Schell Pale Ale

5.75% ABV

As my “in box” of yet-to-post reviews stacks up it’s time to send some to the “out box” via quick-hitters…

I’ve never really liked pale ales.  Rightly or wrongly, I’ve always felt they were kinda like IPAs for Dummies.  But not this one.  This one, from America’s second oldest family-owned brewery, I really dug.  It has a great, smooth flavor.  Incredibly drinkable.  East Kent golding hops give it a most pleasant smell.  It also has a solid full-bodied taste.  Love the maltiness.  As far as session beers go, this is top notch.  I could imagine myself bellied up to a bar in St. Paul polishing off several dozen of these.  I think it’s a better pale ale than even Sierra Nevada’s famed one.  If you have access to this one, be sure and try it.

B+

Troegs Nugget Nectar

7.5% ABV bottled

For years, I’ve lived just a dozen or so blocks from the Trump Riverside complex and never thought much of it.  I just assumed the buildings housed your typical breed of Manhattanite high-rise-living stereotypes.  Then, this weekend, needing to get from Hudson River Park across to see a friend on the Upper West Side I decided to take a route that cut a swath through the middle of the massive development.  And, oh boy, was I quickly on another planet, man.  It was like an Oz in the middle of New York, a total self-sustaining upper-upper-class commune of the kind of yuppies you only see in movies.  Powerful forty- and fifty-something finance-type men with their thinning hair, primary color Polos pulled taut over their respectable paunches, slightly too-short pairs of those navy shorts that are kinda like a rich man’s version of cut-offs (if the material cut off was from a discarded pair of Boss suit pants), and Cole-Haan loafers, worn sockless natch.  Walking the sidewalks of their secluded high-rise villa holding hands with their younger never-had-a-job-before trophy wives as each partner used their one free hand to push a massive SUV stroller that costs more than two-month’s rent for plebes like me and you.  It was eye-opening I must say.

As I mentioned, the Trump Riverside community is seemingly totally self-sustaining, but this is no kibbutz, brother, not like these folks are growing their own maize and hemp, so of course they have to have their own fancy-pants stores.  And I shouldn’t have been surprised to come across their supermarket, a gourmet place called Jubilee.  Now, I’m like an old lady who has to go into every antique shoppe she comes upon to look for dumb knick-knacks, as I am cosmically compelled to enter every new supermarket or beer store I come upon, despite the fact that I was overstocked with supply at the time.

I was not surprised in the least to see that Jubilee had a phenomenal beer supply, surely one of the biggest grown up soda secret stashes in Manhattan.  All sorts of oddball stuff I had never seen before and in many cases never even heard of before.  I was psyched to see literally just a single loose bottle of Nugget Nectar (and for only a buck fifty!).  A buzz-worthy beer that I know is not so rare, at least in PA, but which never makes it to NYC.  I also realize it is quite a bit out of season as it appears to release in February–and was no doubt on the Jubilee shelf since then–but for such a hopbomb I don’t think that should have mattered freshness-wise.  I could be wrong.

God, I loved the smell of this one.  Like inhaling a Christmas tree.  And the taste is about as hoppy, piney, and floral as they come.  Right up my alley.  A nocturnal emission for hopheads.  Not exactly sure why this isn’t an IPA, but whatever they want to call it, I loved it.

A-

Blue Point Oktoberfest

ABV unlisted (I fucking hate when breweries do this!)

I have an embarrassing confession to make. I would understand if you are so disgusted by me that you quit reading the Vice Blog. On Sunday night I ordered from Domino’s.  A full day of watching football and I must have been so deluged by those commercials for their new oven-baked sandwiches that eventually I thought it a splendid idea to actually order one.

Putting that fact aside for a second, Domino’s has an absolutely amazing feature on their website whereas they literally show you step-by-step, like a sporting event gamecast on ESPN.com, how your order is progressing.

They tell when your food has been prepped and by whom (Ramon in my case!), when it has been put in the oven (by Jordan in my case!), when it has been taken out and put in a heatwave bag (thanks Hector!), and when it is headed your way (see you soon delivery man Baganda!).  It’s almost worth ordering from Domino’s online just to see this amazingness in action.

