Night-Flying Fire

Nothing 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.

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!). No, I would have won because I would NOT have dressed as an overweight Princess Leia. In a bikini. I still can't sleep. A light parade that packed the sidewalks like New Year's in Time Square.

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. She'd never admit it, but Jenny really gets into the spirit of the season.

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. We should have known nothing about Snowdown was "reasonable."

Zach and I parked the car just under the rim, opened the sunroof and waited for the show to start.

Boom! Boom-fizz!
Crack-crack-crack!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I picked out the Lizard Head Red, even though I tend to not like reds. I went with a Backside Stout, even though I'm more of a boob man myself. 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.

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.

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.

Hibernating with Grape Juice, or Enter the Eden of Beer

In January, we at Al"brew"querque (are forced to) continue our tradition of sipping beers in different locations. Jenny undertook her semiannual abandonment trip to Vermont for her graduate program, while I (refused to come along) 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.

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? (Right!)

Wrong. (Oh. Frown. I hate being wrong. Meh!) 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:

"Who the fu*k put grapes in my beer?"

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 (a lesson for all would-be cheaters). But I swear to all things that grow on vines (pumpkins... cucumbers...), this beer really does have a sense of grapes about it (you mean like how Natalie Portman has a sense of swans about her in Black Swan?). 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. (This is why I can't leave you alone.) 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.

It's good the whole way through, too (like Burl Ives), 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 (like a stripper), maintains its virtues throughout (like a virgin), 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. (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.)

This brew made the lonely cold Colorado evenings bearable, until my darling could steal away from the oppressive regime 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.

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. (Swinging 1860s, here we come!)

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). Buggies turn to Subarus. And the old religious snobbery which would have disdained alcoholic beverages transforms into elitist snobbery for locally microbrewed. 

That said, I should also point out that Durango and Montpelier share this marsupial Victorianism.  

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 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.

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.

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.  

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. 

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 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.

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.

Railroaded at the Brewpub

Jenny 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 and two stools (yeah, but only after edging around the crowds, squeezing into corners, and forging our way to the bar through a blizzard of people!).

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 (especially if you are a gunslinger and former train-robber who traded guns for skis). 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.

Why stick with the standards that we can pick up in bottles at the grocery store any day? We pounced on two seasonal beers (like cats on string or the white disc of flashlight light). I claimed the Winter Ale (like a viking who claims most things with an ax), 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 (pineapple upside down cake!), like roast ham or sauteed onions (oh, we have different ideas of dinner, I guess). 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 (unlike most people). Perfect for a winter brew!

The Purgatory Ale had nothing distinct (she leans away at a skeptical angle) -- 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 (wait this sounds like a description of me...). 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 (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!)

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 (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). 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. (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.)

The Ghost Train, however, is unique (starting with its poltergeist passengers!). I've tasted many pumpkin beers (like a grown-up Charlie Brown), and all of them lack in some way, as if the brewer were afraid to go full-out gourd on the brew (dear Gourd, be merciful). The Ghost Train takes the flavors and embraces them. I can't say it tastes particularly of pumpkin (oh gourd, I was worried) -- have you ever eaten just a spoonful of Libby's? (not something to admit that on the internet, by the way) -- 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 (like reindeer droppings). (The beer actually reminds us both of the Molé Stout from Ska Brewing in the way the unexpected zing of spices play with the tongue.) And unlike many novelty beers (and unlike most reindeer droppings), this one tastes like it will be good the whole way down -- no tiring of the flavor midway into a pint!

So we ordered a growler of the Ghost-juice* and disembarked from the DBC brewin' locomotive.

*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 -- thirty eight dollars!!!

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!

Feral in the Barrel

With 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) (oh-KAY, more like 128) selfish minutes to enjoy good beers and good friends at the La Cumbre Brewing Co. in Albuquerque.

We are, after all, two firm believers that auld acquaintances should not be forgot, regardless of the length of lang or syne. (Or cosine. Or tangent. Math jokes!)

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.

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 (tougher than it sounds), 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.

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.

We ordered our drinks, reminisced about the glühwein (said like glue-vine, 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.

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.

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! (Meanwhile, she stared longingly at all of our drinks, wishing for a two-foot straw so she could delicately steal sips from our pints.)

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.

Meanwhile, across the table, Zach was trying to fish the flavors out of another of La Cumbre's seasonals, the Trout. 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 hooligans 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.

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 (who looked decidedly less like Sheryl Crow, for better or for worse) 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." (Hold your fingers ID-width apart. Then hold them sample-glass-height apart. You'll begin to see how this happened.) 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 San Antonio. 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." (You mean it tasted like extinguished patriotism? Oh... like sulfur. Got it.)

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!       

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!