Last 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 (yeah, we're awesome like that)!
Now it's time to raise the bar. Can our snark (and our love of trying new beers) bridge five time zones and an ocean?
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.
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, reading a book, waiting for both an open table and my friend... on a Friday night. (Yeah, I was *that guy* in the bar.) (What? The same guy you always are: smart and smokin' hot?)
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. (Well perhaps you either read or drank too fast....)
But (there was clearly a but, wasn't there?)... I fear that this beer is like a German bus (Punctual? Shiny? Crowded?); the heat inside is directly proportionate to the degree of body odor (Ooohhh, gotcha). 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.
It wasn't me.
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. (Incredible! That pretty much sums up why I didn't date any guys in middle school or high school!)
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!
Jenny may or may not like it; the hop content is high (oh, c'mon, have some faith. I love hops...sock-hops), 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 (like Mozart?). 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 (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). Of course, there's the bitter finish characteristic of a hoppy beer, but this one doesn't make you wince.
Despite the variety I had at my fingertips (were you behind the bar helping yourself, or what?), 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. (And that was when his friend Katie showed up and had to roll him home in the wheelbarrow. Just kidding.)
---
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? (Try fer shtarters that it getsh you pished rully fasht.) Start with the name. According to The Naked Pint (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.
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 (those times still exist on Saturday mornings at your local park's SCA gathering); 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!
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. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: the folks who write the books your children read.
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!
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Pimmseldon, or Wimblepimms
While queuing for tickets for Wimbledon, one must be always congenial and always ready for conversation. Easier said than done. One is outside before dawn -- which, in England in June, is EARLY. The queue for tickets is long (tens of thousands -- though only about a thousand brave souls camp the night) and the wait can be grueling (dozens of hours), but the people around you are more excited than tired. This, however, says nothing of yourself... no matter how excited you are. 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.
Feeling like an unofficial envoy and goodwill ambassador, you respond to all questions with a smile and an answer that doesn't make you look out of the loop or entirely stupid. In the loop and partially stupid is entirely acceptable at all pre-dawn hours. 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.
"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" (nothing wrong with a little humility after all). 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.
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?" Or act affronted and say, "I beg your pardon!" Just for a laugh. 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?
Well, that was more or less the situation we found ourselves in over a week ago (for a full description, see our Writers blog). 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.
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. Dear American readers: "Sunny" means something different in a British dictionary. 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 was), 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.
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.
(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." Or "Clear Channel." Look them up and you might just be surprised at the brands under their belt. We sure were!)
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. Or a soda pop, light on the fizz, heavy on the flavors. Maybe these comparisons are heightened because we drank it with a straw... Mix in the zing of lemons and the bite of gin, and you've got yourself a fine summer cocktail.
Now should you ever find yourself abroad, and are asked if you've ever had Pimm's, 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.
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.
Or, you 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!
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The Teeny-Tiny Woman and Her Teeny-Tiny Pub
This post is more about the location than the beer (though don't get me wrong, I'll cover that, too).
We have more on the rest of our visit to Moneygall over on our traveling writers' blog: Writers Gone Isled. But we just have to talk about one of the more memorable Irish pubs here.
To set the stage: Moneygall is a teeny-tiny town with one main street (now for the fairy-tale remix: Once there was a teeny tiny woman in a teeny tiny town with a teeny tiny pub...), and no one had heard of it until Barack and Michelle visited it in May of 2011 (after they discovered they were really the O'bamas). 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 (huh, maybe that's where Starbucks got the idea...). The larger of the two is more or less what you expect out of an Irish pub (leprechauns dancing on the tables? CCR and Bob Dylan cover bands?).
The smaller one is exceptional. Here it is from the outside:
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) (pronounced Smith-icks...emphasis on the "icks"), 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.
All this might be strange on its own (or potentially creepy). 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. (To hear her tell it, she got behind the bar when she was 16 and basically never left that post!)
She greeted everyone who entered by name (their real names, not the generic "Hey...guy" or "Howdy partner"). 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 (yeah, if grandma left the liquor cabinet unlocked).
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.
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. (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...)
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) (the interruptions were delightfully surreal, like the cut-aways on Family Guy). 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 always say it when there's fewer than five folks in the pub.)
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. (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.)
We could have stayed in Julia's pub all night (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. You settle in and never again think of the outside world again. Kind of like going to Neverland. Now, isn't that what having a neighborhood snug is all about?).
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:
We have more on the rest of our visit to Moneygall over on our traveling writers' blog: Writers Gone Isled. But we just have to talk about one of the more memorable Irish pubs here.
To set the stage: Moneygall is a teeny-tiny town with one main street (now for the fairy-tale remix: Once there was a teeny tiny woman in a teeny tiny town with a teeny tiny pub...), and no one had heard of it until Barack and Michelle visited it in May of 2011 (after they discovered they were really the O'bamas). 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 (huh, maybe that's where Starbucks got the idea...). The larger of the two is more or less what you expect out of an Irish pub (leprechauns dancing on the tables? CCR and Bob Dylan cover bands?).
The smaller one is exceptional. Here it is from the outside:
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) (pronounced Smith-icks...emphasis on the "icks"), 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.
All this might be strange on its own (or potentially creepy). 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. (To hear her tell it, she got behind the bar when she was 16 and basically never left that post!)
She greeted everyone who entered by name (their real names, not the generic "Hey...guy" or "Howdy partner"). 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 (yeah, if grandma left the liquor cabinet unlocked).
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.
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. (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...)