However, this seemingly rave review quickly takes a right turn and drives off the cliff.  You see, as I was following my sandwich’s progress, anxiously awaiting for Baganda to arrive from a location just 5 blocks away, I noticed it was taking far too long.  And after 30 minutes I started to think that Baganda had been hit my a car.  And after 45 minutes, when the website order progress changed and said “Order Completed by Baganda!” I knew I had been bamboozled.  That the order progress follower must simply be a cosmetic lie.  Numerous calls to Domino’s went unanswered as well and I began to seethe.  I considered sprinting down to the corporate pizzeria to shove someone’s head in the oven “Goodfellas” style.  Alas, I was sitting in my underwear and too lazy for that exercise.  Thus, with nothing in my fridge but beer, my dinner for the evening, just like a monk during lent, became a six-pack.

Earlier that day I’d stumbled upon Blue Point’s Oktoberfest.  I didn’t even know they made that style.  And apparently others don’t either as it currently only has 15 reviews on BA.  Too bad, it has a cool label and is pretty decent.  And actually tastes like a correct Oktoberfest, which is great as I’ve been finding many American versions are nowhere close to correct in style.  This one is.  Mild smell, not too complex, malty, or full-bodied but good enough.  Certainly better than Brooklyn’s version.

Oh, and the epilogue to my Domino’s story is that I did indeed march down there on Monday where the kindest of kind Jamaican manager told me that Baganda did show up at my apartment building but that my doorman refused to let him in.  That might sound legitimate except for the fact that I live in a building so shitty that we barely have a front door, much less a doorman.  Whatever.  I was refunded my money in cash and given some free coupons and cheezy something-or-others.

B

Flat Earth Convention Ale

5.4% ABV from a bomber

There’s two schools of thought on how to walk the streets of New York. You can be like Barry Sanders, juking and jiving your way around slow-moving tourists, sidewalk-hosing bodega owners, and fatsos in Rascals, cutting right to left, behind newspaper bins, using bus stops and fire hydrants as your blockers as your try to quickly traverse the street. This certainly works but it is tiring and certainly not cool. No one looks at someone jitterbugging down the streets and thinks, “Now that is one sexy motherfucker.” I mean, how bad would the opening to “Saturday Night Fever” have been if famous homosexual John Travolta had implemented the Barry Sanders walk through Brooklyn? Something tells me the movie wouldn’t have been quite the cultural touchstone it became.

A second school of thought is to navigate the street like G.O.A.T. Jim Brown, picking an opening and with head down and shoulders even lower, busting through the crowds and sending any one in your path flying. This too is an effective process for Manhattan walking but results in people thinking you the high school bully who never grew up, still pacing through the halls knocking nerdy freshman out of the way. Plus, with all the crazies in the city, this method has a high potential for fisticuffs erupting.

Now I am one of the finest walkers in the entire city and I think that is because I shirk the common schools of thought and use a third school, a hybrid of the other two, hoofing it down the sidewalks ala Walter Payton. When I need to juke, I juke, but never too much. And when I need to lower my shoulder or use a oh-did-I-just-bump-you forearm to clear the way, I can do that too. And just like Sweetness, I never go out of bounds (the street).

It seems like hybrids of opposing schools of thoughts are always the best way to go. My feelings on politicians are well discussed and even if I do decide ever to vote again, I can’t imagine it being for either a Republican or a Democrat, it would have to be for someone with a bouillabaisse of values. It simply doesn’t make sense to be too far extreme in any direction in regards to…well almost anything.

Now that is not always the case with beers. I love overwhelmingly hoppy IPAs and overly alcoholic barley wines as much as the next guy, but I also like those oddball beers you can’t really pigeonhole. Such was the case with Flat Earth’s Convention Ale, a Minnesota brew specially made to celebrate the area’s hosting of the GOP Rah-Rah-a-thon. Said to have “a conservative amount of hops and a liberal amount of special malts” the brewery itself calls it a red ale, while Beer Advocate labels it a Belgian pale, Rate Beer gives it the always-ambiguous “summer” beer label, and I found it to be something completely different. But more on that in a sec.

I didn’t realize this til after I had opened the beer, but this brew has had strange problems whereas quite a few of the bottles have spontaneously exploded, sending shards of glass everywhere. In fact, the beer has actually been recalled, and with only 9 total reviews on Beer Advocate at the moment, it would seem to be an increasingly rare pop.

Luckily for your Vice Blogger, the bottle was enjoyed without a hitch. A light straw yellow almost-macro pour with a very, very bubbly head. It had a mild smell and I was begin to wonder if this simply was a fancified macro.

