Merry Molé

Surviving 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 (Colorado, not Mexico or Spain), 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.

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. (Beer in the House! Beer in the Senate! Beer in the capitol! Beer makes bad decisions, but it sure makes fun laws!) 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. (Oh... you mean... got it. If only a beer could actually be governor...)

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. (And Durango Joe's. And Durango Coffee.)

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 for Ska Brewing. Trek out from Durango in any direction and guess what you'll run into! Elk, deer, coyotes? No! (Well, yes, but the answer we were looking for was...) More craft brewers! There's Amicas, Bristol Brewing Company, Pagosa Brewing Company, Phantom Canyon Brewing Company, Silverton Brewery, Smuggler’s Brewpub, and Trinity -- just to name a few. 

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. (Eclectic doesn't begin to cover this music. Some of this stuff sounds like you're in a ballpark elevator in 1967.)

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.

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.). (At which point our tongues realized we were drinking green chile... which, as much as I love green chile, is actually pretty much blech.) 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! (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.)

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 Emma can be adapted into Clueless, 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! (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.)

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? (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.) (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 get off in Durango.)

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.

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!

There's No Drink Like Home

Last 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." Not to mention telling time by the sun instead of by the tides.

For those who need it, here is the recipe:
We went (drove) to a baseball game.
We ate (gorged ourselves on) over-sized and over-greased stadium food.
We watched (gawked at) a brilliant fireworks display.
We sang (howled) along to American rock standards spanning several decades.
And, most important of all, we picked up a couple of blondes to sit on our laps as we did all of the above! Don't I have the best woman in the world? The stuff she lets me get away with...

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? Wiggling and dancing? We should set up a pole... erm, I mean, take a poll. For our purposes, the litmus test is simple: Is the blonde an enjoyable beer to drink?

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. Of course, you can only get so 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.

Equally enjoyable is the Isotopes Amber Ale, 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.

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.

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!). Yup. We're back in 'Merka, alright...

Gimme a Pint with those Galoshes and Bike Chains

Sure, the whole point of drinking beer is to relax (Not get crazy and do wild stunts like keg stands? Interesting theory...continue). So you might think that the whole concept of "multitasking" is at odds with  proper beer drinking etiquette (Well chuh, it's why one never guzzles AND smashes the can on one's forehead at the same time).

Turns out, not even a little bit. Not when you multitask like they do in Dingle.

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 (fortunately, so unlike the Branch Davidians, who had a different kind of cozy communal gathering). Dick Mack's may well have been an old house, with its multiple rooms and coal-burning fireplace and ancient woodwork (I think he means dilapidated...like House of Usher meets the Shrieking Shack). 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.)

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.

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 (yes, when solid floors, walls, and ceilings were optional or even kitsch). 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 (Oh is that what that was? I didn't know dust could husk...). 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.

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!"

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 (and how apt for a beer from the land of thick-eternal-fog). And the lager itself is, in a word, creamy (like sarsaparilla, root beer, or cream soda creamy! I wanted to pour my Crean's over ice cream, it was that good!). 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!

Dingle proved to be a tiny beer mecca (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). 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!

Stirrin' Up Pub Trouble

One 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. (you should see the people inside!), 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. (Sports fans, you know to read that as collective groaning, whooping, cheering, and cursing.) 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.

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 hear they mistakenly sent their Gaelic football team to play soccer), 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). (Yeah, if the Sith were... shit, you're right! They ARE the Sith Lords of Europe!) 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. (Darth Pube?) So how better to exorcise those frustrations than to raucously ring a big leaden bell every time Greece scores against Germany?

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.

Happily, I can report that while we were the only two people cheering for Germany in the whole pub (I now know how awkwardly delightful clapping loudly in a silent pub, and following it up with a German cheer can be), 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.

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) (ahem. Some of us always knew better), which was a doubly-unfortunate way to taste given the copper-top color of the brew.

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.

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...

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:

Local Man
You bleepity-bleep-blank-blank!

Ol' Gent
Where have you been all evening, you blankety-bleeper?

Local Man
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.)

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.

It was a funny moment to get caught in the middle of, but otherwise, it so encapsulated the magic of the neighborhood pub.

Landlubbers Beware (of B.O.) and an Ogres' Ode

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.)
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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? (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!