Belgian

Am I too Delicate to Drink?

This is a subject I’ve been meaning to write about for…oh…two days now. I know, a looong time for contemplating a write-up. But it is a something I’ve pondered in some form or another. My relationship to alcohol is a precarious one at best. There have been good moments, bad moments, and…moments I can’t remember. (Yay, college.) Lately, I thought I had that tightrope act down. I approached my relationship to beer as a cautious critic would – at arm’s length, like at a Sadie Hawkins dance.

Recent events, however, have prompted me to rethink things.

No, nothing tragic has occurred. No one was injured. My car is very much intact. The reasons for this pondering prose are far, far more pansy. And it all started Saturday.

I got off work early – like two whole hours early! Totally unheard of in my field during the peak season. My first impulse was to head out to a tearoom, which I did. Smith Teamaker, to be precise. And, boy, am I glad I did! Darjeeling samples greeted me on arrival. Fate is with me this day, I thought.

Afterwards, I made a jaunt over to Southeast Portland to pay a pit stop to one of my favorite haunts – The Green Dragon. For those not in the Portland know, it’s a bar owned by Rogue Brewing, and it has a “botanical” brewery called Buckman attached. Three or four tea-beers I’ve had in the past were notched off here. It also has the unfortunate reputation of being a well-known hipster den. Luckily, not so much the day I went.

I settled in on a bar stool with a pint – a beer brewed from shiitake mushrooms, no less. (Yes, you read that right.)

While I people watched, I also perused the ol’ Facebook newsfeed. A friend of mine – whom I hadn’t seen in a year – posted that she wanted visitors at her work. It was right next door to where I was barstooled. I chimed in and said I would jaunt over for a spell.

Making the merry trot a block down, I visited with said friend, waxed nostalgic a bit, and moved on to pint number two. A Ninkasi something-er-other. An IPA, I think; they all seem to be IPAs. A bit of time passed, and I got it into my slightly foggy head to visit another friend at his work. It was several blocks up, but I figured I could use the walk after two pints.

I’m not sure if it was the dual-dueling pints or the weather, but my senses felt heightened. Sights and sounds seemed more noticeable. Passersby, random sights, buildings of odd model-‘n-make were more fascinating to me during that jaunt. Particularly this doggie hotel. Seriously, I have no idea why I found it so hilarious.

Said friend wasn’t at his work, so I made the trek back down to where the other friend worked. She was about to get off shift, and a few minutes later we made our way to a bar across the street. A good couple of hours had elapsed; I figured I had one more pint in me. I ordered something from Double Mountain. An IPA, I think; they all seem to be IPAs.

Not sure why…but I felt incredibly socially awkward during that third pint. I was stuttering more, fumbling constantly. Vocabulary was still intact, but my delivery was more…autistic. Not drunkenly so, just…less lucid (?).

Upon returning home, I felt a headache forming. I surfed the net for a bit, then headed to bed. Still relatively clear of mind. No drunk-feeling to speak of. Or so I thought.

The next day…

Worst. Hangover. Ever.

My head felt like it was in a French press, my stomach cycled in on itself at the first budge of wakefulness, and I uttered a simple, raspy, “Owwww.”

It didn’t feel like I’d had three beers the night before; it felt like I’d consumed a keg. I stumbled for the shower, washed a bit of the “hurting” away, brewed some tea, got dressed, and headed out the door. It was 7AM. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention it was a work morning? Yes, I did.

Once I scarfed down two bagels, and clanged a pint of Ceylon tea, the feeling of festering faded. I made it through the day with nary a wince of pain, save for a grumbling bad mood. The whole day still gave me pause. Three beers never had that much of an effect on me, especially in such slow succession.