It wasn’t. it was very carbonated and bubbly in taste, Belgian yeast and moderate hop bitterness (38 IBUs). Quite a bit sour, almost like a weaker version of a wild ale. I realize by definite it cannot be a wild ale, but that’s exactly what it tastes of, like a poor man’s Cuvee de Castleton. A chalky finish and low ABV are its demerits.

Whatever it is, boy is Convention Ale one oddball beer. Very interesting, almost like a champagne. It took me a while to figure out if I loved it, liked it, or hated it, but I sure kept drinking it, was damn glad to try it, and utterly sad to finish my sole bottle.

B+

Surly Furious

6.2% ABV from a 1 pint can (“Beer for a glass, from a can”)

If this is a practical joke being played on me, it is one of the most subtly diabolical ever conceived. You see, I hate Time magazine. Hate it with a passion. I think it is a woefully out-of-touch, dated, and worst of all boring periodical that is about as maturely written as the Scholastic News. I won’t read it for free in the dentist’s office when the only other choices are Seventeen, AARP Monthly, and a brochure on gingivitis. Yet for the past decade or so, counting all the way back to my sophomore dorm room in Syracuse, I have been getting a free subscription to Time. It makes no fucking sense to me. During that time I have moved on five occasions in three different cities and though things I actually care about (bills, good magazines, my sex-toy-of-the-month-club shipment) struggle to find me, Time never fails to locate the Vice Blogger. They are like the mob relentlessly going after Henry Hill in witness protection. I’ve gone so far as to call, e-mail, and send a letter to Time Inc. begging them to please leave me alone, but they refuse to cease sending their semi-glossy rag to me. I’ve finally learned to live with it*.

Each week I take Time from my mailbox, perhaps briefly snicker at the lame cover story (usually on one of their four perpetually rotating topics, all of which necessitate derisively mocking quotation marks: the obesity “epidemic,” new “findings” on Jesus’s life, a “special” issue on going green, and “how” the brain actually works) and put it straight in the lobby wastebasket. There is only one time I so much as read a page of Time. That is when I am taking public transportation to go out drinking. Typically I read a book or listen to nerdy podcasts on my ipod (TED Talks!) when riding the subway, but since I won’t want to lug a massive tome around a pub, nor do I trust myself to not lose an ipod during my wily tippling escapades, an issue of Time is perfect. I can read it for five or ten minutes then immediately discard it. In fact, most trips are so short that I only have enough time to read the only legitimately good section of Time, the letters to the editor. Nothing better than reading rubes’ complaints about the east coast media’s evolutionary and homosexual “agendas.” I only wish Time would print the letters as they actually appeared at their offices. It would be funny to see whether they are written in crayon or Magic Marker.

However, the other day I was stuck at the worst train station in Manhattan (the Columbus Circle 1, coincidentally located underneath the Time Warner Center, home to the offices of…you guessed it) for an interminable amount of time and forced to venture further into my shitty magazine. Glad I did because I stumbled upon an amazingly interesting piece penned by never-amusing hipster doofus columnist/gadfly wannabe Joel Stein in which he drank a bottle of wine from all fifty states, reporting on the good, the bad, the ugly, and the surprising.

Having just received a package from Minnesota in which I got to sample my first ever Gopher State beers, I decided to see how much fifty-state beer drinking I have so far done in my life. Using Beer Advocate’s state directory as my main tool, I got to counting between TV timeouts during Monday Night Football.

I came to find that 48 states produce beer, and that I have had pops from 29 of them. Not quite as good as I would have thought, but decent considering the evidence.

Here are the 19 states I have never imbibed from and their most noted (or “noted” brewery)**:

Alabama — only two breweries producing ten total beers, perhaps due to the most asinine beer laws existing in perhaps any non-Muslim part of the world

Alaska — Alaskan

Arizona — Four Peaks maybe

Georgia – Sweetwater

Hawaii — Mehana

Idaho — Coeur d’Alene

Indiana — Three Floyds, I’m ashamed I’ve never had one of their supposed-to-be-miraculous offerings

Iowa — Millstream

Kentucky — only two breweries producing eight total beers, meaning you should just drink bourbon when you’re in KY

Mississippi — only one brewery, so congrats Lazy Magnolia!

Montana — with an impressive 18 breweries, the king would appear to be Big Sky

Nebraska – Empyrean

Nevada — Ruby Mountain

North Carolina — Carolina Beer Co.

North Dakota — as far as I can tell, one of only two states with ZERO breweries!!!

