Live-to-Blog Review: Great Lakes My Bitter Wife IPA

I’ve been overly negligent in my blogging lately, and am running behind in my beer reviews, so I thought I’d review this beer straight to the blog, just for something a bit different.

Billed as a no doubt tongue-in-cheek “tribute” to Carrie Nation, the mad woman of the Women’s Christian Temperance Movement, this limited edition beer from Ontario’s Great Lakes Brewing is a big IPA,  with 7% alcohol by volume and, judging by my first sniff, a boatload of hops.

Amber-hued and just on the hazy side, the nose straight out of the fridge is ruby red grapefruit and a hint of pineapple, growing a shade oniony and more piney mango as it warms. It certainly hits the palate with a nice hoppy glow, and then grows steadily hoppier from there, segueing from peach and pineapple to grapefruit juice and lemon zest, with slight malty underpinnings of canned peaches and apricots. The finish is where the hops really assert themselves, however, with a strong and rather intense citrusy bite.

This is one of those IPAs that is not for the faint-of-heart. I enjoy it right through to the swallow, but am somewhat put off by the concentration of bitterness on the finish, and if I feel that way then I’m guessing all but the committed hophead might be at least a bit overwhelmed by its hoppy aggression.

Belgh Brasse Roars Back

If you lived in or visited Québec a little over a decade ago, you may remember Belgh Brasse. Based in Amos, near the Ontario border in the Québec northwest, the brewery opened with significant fanfare, much of it playing upon the purity of brewing water available from the Abitibi esker, and a purportedly Belgian-influenced ale called 8.

8 was, ultimately, a dud. I tasted it a couple of times and was left unimpressed, while others complained of the beer’s inconsistency. It died. A resuscitation of the brewery followed, with an even less inspiring pale lager called Taïga. It also died.

Now Belgh Brasse is back for a third kick at the can, and in this case it appears that the third time is indeed the charm. I have sampled two beers from the new Mons line of “Belgian-Inspired” beers, the Abbey Witte and the Abbey Blonde, and was impressed by both.

Sandy gold in colour with a slight haze, the Mons Abbey Witte has a sweetish, perfumey and lightly peppery lemon aroma, accented by candied orange peel and perhaps a hint of cinnamon, and a rounded and citrusy, light-bodied middle and a drying and faintly spicy-peppery finish. Belgian-inspired, for certain, it has a decided lemony note to it that makes me think just a bit about Berliner weisse, as well. It might lean a bit too hard on the sweet and fruity side of things, but is still nicely refreshing and quaffable.

The Mons Abbey Blonde is certainly a fruity ale, with dried apricot and canned peaches in the nose and a malty, dry caramel and lightly spicy body with some tropical and peachy fruitiness. I sampled it at cellar temperature first and refrigerator temp second and found it more expressive and robust when colder, although not so cold as to suppress the fruit and spice.

I’m told now that the brewery has a dubbel out and a stout on the way, and is for sale in the U.S. as well as in Québec. Based on these first two tastings, I’d say that this time Belgh Brasse might be sticking around for some time to come.

 

Tasted!: (The Surprising) Abita Lemon Wheat

As a serious beer person, what would you expect of a beer called Lemon Wheat? And what if, like me, you have been universally disappointed with every beer I have yet tasted with the word ‘lemon’ in its name? (I’m looking at you, Lemon Lagers…!) And don’t get me started on the “marriage of lemon and wheat,” which has beget that curious practice of serving wheats with a lemon wedge! That stuff belongs to beers with no taste, not ones that already have a refreshing and lemony crispness, not to mention a bunch of other spicy and fruity flavours.

And so, Abita Lemon Wheat. I open the bottle with trepidation. I expect little. I anticipate sweet and sickly lemon-ness.

More fool me!

What Louisiana’s Abita has done here is take pilsner malt and wheat mash, hop it with Centennial hops, ferment it with a bière de garde yeast, and finish the whole thing with lemon peel. The net effect being that this little 4.4% alcohol brew is a crisp, flavourful, utterly refreshing delight!

Light and hazy gold in the glass, it starts with an aroma that somehow manages to hit the nose sweet, but almost immediately turn more dry and perfumey, reminding me in the end of what I think limoncello should smell like, as opposed to what it usually does smell like.

On the palate, a just off-dry maltiness hits first, followed by lemon zest and a bit of lemon juice, then back to a biscuity maltiness alongside a rising spicy-citrus hop, and finally a dryish, mild to moderately bitter finish. Lemony, yes, but first and, I think, foremost a flavourful, well-structured quaffer.