By Monday, that was a distant memory. Or at least to my infamous short attention span. The work day went by swimmingly – cheerfully, even – and I left during a patch of nice weather. It felt like drinking weather. As if on cue, I received a text from my ol’ beer buddy NinjaSpecs. He was down at The Green Dragon, following up on a text I’d sent him about a certain wine-and-whiskey-barrel-aged Belgian quad that was back on tap. I never knew my car was capable of light speed until that very moment.

I downed about two 10oz. teardrop glasses while I was there – felt fine. NinjaSpecs and I came up with the bright idea to draft a friend’s house for an episode of totally wanton – but completely responsible – inebriation. This was the first time in a long time I’d planned out a night for getting completely wrecked. We had a place set up to say – no driving, at all – and I had the next two days off. Plenty of time for recovery.

We stopped and ordered greasy fast food burgers on the way for alcohol padding. Everything was going according to plan. Upon arriving at said friend’s house, we broke in some card games, and busted out an oak barrel-aged stout for first of the evening’s festivities.

I lasted only 6oz.

It happened all so suddenly. At first, I was gleefully playing and laughing, the next…my head began to pound. Thud. Thud. Thud. THUD! Words ran together whenever I talked. Sentences started in reverse – Yoda-style. Was I having a stroke?!

The original plan had been to stay the night at the friend’s house, then I was to take NinjaSpecs back to his car whenever we rousted in the morning. My body had another idea in mind. It was telling me, “Get your ass home right now, or you’ll puke your brains out all over this table. Literally, your liquid brains!”

And at that point, I choaded out on my friends. Less than two-and-a-half pints in, from within a four-hour time-frame, I pussed out on the rest of the party. I gave my sincere apologies, and made the drive home in abject humiliation. Skull splitting the entire way.

When I returned to my apartment complex, I grumbled a bit. Someone was occupying my parking spot. A white car with a “Country Girl” bumper sticker and a community college parking pass. Mumbling something along the lines of, “Durrnnn kids these days,” I called the tow company. I felt like a 90-year-old man.

The headache was mostly gone the following day. Aspirin and generous helpings of tea helped keep it at bay. My sister/roommate listened empathetically at my neurotic retelling of the last few days. She suggested, “Maybe you have a gluten sensitivity.”

I refused to listen.

I wasn’t going to be one of the gluten-free people. First and foremost, it would’ve been an insult to people I knew who had a legitimate reasons to be gluten-free. As in, innards-melting good reasons. Being a beer-wussed old man was not a reason. At least, not without proper diagnosis.

Perhaps the reason was far simpler, and far less hippie. Maybe my drinking days were done. I mean, not “cold turkey” done, but severely scaled back. My body was probably telling me that those old partying days were over. Not that I was the type to get wrecked anyway.

For well over a decade, I had imposed a two-pint rule upon myself. Given my propensity for being a lightweight, and my genetic history, I chose to limit myself to two pints in a single outing. That was my sobriety threshold. Yes, I did violate that on a few occasions. (Damn you, 14-year-old Scottish whiskey, and your deliciousness!) But generally, that was the rule o’ thumb. My comfort zone.

And now, here I sit, head still slightly ringy; my body literally telling me, “YOU. CAN’T. GO. OVER. TWO!”

I think I’ll listen now.

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Wednesday, July 17th, 2013 Beverage Blog 3 Comments

The Frederic Saga

Beverages often have stories to them, either of how they were made or about what inspired them. The story behind Oakshire Brewing‘s Frederic C. Noir is probably the longest and most varied I’ve ever come across. Practically a saga, even.

Here is the bottle description verbatim:

“Originally brewed for the 1st Anniversary of Eugene’s 16 Tons, “Frederic’s Lost Arm” was a collaboration with J-Tea International – a Saison made with Iron Goddess Green Oolong Tea. This farmhouse style ale was a tribute to the French writer Frederic Sauser who lost dominant arm in WWI before learning to write with his other hand. We laid the beer to slumber for two years with Brettanomyces Clausenii, a wild yeast evoking fruity aromas and earthy, funky flavors. Fred is light, crisp, and fruity with mild herbal noes and a pineapple-like finish. See what time has done for Frederic C. Noir! Cheers to three years of prosperity at 16 Tons!”