Rhode Island — only one brewery, so congrats Coastal Extreme!

South Dakota — I bet you’re not surprised that this is the other state with ZERO breweries!!! Dakotas, get your shit together!

Tennessee — Yazoo

Utah — Utah Brewers Cooperative, cherished makers of Polygamy Porter (“Why Have Just One?”) and Evolution Amber Ale (“…intelligently-designed just for intelligent beer drinkers.”) I think I like these guys!

West Virginia — only one brewery, so congrats predictably-named Mountaineer Brewing!

Wyoming — Snake River

If you are wondering if I now have a goal to drink a beer from my remaining untried states…absolutely not. That’s a pretty lame ambition for a 29-year-old who actually has things going on in his life. And Jesus Christ some of these states have some abominable-sounding offerings. Having said that, I’m always willing to drink liquid garbage for a funny review if VB fans from any of these states wish to send me some local swill.

Now let’s get back to the impetus for these state beer musings–no, not Jewish embarrassment Joel Stein!–but Surly Furious, the craft beer in a can. I was squeamish at first, but I for one have come to like the microbrew-in-a-can mini-revolution (Oskar Blues, et al). Much lighter for shipping, lugging around, and disposing of. Nothing more embarrassing than clinking a giant Glad bag full of bottles to the garbage room on a Sunday night (NOSY NEIGHBOR: Oh! You musta had a big party this weekend. You guys were sure quiet though. Except I heard crying several times. AARON: Yeah…heh, heh…party.)

Furious, as of today BA’s #49 ranked beer in the world, poured out a lot darker than I expected, a rich caramel or perhaps maroon. A foamy, foamy head with tons of lacing. Its smell was right up my alley. Exactly how I like an IPA to smell. Incredibly fresh and floral, akin to Maharaja or Captain Lawrence’s DIPA, two of my absolute favs.

Furious is very hoppy, again, just how I like it. A bit more sour than I expected (at 99 IBUs I shouldn’t have been surprised) and prefer though. Quite frankly, it could use a little balance. American hops and Scottish malt with citrus esters, grapefruit perhaps. A piney finish, like sticking a conifer needle in your mouth and chewing on it. Little bit of a carbonated sting, but very drinkable nonetheless.

For a certain kind of IPA fan, I could see this being their absolute holy grail, but for me, it’s just a tad too lacking in sweetness and alcoholic potency. Still stellar though. I’d love to get “session” loaded on it. This is a great one and the people of Minnesota are lucky to have it right in their backyard.

A-

*I seem to be a victim of oddly diabolical practical jokes. Last year around this time I received an unlabeled package which had in it nothing else but a dozen pair of some brand-new high-end socks. Who could have sent these to me? I questioned family, friends, my girlfriend at the time, but they all insisted that they were not the culprit. I still have no clue who sent these to me, especially since next-to-no people knew my home address back then. It still baffles me to this day. Oddly enough, I was really in need of some socks at the time.

**Just for craps and laughs, here’s my top five beer-producing states:

1. California — the unquestioned king with 84 incredible breweries, most notably Stone, Russian River, and Bear Republic to just name a few, as well as Lost Abbey and Port which I hope to finally try within the month.

2. New York — call me a homer, but the Empire State kicks ass with an amazing amount of top-notch breweries: Southern Tier, Captain Lawrence, Brooklyn, and Ommegang, to just name a few.

3. Colorado — good chance if I lived in Colorado they would finish second, but I don’t, so they’ll have to settle for the bronze with such great breweries as Great Divide, Avery, and New Belgium.

4. Michigan — Bell’s, Jolly Pumpkin, Arcadia, and New Holland. And I still have never tried a single Founders or Kuhnhenn beer so I couldn’t factor those highly-esteemed breweries into my rankings. Consider that for a second before you write me an angry letter to the editor (and, yes, I do have an evolutionary and homosexual agenda).

5. Oregon — Hair of the Dog, Rogue, and Deschutes to name a few.

Notables:
Maine — Allagash, Bar Harbor, Shipyard
Massachusetts — Boston Beer Co., Harpoon, Wachusett
Pennsylvania — Troegs, Victory, Weyerbacher
Wisconsin — New Glarus (points deducted for harboring the dreadful Leiny)

Michelob Golden Draft Light

4.1% ABV bottled

Friend of the Vice Blog and Minnesotan The Captain’s Chair sent me a nice package of local beer last week, wanting me try some of the finest brews his state has to offer. He sent me great stuff from Surly, Schell, and other Land of 10,000 Lakes breweries. Any Minnesota beer review you see in the next few weeks will be courtesy of him. But The Captain humorously also wanted to send me the worst his state has to offer, some pure “nastiness” as he calls it, telling me he’d like me to sample it “if (I’m) brave enough.”