Congratulations, Abita, on not only a great summer beer, but also proving that, like a book, it’s best not to judge a beer by its cover!

Tasted!: New Belgium/Dieu du Ciel Heavenly Feijoa Tripel

When the brilliance of these two Belgian-inspired breweries collides, you might well expect the results to be astounding. I certainly did.

And then I tasted the beers, and I felt…let down.

There is more on that to come, but first let’s get some of the details out of the way. New Belgium is a leading Colorado brewery, now famously building an eastern US facility in North Carolina. (Where there was recently a suspicious fire, I’m told. Thankfully, no one was hurt and an investigation is proceeding.) Dieu du Ciel is likely the best known Quebec brewery after Unibroue, an honour very well deserved.

The beer is, obviously, in the tripel style, with 9% alcohol by volume. It is flavoured with hibiscus flowers – a favourite Dieu du Ciel ingredient, as per their Roseé d’Hibiscus – and feijoa, a fruit sometimes known as a pineapple guava, native to South America but perhaps most commercially cultivated in New Zealand. Where they found sufficient quantities to brew with in Colorado I do not know.

Now, back to the beer. My first few tastes left me wanting, as I noted above, but that was just the first few. I got the hibiscus, on the nose and in the body, and certainly noted something fruity and somewhat guava-esque, an assessment I made before I looked up “feijoa.” But other than being rather tangy and slightly acidic, there wasn’t a lot else to pull me in. I was, frankly, disappointed.

And then I kept sipping.

The more I tasted this beer, the more I found myself drawn to it – and not because of the effect of the alcohol! It warmed a bit and more distinctly floral notes began to emerge, not just hibiscus, but tropical flowers and key lime. I began to taste past the tang and fruit in the body and found an almost minty herbal quality, plus overripe peach and some spicy hop, particularly in the second half. There arose an almost tobacco-y dried leaf note on the finish.

In the end, I still wasn’t entranced by this beer, but it emerged as something much better than my first three or five sips would have led me to believe. A reminder, I’d suggest, that the old and purportedly Czech axiom, “A fine beer may be judged with only one sip, but it’s better to be thoroughly sure,” is actually advice well heeded.

Tasted!: Alexander Keith’s Hop Series

Earlier today, I put up a post about bricks-and-mortar breweries, beer commissioners and so-called “gypsy” brewers, and why what matters most, to my mind, at least, is what ends up in the glass. Which seems to me to be a good set-up for a chat about a couple of new beers from the largest brewing company in the world.

The brewing company in question is, of course, Anheuser-Busch InBev, or more specifically their Canadian subsidiary Labatt, and its Maritime sub-label, Alexander Keith’s.

Now, many of you might know Keith’s by its namesake “India pale ale,” printed in quotations because it is quite unlike any other IPA I have ever encountered and has far more in common with a mainstream lager than it does, say, Meantime India Pale Ale. And thanks to that knowledge, you’re probably going to be quite sceptical when I tell you of two new Keith’s brews, both part of the Alexander Keith’s Hop Series: Hallertauer Hop Ale and Cascade Hop Ale.

As the names imply, each is a single hop beer, and were in fact delivered to me with two little jars of hop flowers, one filled with Cascade hops and the other with Hallertauer, ‘natch.

(I’m assuming the Hallertauer is Hallertauer Mittelfruh, and it smells as such, but Labatt isn’t saying.)

Tasting them simultaneously, I found little difference in their appearance, but rather more in their aromas. The Hallertauer, as befits the hop’s characteristics, is herbaceous and a little sweet, with notes of fresh grass, alfalfa and just a bit of rosemary. The Cascade, on the other hand, is predictably citrusy and quite nicely balanced with a bit of caramelly maltiness.

On the palate, the Hallertauer offers no hop flavours jumping out, but rather a mix of dryish maltiness and some dryly herbal notes, ending lightly bitter and very dry, but with an odd sticky sensation lingering on the tongue. The Cascade, I found, works much better, with the citrusy hop shooting forward from the outset and just outshining the orange, peach and caramel malt. On the finish, there is a moderate bitterness and lingering dryness, which makes it much more refreshing and appetizing, and ultimately more successful ale.

So both beers are quite competently brewed, as you’d expect, with the Hallertauer recommended for more timid palates and the Cascade for those just entering pale ale and IPA territory. In other words, I’d say this is not a bad effort at all. But is their creation and marketing a wise move for Labatt?