A year ago, I had the pleasure of sampling Frederic’s Lost Arm. (Man, that sounds wrong out of context.) Josh Chamberlain of J-TEA was the one who gave me the heads up. That batch had been aged in a gin barrel for several months, resulting in a very juniper-laden and sour ale that I adored. I didn’t get much of an oolong taste from it, but my nose was clogged at the time. Any gentle presence would’ve been lost on me.

J-TEA Josh – again – alerted the social mediasphere of a sequel to that batch. Yes, the beer had a damn sequel. How does that happen?! It was the remainder of the Lost Arm batch, but this time – aged in a Pinot Noir barrel for two years. I’m no stranger to wine barrel-aged beers. Many have graced my palate, but this was my first wine barrel-aged tea-beer. That combined both of my favorite pursuits – barrel-aged beers and tea-beers. The only downside…it was only available in Eugene. Two friggin’ hours away from my neck o’ the woods.

I mulled over the idea of a road trip for several days. Eventually, I almost gave up – telling myself, Eh, they probably ran out by now. Then a small part of me urged my fingers to the keyboard. I decided to contact 16 Tons via Twitter to see if they had any more Frederic left. By some small miracle, they did.

I was on the road to Eugene two days later.

My first stop was to visit the source for the oolong used for the beer – J-Tea International. While there, I was able to meet, pick the brain of, and sample the wares of the owner himself – Josh. He also informed me that the oolong used for the Frederics was a Four Seasons greener-style oolong from Taiwan. Not sure if this contradicts the “Iron Goddess” claim on the Frederic C. Noir bottle or if there was some confusion on my part. Taiwan does produce a Ti Guan Yin variant in the Muzha region. Eh, whatever.

The next stop was one of two locations that 16 Tons manages. For those that’ve never heard of it, it’s basically the specialty beer store(s?) in Eugene. Their reputation is well-earned. They carried many beers I hadn’t heard of (yet), and had several barrel-aged options on tap. After buying my precious bottle of Frederic, I was lucky enough to sample a wine barrel-aged beer produced by a monastery in Sweden. Absolutely wonderful way to pit stop.

In a display of profound patience for someone like me, I didn’t actually tear into this bottle until a week or so later. I wanted to do it in a more public setting than my usual tasting pattern (i.e. alone, in front of my computer). The perfect opportunity came in the form of a themeless party at a friend’s house in Camas. Yes, I know, Camas and I have some shaky history, but sometimes it’s well worth the risk. I may have been the only one drinking that early, but at least I was among friends. Still counts.

When I uncorked it, I braced myself for fizz. Nothing happened for a ten seconds. Then I pressed my nose to the bottle to get a good whiff. That’s when it happened…

A geyser of foam exploded up my nostrils. Luckily, it was a wonderful aroma that invaded my nose – sour, corky, and fruity. The liquor itself poured smoothly, and its color was a crisp, spring green with minimal head. It almost looked like a white wine.

And it kind of tasted like wine. The front was all Pinot – slightly astringent and kind of grapy – but the rest was a Belgian sour to the core. The finish was where I detected a bit of the oolong used for the beer’s water base. The herbaceous quality on the aftertaste was Formosan to a “tea”. I sipped this over the course of two hours while at the Camas party.

I departed early to make a second stop at a karaoke bar to meet some other friends. Somehow, someway, I thought it a bright idea to sing a bluegrass song whilst amidst the hipsterati of Northeast Portland. That was met with ironic stares. I giggled awkwardly on the inside.

I blame Frederic.

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Monday, May 13th, 2013 Beverage Blog 4 Comments

Soba Up, Buckwheat! You’ve Had too Much Oolong Beer!