It’s a “special” release that Anheuser-Busch apparently only inflicts on the great states of Minnesota and Wisconsin. The Captain described it thusly:

“It’s basically horse piss, but all the mullets around here drink it like it’s their job. I wouldn’t touch it with someone else’s lips. Might make for a funny review though.”

Sign me up. As much as I love great beer, I also love seeing if I’m man enough to drink liquid garbage. It’s a sickness I have.  And I should note that I was dumb enough to drink this stone-cold sober.

The clear bottle Golden Light comes in is an obvious sign of a piece of shit brew. It’s like they want the beer to be skunked to as high of level as possible before you drink it.  The label reads “…the exceptionally smooth taste you expect from Michelob.” Riiiiiiiight. Why are macrobreweries bigger stretchers of the truth than politicians? I actually expect nothing but pain, misery, and agony from Michelob.  And I would soon learn that I should sue Michelob for blatantly false advertising.  The Vice Blogger v. Michelob, the Vice Blogger contending that Golden Light is about as unsmooth as possible.  That would be the trial of the century.  But more on this in a sec.

I popped the top and I was hit with a pungent aroma. Terrible. A stench like flatulence. I had to clamp a clothespin on my nostrils like I was some cartoon character. The taste is even worse. Like a poisoned Sprite Remix. The beer injures my tongue. It was like pouring hydrogen peroxide on it. I’m not sure if Golden Light heals open cuts though. It singes and bubbles as it goes down your throat. Atrocious.  If Anheuser-Busch considers this “smooth,” good Lord!

Abominationally bad. The Captain was right. One of the worst beers I’ve ever had. It’s like the wretched Corona but far more painful going down. My mouth and gullet felt like a bum raped my pie hole.

This one should be advertised as beer for bulimics because it made me want to throw up. It’s like (marginally) alcoholic ipecac. “Beer for Bulimics.” Kinda catchy actually. Could be used in some trendy new modern-day vomitoriums.

Luckily, I only had to drink one of these and afterward I cleansed my palate with the Cuban from the UWS’s Cafe Con Leche, maybe the best sandwich in all of Manhattan island.

Never again.

F

Delirium Nocturnum

8.5% ABV from a bomber

Today brought the news that a wealthy and apparently eccentric man from Alabama is offering to pay $50,000 per for Jewish families to move down to his shitty unpopulated mega-Christian town. I guess he needs some like-minded buddies. The relocated Jews will have to agree to a five-year stint in the Heart of Dixie during which they have to actually act as committed Hebrews, attending shul, wearing yarmulkes, hanging mezuzahs, and…I guess eating corned beef sandwiches and quoting Woody Allen movies. Who knows?

$50,000?! Shit, I wouldn’t move to the Upper East Side for a lowly $50K. And to shlep to middle-of-nowhere-Alabama I’d have to be paid a least $10 million lump up-front. Probably more.

You think I’m kidding? I have certain needs. People often wonder why a human would put up with all the bullshit, all the chaos, all the dismay, stress, crampedness, filth, and overwhelming expenses to live in New York. They oddly think, “Does he like museums and Broadway theater and Lincoln Center ballets and operas that much?!” Of course not. Actually, I’m not even that big on culture. “Culture” meaning stuff that hasn’t been truly relevant and exciting since “A Tale of Two Cities” was on the new release rack at Ye Olde Barnes & Noble.

My reasons for living in the Moneymaker are far more pedestrian and mundane. Here are all of them, in decreasing importance though they are all crucial factors to me.

1. Public transportation — I fucking hate driving. I like to walk wherever I can and in fact do so for any journey under thirty blocks north/south or any distance cross-town. Above that, I love to use public transportation. I abhor sitting in traffic jams listening to shitty classic rock stations while wasting my life away. With public transportation, while some high school drop-out on potent union wages does the “driving,” I’m able to read, write, do crosswords, sleep, or just ogle hot women, which brings us to…

2. Hot single women and plenty of ‘em — Self-explanatory. Besides the fact that most cities have ugly women, most of them are married-by-24 with several-kids-by-28. No thank you. I could handle dealing with having to try and pick up potentially cuckolding wives due to a lack of sexy singles, but not when they’re all so fat and ugly.

