Beer Pricing: A Little Less Hyperbole, Please

In my morning edition of The Globe and Mail newspaper yesterday, wine critic Beppi Crosariol wrote about the Sam Adams Utopias, Boston Beer’s high-end, high-alcohol, outrageously complex beer, the tenth anniversary edition of which has just come up for sale in Ontario at a price of $114.95 for the 710 ml bottle.

While he does a pretty good job at describing Utopias and placing it within the current state of beer and brewing culture, Crosariol does get a little hung up on the beer’s cost, variously employing such phrases as “nosebleed prices,” “exorbitant prices” and “stratospheric prices,” and comparing it to “Rolex watches and Prada purses.”

Really?

A Rolex goes for tens of thousands of dollars, and although I know nothing about the cost of Pradas, I’ve got to assume by dint of their reputation that they hit the same sort of price points. So how, pray, does that equate to a $115 bottle of beer, one which is intended to be consumed in small potions over days or weeks, rather than minutes or hours. Or, in other words, more like a single malt whisky or cognac than a Coors Light or Bud?

To answer that question, or at least further the debate, let’s take a look at what it all means. The last time Crosariol wrote about something to be sipped and savoured over a lengthy period of weeks or months, the Balvenie 17 Year Old Double Wood, he described the $167.95 bottle as “expensive.” Not stratospheric or exorbitant, just expensive. Before that we had the 15 year old Nikka Miyagikyo with nary a mention of the cost, despite the Japanese whisky’s $189.20 price. So, double standard?

Now, how about breaking down the cost of Utopias on a per drink basis? There are 24 ounces in a bottle and, at 29% alcohol, a generous pour would be about 2 of those ounces, making for a dozen total servings. Do the math and that comes out to less than $10 a serving, or about what one might pay for a glass of ho-hum wine in a restaurant. Still stratospheric? I think not.

By coincidence, on the same day that Crosariol was simultaneously adulating and excoriating Utopias, Clay Risen was over at the New York Times bemoaning the rise of big bottle beers, suggesting that, counter to every indicator imaginable – store sales, restaurant sales, brewery sell-throughs – there is some sort of backlash brewing against “expensive” 750 ml bottles of beer.

Jay Brooks does a thorough job of dismembering Risen’s story here, so I won’t go much into it myself, but in keeping with the tone of this post, I would like to take a moment to address the supposed price-based revolt.

At a high of $30 in stores, these beers are in the same price class as many wines, including a good number that lack complexity equivalent to the best of such brews. (And to be fare, many that provide equal or better value.) Yet it would be a brave writer indeed who took issue with $20 – $30 wines as a group, implying that drinkers are sick of such high prices and long for a return to jug wine. Which is not to say that I in any way agree with Risen’s characterization of the emergence of 750 ml bottlings of beer as being part of “what is being called the “wine-ification” of beer” – really? By whom, exactly? – but rather that I see no reason to discriminate against beer simply because you can still buy a twelve-pack of Bud Light for ten bucks.

And as for those individuals interviewed by Risen who suggest that they recoil at the notion of sharing their big bottle of beer with anyone else, I have but one piece of advice: Grow up!

Canadian Brewery of the Year: MicroBrasserie Charlevoix

During 2012, I probably sampled more Canadian beer from a broader selection of breweries than I have at any time since researching my second edition of the Great Canadian Beer Guide in 2000. This, of course, makes the challenge of selecting a brewery of the year all the more difficult.

Nonetheless, a decision must be made, and in reviewing my notes and local writings, two operations repeatedly came to the fore, one from Québec and the other from British Columbia.* Although it was a difficult choice to make, I ultimately decided to look east rather than west and proclaim MicroBrasserie Charlevoix my Canadian Brewery of 2012.

While many breweries in my home and native land are crafting great beers these days, few are as across-the-board impressive as is Charlevoix, taking into consideration both their Belgian-influenced Dominus Vobiscum line and rather less heralded Vache Folle beers. In the former group, the new Saison stood out as a most impressive bit of beer-making, with a spicy-citrusy-grapey character and suitable-to-the-style hoppiness drying and bittering the finish. Added to the already outstanding Triple, Lupulus and Brut beers, it makes for a stunning profile, indeed.

(And more good news for the Dominus line-up: I’m told by brewery president Frédérick Tremblay that a brown bottle has finally be sourced for the beers, so the skunkiness that has occasionally affected the Lupulus should thankfully soon be a thing of the past.)