Obviously, I’m still playing catch-up. This is a flashback to late-January. I assure you, though, it’s totally worth it. Well, if you like tea in your beer. Moving along…

Tea and beer are my two favorite beverages in the world. Yes, the entire world. Both are also extremely habitual and have a lot of history to them. As a result, becoming geekily obsessed with the minutiae surrounding either drink is an obvious conclusion. So, what happens when I learn that both have been – somehow/someway – combined?

Answer: Geek overload.

I have tried several examples where tea and alcohol have been combined. In some cases, it was merely scented teas – either smoked or aged in a barrel – but on the other end of the spectrum are the alcoholic drinks that use tea leaves as an ingredient. My favorites of those, to date, have been an Earl Grey/tangerine zest ale and a jasmine green tea mead. I had yet to run into a brewery that found a creative use for oolong, though.

In the Fall, a friend brought to my attention that Oakshire Brewing out of Eugene, OR. had done just that. Alas, I was a whole week behind the times. The stuff had long since been drunk dry. Fast-forward to January: The purveyor of J-Tea – the pivotal “J” himself – brought to my attention that it wasn’t all done yet. In fact, the beer in question had a second go-around left. Better still? It was a gin-barrel-aged, Belgian-style saison that was brewed with Taiwanese greener-style oolong as an ingredient. An oolong provided by “J”.

Josh Chamberlain brewing oolong in a keg!

Josh Chamberlain brewing oolong in a keg!

My brain exploded.

The tasting itself was being held at a cheese bar in Southeast Portland, and – as luck would have it – it was also one of my days off. Only one small snag, though. I was still sick from the second round of “Le Plague”. I didn’t care; this was worth leaving quarantine.

I was able to form a mini-posse with two other friends to make the trip. Matt Van Wyk – Oakshire’s brewmaster himself – was also on-hand to answer any questions about the brew itself. (And pick his brain, I did.) The name of it was completely awesome: Frederic’s Lost Arm. I couldn’t tell ya what it meant, though.

The brew itself? Needless to say, it was superb. The Oakshire folks know how to brew a damn good beer, and this was no exception. It was strong on the juniper note toward the front, followed by the sour Belgian-ish-ness in the middle. The aftertaste was both sweet and bitey. The only disadvantage was, there was no sign of oolong to be found. I guess all the cask-conditioning willowed away any punch the green Formosa could deliver. No surprise there. Taiwanese oolongs can be on the gentle side. However, if I tried – even through my clogged state – I could remember a bit of a honey-like texture to it.

Short answer: “Dayamn”.

*****

On a completely unrelated night that same week, I finally tore into a sample that was sent my way by fellow writer/blogger, Jo Johnson. She had seen mention of soba-cha on my “Tea WANT!” list and decided to impart some to me. I knew it wasn’t a rare tea to come by, but I was extremely grateful that she beat me to the punch.

For those who don’t know, “soba” simply means “buckwheat” in Japanese. I don’t know much about the grain other than the name being applied to idiots. That said, when I took a whiff of the stuff, I was greeted by a pungently nut-sweet aroma that could rival rooibos in its delivery.

Alas, the taste didn’t quite reflect the aroma’s sweetness, imparting a nutty brew that reminded me of rice, barley, and sweetened peanuts. While surprised with the change in profile, I still rather enjoyed it. The little granules held up to a boiled-water/five-minute brew-up with surprising sturdiness, and it was a far cry better than some rice-laden teas I’ve tried. (Yes, I’m talking to you genmaicha.)

Speaking of genmaicha…recently, I had an epiphany to one day try this blended with a kabusecha-style tamaryokucha (heavily-shaded, curly green tea from Kumomoto) and maybe a dash of Nishio-grown matcha. Maybe I’ll give it a try soon and record the results…but that’s a subject for another schizoid rambling.

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Monday, March 26th, 2012 Beverage Blog, Steep Stories 2 Comments

Plan W: The Quest for the Green Dragon

It started as any epic quest does…in a teashop.