3. Terrific food — We all know New York is the best dining city in the world, but it’s not like I can afford to eat at per se, Gordon Ramsey at The London, and Alain Ducasse every night. Or ever. No, in my opinion, New York is also the best city for cheap eats. From $4 Halal “street meat” platters to of course pizza and bagels to mind-blowing cuisines from more countries than are even in the worthless U.N. You can eat better for cheap here than you can eat for a gorgeous penny in most other American cities.

4. Bars open all hours of the night — I hate to temper the hero worship, but you may be surprised to know that the Vice Blogger doesn’t stay out til dawn four times a week like he used to when he was a young lad. In fact, he’s lucky to do that once a month these days. But he still likes to have the option. Nothing worse than being in a subpar city drinking subpar beers at a subpar bar when at 1:30 the lights go high and the bouncers start yelling, “Get the fuck outta here! LEAVE!!!” It’s ridiculous. The difference between cities that stay open til 2:00 and ones that stay open til 3:00 are immense. That is such a crucial hour. And New York stays open many hours more. Plenty of time to get in trouble.

5. Movies — Being a film buff, if not a full-fledged cinema geek, I need to know that every single movie that is made and put into theaters will screen in my city. And, not only that, screen in my city on the absolute first day of its release. It was murder when I lived in places such as Oklahoma and Syracuse and had to wait months upon months for more obscure pictures to make it to my city — if ever.

6. Pro sports — I couldn’t live in a town that doesn’t have an MLB, NFL, and NBA team. It doesn’t hurt if there’s easy access to college football and basketball watching too.

7. Access to obscure beers

With the exception of just a few American breweries (Russian River, Lost Abbey, Three Floyds, Founders, etc), pretty much every other breweries’ beers are stocked in full in New York. I hear about a great beer and I basically just need to leave my house and walk five blocks to find it.

And my supermarket across the street, which isn’t even particularly great, sells stuff such as Delirium Nocturnum. You think the fucking supermarket in Dothan, Alabama has Delirium? You think they even have Bud Light Lime?! Doubtful.

Delirium has a great, borderline offensive name to the PC crowd–delirium tremens of course referring to the severe manifestation of alcohol withdrawal which causes symptoms such as tremors, insomnia, nausea, hallucinations, confusion, and “the shakes”–and absolutely iconic bottle labels, the pink elephant logo a harbinger that you’re about to get done fucked up good.

Nocturnum has a great dark chocolate pour with a nice slightly medicinal alcohol smell. Tastes of cranberry and fig, perhaps some apple and caramels. Nice spiciness with some balanced yeast. Goes down easy. Not mind-blowing or exactly sui generis, but a good beer that’s well-crafted and incredibly drinkable.

A great way to spend an evening in the greatest city in the world.

Thanks for the offer Mr. Blumberg, but I’m staying put in my beloved Manhattan.  Your state’s beer laws are retarded.

Don’t you see the rest of the country looks upon New York like we’re left-wing, communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers? I think of us that way sometimes and I live here. –Alvy Singer “Annie Hall”

A-/B+

New Belgium Abbey Dubbel

7% ABV

memo to bosses re: hungover workers

When someone in your employ arrives at the office with two 32-ounce bottles of Gatorade, a large black coffee, and a greasy, greasy bacon, egg, & cheese sandwich, all of which he summarily devours at his desk in under five minutes–well that’s a hungover employee on your hands. Leave him alone for a bit.  He’ll work things out.

Last night I revisited old favorite 123burgershotbeer* with a pal and after an evening of aggressive drinking, found myself near comatose this morning. I needed a three-egg, sausage, and cheese breakfast burrito grease-missile, an extra-large iced coffee, two Propels, and a Diet Mountain Dew just to get me back to sea level, just to get enough synapses firing in my gray matter in order to pen this piece…

You can’t deny your honest feelings, but I still feel somewhat bad for bashing Fat Tire yesterday. New Belgium is a company that obviously takes beer seriously, that’s for certain. Like most microbreweries, I assume Fat Tire is their money-maker, their beer made for the masses, their beer made to fund the rest of the brewery’s more unique efforts. You can’t expect the public to consume high-ABV barley wines, saisons, and stouts in bulk. They need weak little sissy beers for their sensitive and unadventurous palates.  So enter Fat Tire. A beer snob should be concerned when everyone and their mother likes a certain brew. Everyone and their mother doesn’t typically know shit. Everyone and their mother loooooooves Fat Tire.  It’s a maxim I knew yet still didn’t follow.