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) (the interruptions were delightfully surreal, like the cut-aways on Family Guy). 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 always say it when there's fewer than five folks in the pub.)
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. (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.)
We could have stayed in Julia's pub all night (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. You settle in and never again think of the outside world again. Kind of like going to Neverland. Now, isn't that what having a neighborhood snug is all about?).
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:
Note Julia's death grip (a.k.a. grandmotherly love-grip) on Jenny's arm, and how Jenny is only one centimeter shorter than the President. (oh, does that mean I am tall enough to be president one day?)
Monday, June 18, 2012
Backyard Holiday, or Dwarf-Roasting
Earlier this month, Jenny and I seized on a special summer opportunity -- we ATE OUTSIDE (like deer! No, wait something cooler...like polar bears!). 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 (hungry-and-adorable-beggin'-for-scraps) dogs and various small children (also adorable without beggin' for scraps) in the backyard, not to mention the patio table and chairs are the favorite home of island spiders (polar bears don't like spiders). We love the dogs, and our landlords and their family are wonderful -- but their backyard is not always conducive to dining.
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 (W-w-w-what is he t-t-t-talking ab-b-bout? It-t-t-t was f-f-f-f-fine...), 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.
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.
I'll admit my expectations were high for the Ginger Beard (ironic, considering there's a dwarf on the label) -- 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 (what's not to like?) -- but if you're only opposed to the harsh face-puckering bitterness of strong ginger (oh yeah, that), this beer takes care of that problem (oohh, sounds so...mobster). 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 (now that would be an episode of the Soprano's worth watching!). 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 (oh yeah? well what happens when you start the beer's engine?). It was an excellent complementary beer for the right meal, which the stir fry was. Yummers!
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:
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.
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.
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!
Okay, enough snooty references for now. Back to Zach and his dwarf-roasting!
The meals disappeared too quickly (chattering teeth chew quicker is all), and the trace heat from the day's "sunshine" dissipated (jeez, guess we should have kept those dwarf-fires burning, eh?). We stubbornly remained outside, sipping our beers and enjoying the pleasures of an Irish evening (dwarves thinking of visiting Ireland: be warned). 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.
With the little birds providing the entertainment, and Jenny providing the company, the beers were almost inconsequential (a shame when you think of all the Gimli's who gave their lives...), despite how much we enjoyed them. (Hey, I said nearly!)
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 (W-w-w-what is he t-t-t-talking ab-b-bout? It-t-t-t was f-f-f-f-fine...), 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.
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.
I'll admit my expectations were high for the Ginger Beard (ironic, considering there's a dwarf on the label) -- 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 (what's not to like?) -- but if you're only opposed to the harsh face-puckering bitterness of strong ginger (oh yeah, that), this beer takes care of that problem (oohh, sounds so...mobster). 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 (now that would be an episode of the Soprano's worth watching!). 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 (oh yeah? well what happens when you start the beer's engine?). It was an excellent complementary beer for the right meal, which the stir fry was. Yummers!
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:
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.
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.
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!
Okay, enough snooty references for now. Back to Zach and his dwarf-roasting!
The meals disappeared too quickly (chattering teeth chew quicker is all), and the trace heat from the day's "sunshine" dissipated (jeez, guess we should have kept those dwarf-fires burning, eh?). We stubbornly remained outside, sipping our beers and enjoying the pleasures of an Irish evening (dwarves thinking of visiting Ireland: be warned). 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.
With the little birds providing the entertainment, and Jenny providing the company, the beers were almost inconsequential (a shame when you think of all the Gimli's who gave their lives...), despite how much we enjoyed them. (Hey, I said nearly!)
Sunday, May 20, 2012
the Perfect Pint-by-Number
We 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! Though we do try to give them head starts.
However, a beer-post there must be because what better way to welcome my folks than with a fine pint from a local brewer? "With sunshine might be nice," the folks murmur in opposition.
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. "Sure bet those clouds enjoy getting a tan," bemoan the less-pale desert dwellers. Plenty of time to enjoy a round or two! Our dogs were barking after hiking Dublin city's hinterlands. (Actually, the dogs here are remarkably silent; maybe our foxes were keening?) 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.
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 Messrs Maguire, craft brewers since at least the 1830s. On their regular rosters, they list a Haus Lager, a Rusty Red Ale, and a Bock.
I ordered the Haus. Zach got the new Golden Ale (celebrating the Olympics). 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.
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.
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. (Misunderstood, yet willing to help a fellow misfit escape certain exploding doom? Oh, right...)
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.
Now, back to how Maguire avoids beers-like-mutant-toys brewing fiascos:
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. Though that would make for a pretty bitchin' beer bottle label.
However, a beer-post there must be because what better way to welcome my folks than with a fine pint from a local brewer? "With sunshine might be nice," the folks murmur in opposition.
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. "Sure bet those clouds enjoy getting a tan," bemoan the less-pale desert dwellers. Plenty of time to enjoy a round or two! Our dogs were barking after hiking Dublin city's hinterlands. (Actually, the dogs here are remarkably silent; maybe our foxes were keening?) 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.
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 Messrs Maguire, craft brewers since at least the 1830s. On their regular rosters, they list a Haus Lager, a Rusty Red Ale, and a Bock.
I ordered the Haus. Zach got the new Golden Ale (celebrating the Olympics). 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.
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.
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. (Misunderstood, yet willing to help a fellow misfit escape certain exploding doom? Oh, right...)
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.
Now, back to how Maguire avoids beers-like-mutant-toys brewing fiascos:
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. Though that would make for a pretty bitchin' beer bottle label.
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