Okay, maybe your epic quests don’t start there, but mine certainly do. The Call to adventure was made simply enough in passing by a certain master tea blender for a small batch op I frequented irregularly. So subtle was this Call that I didn’t even catch on to it until months after. And it only became a “Call” once I decided to…um…call it such. You know what…this isn’t making much sense so far.

Put simply, the blender told me that some of their Jasmine Silver Tip green tea was being used in – of all things – mead, and it was available in S.E. Portland at a place called The Green Dragon. It made my ears perk. Then, for some reason, I forgot about it.

Fast-forward to the second week of August: A friend of mine and I finally decided to make a brewery jaunt down to the Washington side of the Columbia Gorge. Problem is, he didn’t get off until 6PM, and the brewery closed at 9. It was going to be tight.

Since I had some time to kill, I wandered the strip mall closest to where my friend – we’ll call him NinjaSpecs – lived. My first stop was at a deli for a humongoid sammich. Not a sandwich…sammich. While there, I watched a blonde storm out on her douchey-looking boyfriend. I wondered if he demanded her to make sammiches like that.

After that, I got a text from NinjaSpecs saying he would be slightly delayed, but said to meet at the parking lot of a nearby Fred Meyer (a grocery store). Before that, I perused the aisles of a Whole Foods and found – completely by serendipity’s grace – a bottle of Japanese Sencha IPA. That’s right, a green tea-infused India Pale Ale. This delayed day was perking up nicely – like the women in sundresses I noticed on the way there.

Once I arrived at Fred Meyer, I got another text. This time, NinjaSpecs changed the delay even further due to traffic. Perfectly understandable. I spend the duration laughing inwardly at the book aisle in the grocery store. I saw two books that had the same type of cover – a midriff-bare girl with a wolf in snow. Was this a new “genre”? Whatever the phenomenon, I was strangely okay with it.

NinjaSpecs finally arrived at 7:45PM. We both lamented that we wouldn’t make the Gorge jaunt before the brewery/goal closed. We needed a Plan B. So, off we went to his place to scour the Internets for other breweries we hadn’t been to. You – fair reader – have absolutely no idea how difficult a task this was. Between the two of us, we had notched off forty-five brewpubs in Portland and the surrounding county. We weren’t even sure if there were any more neither of us had tried.

By sheer happenstance, we found one on the Oregon Brewers Guild site. It was in Northeast, but heck with it! We were desperate for an alternative. Thanks to my trustee (if slightly out-of-date) Garmin, we made it to “that” side of town. The brewery looked packed to the gills. We hoped for the best.

On the walk there, we both caught a whiff of something horrid yet…herbal? We recognized that sent – a foul combination of patchouli and puke. Somehow we had arrived on the hippie side of NE. Undeterred, we continued on through the haze of “organic” death and reached the pub. The smell only grew more intense. We proceeded to enter…

And were stopped by a perky, pigtailed brunette who said, “That’ll be a five-dollar cover charge.”

I scowled, “What? Why?”

She continued, “There’s a concert going on.”

I would never have called the wannabe Grateful Dead bulls**t playing inside a “concert”. I raged, I rotated on the ball of my foot, I returned to my car – NinjaSpecs in close agreement with my malaise.

Plan C.

We looked to the bar down a block from the hippie-swamped brewery. It, too, was packed. Our only refuge was to go further inland to Southeast. All other brewery plans had failed; I had no more back-ups.

That was when NinjaSpecs spoke up, “It’s time to invoke Plan W.”

What is Plan W, you may ask?

Plan W is what you skip ahead to when every other f**king plan you came up with before has failed. Instead of even coming up with a plan, you just go with your gut. Plan W is existentialism incarnate; it is the antithesis of a plan. And that’s what makes it so awesome.