Thus, I was glad my friend also brought back New Belgium’s version of a dubbel. It looked fantastic on the pour. And smelled just like the brilliant Westmalle. Wow, I was excited. Could an American brewery possible emulate with accuracy a trappist beer?!

Eh…

Not quite. It does not really have a strong flavor at all.  The most mild hints of banana, sweet bread, and malt.   Dubbels should have more body than this.  More bite.  This beer has about as much bite as a newborn still not teething.  The Abbey simply lacks the “oomph” that makes Westmalle so special and world-class.

Having said that, this dubbel was undeniably drinkable and still a very worthy effort.  I wish more American breweries had dubbels. I have a feeling that someday I’ll have a New Belgium I truly love. It’s inevitable.

B+

*Re-review of 123burgershotbeer–The burgers are still a buck and tastier than I recall, I recommend dressing them with this spicy chipotle sauce condiment on the bar. The goofily-named shots still cost a Thomas Jefferson and are still only ordered by the kind of men that say “Woooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” and then give each other homoerotic high-fives post-shot slam. And the beers are still gloriously chilled and three bucks, though poured into deceptively small mugs which I would reckon are only 10 ounces. The waitresses and female bartenders there continue to make 123 a (marginally more) upscale Hooter’s, wearing hot pants so short one can see ass curvature in the back and labium in the front. And, I now realize why 123 has such a pricing scheme. It’s not a gimmick, no, it’s just so the Communist bloc cuties and the modelishly handsome lunkheads manning the bar don’t have to think so hard to compute one’s tab. I couldn’t see, but I imagine the cash register only has three buttons: a giant Fisher Price-sized 1, 2, and 3. Oh, you ordered six beers? The drink-slinging dummkopf goes to the register and mashes the giant 3 button six times before the See n’ Say voice says “18 dollars.”

Fat Tire Amber Ale

PREVIOUSLY ON MY TOP TEN MOST WANTED LIST

5.2% ABV

Sometimes you’ve yearned for something for so long that you forget why you ever wanted it in the first place. Such is the case with Fat Tire. I can’t recall why I wanted to try it initially, but I know I first had the desire sometime back in the early oughts when the best beer I’d ever had in my life at that point was probably still Arrogant Bastard.

As I moved through life on my beer-drinking journey, amassing brews like Charles Foster Kane amassed objets d’art to fill up Xanadu, I always had Fat Tire in the back of my mind as one I needed to acquire. Yeah, I knew it wasn’t that highly-regarded, I knew it wasn’t rare at all if one lived in the dozen or so states in the middle of America where it got distribution, but I still wanted the motherfucker. In fact, it was almost a dirty little joke on me that New Belgium stocks this beer in literally all six states that touch and surround Oklahoma–the state of my upbringing and where my parents and numerous friends still live–yet doesn’t distribute it actually in OK. I assume this is due to the Sooner State’s pansy-ass alcohol laws. Thus, I couldn’t even get Fat Tire on my rare trips back to God’s country.

Luckily, a Manhattan friend of mine recently got sent down to Texas for some business. And, after picking up his capo’s shipment of illegal narcotics and firearms run across from Mexico, he had plenty of time to peruse the local beer shops and bring me some Fat Tire back. I should note that I think my New York friends are starting to dread leaving town as I always hint hint tell that about all the great beers in the region they’re going to.

“Oh, you’re going to (city/state/country/area)? You don’t say. Wow, guess you’ll get to try all those great _____ brews. Yum. Wish they distributed those in New York. Guess I’ll never get to try them. But you be sure to have some and report back.”

“Aaron, are you saying you want me to bring some of those home for you?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll just be sure not to pack any extra socks, shoes, underwear, toiletries, or reading materials so I have space in my luggage for all your bottles.”

So I finally got to try Fat Tire.

And it bored the heck out of me.

The bottle design is as beautiful as can be and the pour is indeed gorgeous.  Everything was going to plan at least initially.  But the first smells and tastes were kinda weak.  Almost like an apple cider.  A kid’s drink.  Minimal flavor.  It wasn’t bad, just nothing special.  A decent session beer I suppose and if I’m ever in a place that distributes it I want to give it a second shot as I also think my friend’s refrigerator might have chilled this one a tad too much (and I was too dipsomaniacal to wait for it to cool a few degrees).  I’d especially like to give it a whirl on tap.  But, as for now, I really didn’t love my first experience with Fat Tire at all.