I wonder. If they’re trying to prove their mettle to craft beer aficionados, such timid attempts are unlikely to sway many people. If they’re offering hoppier alternatives to Alexander Keith’s fans, I’d say they run the risk of turning them on to pale ales and IPAs brewed by smaller, competing brewers. And if they’re simply throwing something out to counter the Molson Six Pints division, I’d say it looks like they’re trying to use a beagle to corral a stallion in full gallop.

 

To Hell with Part-Time Beer Writers and Contract Brewers!

Provocative title, yes? Good, because that’s what it is meant to be, but imagine for a second if I really meant it.

Imagine if I wrote a column about how important it is that every person writing about beer should be doing it as their sole source of income, with no “day job” or sidelines to keep the rent/mortgage paid and the lights on. Now imagine further that I implied through said column that those who do not write full-time are somehow less worthy than are those few of us who do, and that the fruits of their labours, ie: the articles and reviews they pen, are therefore by definition second class.

You’d probably think at best that I was rather full of myself, and most likely also that I’m an ass. And so you should.

Now change the above scenario to brewing rather than writing, and brewers in brick-and-mortar breweries and contract or so-called “gypsy” brewers rather than full- and part-time writers. Only this time you needn’t imagine it because it’s happening now. Again.

I’ve been writing about beer for 23 years, so I’ve lived through all this a few times now, and I’m here to tell you that it’s an utterly undignified debate. It smacks in turn of protectionism and claims of superiority, or at least greater legitimacy, and it is utterly meaningless to the vast, overwhelming majority of those who drink craft beer.

Why? Because like me, most of them don’t care whether the beer was born in a wholly-owned or sometimes borrowed brewery. They care whether or not it is good. Period.

Is there reason for the craft brewing industry to be debating owned breweries versus contractors – what Tim Webb and I have dubbed ‘beer commissioners’ – and “gypsies”? Yes, there may be, but internally. It’s a brewer-to-brewer and owner-to-commissioner debate, folks, and something that only looks petty and mud-slinging to outside entities. And what’s more, it will have no positive effect on the audience for your beer, so there is zero benefit to making it public.

(To those that say this is a fight for legitimacy and that the public will turn against beer commissioners if they know the true nature of what they do, I have three words for you: Boston Beer Company.)

When the craft beer biz gets together, as it did last week in Washington for the 6,400 person strong Craft Beer Conference, there is a tendency to forget that much of the beer drinking world is still blissfully unaware that alternatives to Bud and Coors Light even exist But it remains the reality that only the very fringe of the beer cognoscenti, itself a tiny, tiny minority of beer drinkers, is interested in this sort of internal debate. For the rest of the world, all that matters is what is in the glass.

Or, to return to my imaginary example, what’s on the page. And so far as I’m concerned, that’s the way it should be.

Michter’s Original Sour Mash Whiskey

Michter’s is a name steeped in whiskey lore. Go ahead and google it, or better yet, pick up and old whiskey book and check the index. You should find that it was once a Pennsylvania distillery, dating from the days when Monongahela whiskey meant something. The company hit hard times on more than one occasion, however, and finally went bankrupt in 1989.

Michter’s was resurrected in the 1990s and bottlings of the old whiskeys were popular rarities for the balance of the century, after which brokered whiskeys began being blended into signature products. Which brings us to the bottle in question, released late last year.

Monongahela whiskeys were generally rye whiskeys, but Kentucky, where the company is now based, is known more for bourbon, which brings rise to the question of what precisely this 86 proof spirit really is. And it’s a question for which I have no answer, unfortunately, since the company is being rather tight-lipped about the whiskey’s constituent parts. But perhaps that’s for the best, since it allows an unbiased approach to the glass.

On the nose, I certainly get more bourbony notes than rye, with plenty of vanilla and caramel and a fair hit of chocolate, besides, along with orange and perhaps canned peach notes. On the palate, it begins soft and filled with vanilla, almost like a candied essence, before blooming into a mix of stewed fruit and caramel and – now, there’s the rye! – peppery spice. The finish is just off-dry and tongue-tingling with a mix of brown spice and pepper.

The company suggests this as “an alternative to bourbon or rye,” and I’d have to agree with that sentiment, since it displays characteristics of both spirit families. I’m happy enough sipping it straight, but am anxious to soon try it in a Manhattan, as well, although I suspect with a pretty robust vermouth.