We ended up on some road, and right before us, the dog-lacquered sign of a brewery came into view. So majestic was the invocation of Plan W that I ended up finding a parking spot right in front of the brewery. We entered, we ordered pints, we sat. Both of us ordered the same thing – a stout on nitro.

NinjaSpecs took a sip first and cocked his head to the side. I had a similar reaction. Overall, the texture of the dark ale was good, but something was off about it. Something about the initial sip didn’t sit right.

NinjaSpecs vocalized the peculiarity with, “That nitro stout has an off front to it…like a day-shift stripper.” Then proceeded to pay close attention to two girls at a table next to us playing Carcassonne. When I inquired about what he was paying attention to, all he managed was, “You don’t understand?! It’s girls. In a bar. Playing Carcassonne!”

Any argument I could’ve had was invalid.

As soon as our foul pints were downed, we hopped back into the car for our next jaunt. We racked our brains over where to go next. One suggestion was to simply walk up and down the street looking for whichever place was the shiniest. That almost won over until a thought entered my mind – something about a “Call”.

I said, “We could go to this place I heard about called The Green Dragon.”

“Where is it?” NinjaSpecs asked.

“Dunno,” I answered.

“What’s so good about it?”

“They have green tea mead,” I countered.

“Drive.”

The next half-hour or so was an exercise in comic futility. We circled the same five-by-five-block radius at least a half-dozen times. It was getting so bad, we were almost of the opinion the place didn’t exist. On the third go-around, we ran across another brewery I had past several times – a place specializing in barrel-aged sour ales. Freakin’ sold.

NinjaSpecs ordered a Belgian-styled Kriek, while I had a glass of ale that was brewed with Cabernet-Sauvignon grapes. It was tart, as sour as they touted, and mag-friggin’-nificent. I piped up, pondering if we should get another. My partner-in-crime wisely reminded me that we wouldn’t be leaving the place if we had another. Their s**t was strong.

So, we left and continued our journey on foot. We could’ve easily stayed in the car with how little progress we made. That and we passed (and commented) on the same bar four times. It was red, shanty-like, and decked out in barb wire. We dubbed it “The Pirate Bar” and went inside. It was just our luck that we found the ONE bar that played country music in SE Portland. That and they only took cash.

We each nursed whatever crap beers they had on tap before asking the bartender where The Green Dragon was located. He pulled up directions on his iPhone and showed it to NinjaSpecs – who slumped his shoulders and snickered.

He laughed, “We were right f**king there!”

Lo and behold, we were. Merely a block over, adjacent to the sour ale brewery was a small neon sign in the shape of a…wait for it…

A GREEN DRAGON!

Upon entering, we were amazed at how spacious it was. Crowds dotted the place inside and out, and the clientele were a mixed bunch – some hippie, some hipster, some geek, and all drunk. It felt like an equalizer. Neither of us paid attention to the other dozens of beers they had on tap and went straight for the jasmine green tea mead. To our even further glee, we found out that the brewery that made it was attached to The Green Dragon. That and it was one neither of us – both brew-versed – had heard of. How had this escaped our notice for so long?!

Both of us were already three or four beers in – understandably hazy – but we remembered that first sip from our transparent chalices. The foggy, bright green liquor with the medium-foamed surface greeted our mouths with a velvety rush. Pure ambrosia flooded our already-foggy frames of mind. Sighs of relief and groans of victory exited our collective maws. Our quest was ended, and it was bloody well worth every wrong turn.

Plan W for the WIN.

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Friday, October 7th, 2011 Beverage Blog 2 Comments

Beer Monks and the Men Who Love Them


An interesting dichotomy exists in the relationship between clergy and alcohol. One would think that the consumption or production of the world’s happiest poison would be strictly off limits. The opposite is the case, as far as production goes. One wonders if the collective cloistered thought is, “If Jesus can turn water into wine, why can’t we?”

They won’t get an argument out of me.

A casual drinker need not look further than Belgium for the greatest example of this. The Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance – or Trappists for short – has brewed their own beer for almost four hundred years.  So revered are their wares, some staunch critics believe them to be among the best beers in the world.

