy seasonals? </i><br />
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The attitude of beer-drinking and beer-crafting as sophisticated activities was prevalent; the atmosphere was on the verge of just-classy-enough; and yet, drinking out of plastic cups the size of my grandma's Dixie cups intended for mouthwash made both the beer and the event feel a bit like a frat boy's miniature wet dream. (If there is city code preventing actual glassware, at least ask for vendors to give a courtesy rinse. Mimbres Valley was the only tent I visited courteous enough to do so. If craft beer is to have the respect of wine, let's treat each pull with the respect it deserves.)</div>Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351580515235711800.post-9465698628833818402011-07-20T21:53:00.004-06:002011-07-20T22:01:01.766-06:00Weekend festivitiesJenny and I will be attending the <a href="http://www.66corkandtap.com/">Route 66 Cork & Tap festival</a> in Albuquerque this Saturday. It's from 2-10:30, and I suspect we're most likely to be there from about 2:15 to 10:27. If you would like to join us -- or if you want a chance to sample ten different local brews just for the cost of entry -- the event promises to be quite a showcase.<div><br /></div><div>If you know you're attending, feel free to email us your phone number! We'd love to hear <i>your</i> take on beer, for a change. And if you're extra lucky, you'll be present for some impromptu-snarking, courtesy of us.</div><div><br /></div><div>(And if you're extra <i>extra</i> lucky, <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/zachandjenny/slainte-a-his-and-her-guide-to-irish-beer">you'll become a backer for Sláinte!</a> We would love you forever for it! We'll hug you and everything, without even being intoxicated!)</div><div><br /></div><div>If you do go, please drive safely. Or even better, arrange for a designated driver or other safe way home. We want our readership to grow, not the other way around.</div>Zachhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05182397015795694876noreply@blogger.com1