Oh well, don’t hate me Colorado…

C+

Post Road Pumpkin Ale

5% ABV

I don’t believe it’s this way in most the rest of the country, but supermarkets in New York allow you to break up six-packs.  This is great because you only have to take a chance on 12 ounces of beer, never getting stuck with a potential 72 ounces of shit.  Here are some Manhattan supermarket beer-buying tips:

Whole Foods is still the king of supermarket beer-buying in New York with an exquisite and plentiful selection.  And at fair prices too.  Aside from the Bowery location, all the other locales allow you to break up sixers and seem to have an unwritten rule of charging exactly $2.50 per beer single.  That’s not a great price for a lot of one-offs, but for some big boys it is remarkable (see:  Ayinger Celebrator).

D’Agostino is located right across the street from me and has a decent enough selection, with the full line of Stone bombers for as cheap as $3.99 per.  They have the most rational single deal, selling looseys for exactly one-sixth of their six-pack price.  Unfortunately, most of their cashiers can’t do the basic math formula:

(6-pack price) / 6 = what I ask the customer to pay me

Often you might find yourself standing in line for an extra fifteen minutes watching the abacus inside the register ringer’s head churn as several co-workers gather around to try and assist.  This will lead to hipsters and surly old people behind you in line getting upset at your for being the guy who couldn’t just act normal and buy a straight six-pack but who instead bought six bottles of six different beers.

This is a prevailing theme at NYC stores, though, and D’Agostino is sadly nowhere close to being the worst offender.

Also, sometimes you can scam D’Ag when it comes to fancier craft breweries that sell their beers in four-packs.  In this scenario instead of doing:

(4-pack price) / 4 = what I ask the customer to pay me

they still divide by six, cutting your price point down a bit.  And I know your next question. Yes I’m a 29-year-old man that gets my jollies out of duping supermarkets out of a buck or two.  Sue me.

Gristedes is far and away the biggest piece of shit store in the entire metro area.  Filthy, messy, product strewn all about, terrible prices, chaos everywhere as if some looterious riot has just occurred, and painfully inattentive employees.  However, they have a pretty darn good brew selection.  Nevertheless, they don’t seem to allow you to break up sixers, though I’m not sure even the managers there know official store policy.

Several times I’ve gone to the register with a bottle or two and had the cashier woman nonchalantly say, “That’ll be $10.99.”  “For a single beer?”  “You get charged the entire six-pack price.”  “So, I get charged $10.99 whether I buy one beer or six beers?”  “Yes.”  “You didn’t think it would be wise to tip me off to this before ringing me up?”

Let’s just say the workers at Gristedes don’t have a lot of horsepower between their ears.  No wonder the store is going bankrupt.

Food Emporium has an adequate beer selection but no sixers remarkable enough to consider breaking apart.  I rarely go there for beer, especially because most of it is not refrigerated.

Morton Williams has a damn fine beer selection but the aisles are incredibly narrow even for Manhattan standards and I simply don’t viscerally like entering the place.  The name alone sounds like a paint store.  Sherwin’s half-brother or something.

I picked up a grab bag of singles at D’Ag over the weekend.  And yes, it took about 25 minutes for the women to figure out how much I owed, and even then she screwed up.

As I’ve mentioned before, when September and October roll around, I will pretty much purchase every single Oktoberfest and pumpkin ale I see on the shelves.  Post Road Pumpkin Ale is Brooklyn Brewery’s offering, and quite frankly, I cannot recall ever trying it, though I’m certain I must have in the past.

Right off that bat I thought I was tasting a simple spiced beer as I was absolutely overwhelmed by nutmeg, cinnamon, and all-spice, I could barely detect any pumpkin flavors at all.  And though I do like a lot of spiciness in my pumpkin ales, the big guy should still be front and center.  Luckily, the pumpkiny tastes do come through eventually though not as much as I like.  I want to be nailed in the face with a nice slab of pumpkin pie, and Brooklyn didn’t quite cut it.

Having said that, Post Road Pumpkin is a very drinkable and oddly refreshing pumpkin beer.  However, I’m starting to realize after having finally tried the brilliant Pumking this season, that most others are just going to seem inferior, dwarfed in comparison.  Wish I’d made Pumking my last pumpkin beer of the autumn instead of my first.

B