My brother and I discovered this firsthand in mid-July at the Portland International Beer Festival.  One of the multi-tokeners (i.e. pricier) beers was a Trappist tripel. The Christian sensibilities in my sibling drew him to it; I was curious by proxy. At first, he thought that there was gunk in the glass, and he was right. Because Trappist beers are bottle-conditioned, residual sugars and yeast remain from processing. The result was a sweet, somewhat sour, but not overly pungent ale with a lot of character. I was hooked. Line. Sinker. All that.

The desire to delve into the monk muck again, however, took a back burner to other beer styles – mainly because of price. I assumed, given the amount of tokens it took for a 5oz sample, that Trappist beers were out of range of my moth-infested wallet. A grocery run to my nearest Trader Joe’s corrected that.

Among the various 20s and 40s on display, I saw a rather robust bottle of Chimay Grande Réserve. Also known as Chimay Bleue, it was a darker ale – 9% ABV (drunk-dose by volume) – in a bottle large enough for at least two pints worth of goodness. It was an impulse buy.

The moment I got home, my bro-roommate and I cracked it open. It took a second for me to figure out how to undo the wire knot around the cork, but eventually my dumb arse did it. The cork came out with a loud pop, sounding almost like a shotgun blast. Fizz oozed from the mouthpiece like a boy’s baking soda volcano experiment.

As I predicted, the bottle poured two pints, but on the second glass I had to wait for the foam to settle. That took awhile. The liquor color was amber-to-cherry crossed with briar brown. The aroma was light, crisp and pilsner-y. Taste-wise, it was sour on the forefront, pungently sweet in the middle, and possessed an almost tannic aftertaste like over-brewed English Breakfast tea.

If I were to draw a comparison, the closest I could think of was bourbon cask-conditioned ales but a bit stronger on the taste.  Such an impression was probably due to the bottle-brewed aspects. The verdict between the two of us was the same; it was good but not “Trappist tripel” good.

A stint to Wyoming delivered me a second round with another Chimay bottle – this time, their Première (or Rouge). It was described as a brown ale with a fruit-sweet aroma. My step-dad purchased the bottle as a gift, mainly because we were both looking for an excuse to drink something after moving furniture all day.  Unlike the Grande, it was lighter and didn’t yield a sour forward punch. The liquor was smoother, sweeter, and reminded me more of the excellence of the Merchant I had months prior.

I liked the Première so much I subjected my pipe-smoking friend to the breed. He preferred his beers on the wheat-y side, anyway. Said palate was the subject of considerable debate between us – light-hearted, though, I assure. Oftentimes, I avoided Belgian beers and stuck to my hoppy beer-candy. The Chimay proved to be our middle-ground – our tasty truce.

At the same time as the Chimay, we also picked up two bottles of Rochefort’s Trappist. For the life of me, I can’t remember which of the three types – titled 6, 8, and 10 respectively – that we had. If I were to wager a post-buzz guess, I would say 6. I remember the ale being expensive and a wine-like crimson.  The Chimays were quite good…but the Rocheforts were f’ing superb. While not called a tripel, it certainly tasted like one; dark, sweet, nuanced, and packing arse-kickery.

I never thought something from Belgium, close to it, or brewed in that small country’s sugar-sweet style would appeal to me as much as it did. But wow – oh, wow – it did. Sometimes I have to be torn away kicking and screaming before I change my paradigm. When I do, though, I extol the changed virtues from the ramparts.

Recently, my brother looked at me and said, “I can picture you as a monk. Writing, brewing beer, contemplating…praying to God.”

Can’t say I disagree with him on most of those points. The only problem might the distance between me and the barrels. Clearly-labeled “Geoffy No Touchy” signs would be required.

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Thursday, December 2nd, 2010 Beverage Blog No Comments

I work for tea money.

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