On the Vache Folle side of things, the addition of a RyePA was slightly less successful, but ameliorated by the existing presence of the chocolaty, raisiny, joyfully boozy Imperial Milk Stout. Not that the 6% rye pale ale was bad, mind you, just that among such a crowd of superbly constructed and flavourful brews, its faintly immature profile leaves it somewhat wanting.

For these wonderful brews and the promise of the future, MicroBrasserie Charlevoix is my choice as Canadian Brewery of the Year for 2012.

(*Runner-up, by the way, was southern mainland brewer Central City, who should almost be in a class of their own thanks to their outstanding Red Racer Pale Ale, perhaps the best of its style in Canada, and almost as impressive Red Racer IPA.)

Tuesday: 2012′s U.S. Brewery of the Year!

The Futility of Either/Or Thinking

As he is wont to do, Andy Crouch set tongues a-wagging this week with a rant against both beer cocktails and collaboration beers. He received a quick rebuttal from the Wench – or rather a Facebook-driven revival of an older post in defense of beer cocktails – as well as kudos from the inestimable Mr. McL, and who knows how many other yeas and nays.

To explain my position, I must retreat first several years, about twenty or so, in fact.

As a neophyte beer writer, I regularly encountered people who would approach beer of any variety with the simple dismissal of “I don’t like beer.” (I still do hear this, though not nearly as often, but let us leave that matter aside for now.) To these people, or at least the overwhelming majority of them, “beer” was mainstream lager. They had tasted it; they didn’t like it; ipso facto they did not like beer.

My response to these self-depriving souls was the same then as it is today. “Beer is a multi-headed beast,” I say, although not necessarily in those exact words, “Just because you don’t like what you have tried thus far needn’t mean that none of it is to your taste.”

If you have read Mr. Crouch’s self-described “rant,” you may have some idea of where I’m going with this. Having partaken of both beer cocktails and collaboration brews – we know not what sort of quantity of each, since he offers no such information – he declares that he has found both lacking and thus declares “Death” to them.

I’ve made a few beer cocktails in my time, and have sampled the mixology of others, and several, indeed I’d go so far as to say many of the combinations I’ve tasted have been quite delicious. At their best, as I have stated time and again, they are neither better nor an attempted improvement on the original beer, just a flavourful attempt at something equal but different.

And let’s face it, beer cocktails are in their infancy, so there are bound to be any number of sad and ugly ones taking up beer menu space. That’s the way it goes, indeed the way it was in the early days of craft brewing. (Lord knows, at the GABFs and other beer fests of the early 1990’s, and in bars and restaurants and my own tasting cubicle during the same period, many an unbalanced or poorly designed or unintentionally sour or buttery beer crossed my lips.) But the industry improved with time and experience, as beer cocktails are bound to do should the “death to” hoards fail to get their way.

Mr. Crouch’s position on collaboration beers I find much harder to comprehend. For the sin of being the product of two or more brewers working together a beer should be condemned? Really? That makes as much sense to me as do those who scream “anything but chardonnay!” when, in fact, they really mean “I’m tired of over-oaked butter-bombs.”

Granted, Mr. Crouch goes on to proclaim his distaste for “confusing and disjointed…beers,” with which I heartily agree, but why tar all collaborations with a single brush? I have tasted many fine collaborative brews from producers both prodigious – I’m looking at you, Stone Brewing – and selective, and one of the finest beers I have ever had the pleasure of reviewing in my almost seven years on All About Beer Magazine’s “Beer Talk” panel was Fritz & Ken’s Ale, an Anchor-Sierra Nevada collaboration. Others have been less successful, but so what? I could say the same about any number of single brewery beers.

So you’ll hear no dismissal or “death to” from this writer. I’ll take each beer or cocktail (or spirit or wine) as it comes and judge accordingly. In fact, the more the merrier!

Again with the Black Whatever

Yesterday on Facebook, I posted a tongue-in-cheek link noting the new “black kölsch” just released from the St. Arnold Brewing Company of Texas, and saying that somewhere Ron “Shut Up About Barclay Perkins” Pattinson was popping a blood vessel. (Just joking, Ron. I sincerely hope you weren’t.)

Turn out, it wasn’t Ron who threw a wobbler, but Velky Al. And I’ve got to add, with good reason. Al does note that there is a convention governing what may be called a kölsch, and that even though the U.S. is not bound by said convention, it is, like those governing Champagne and Bordeaux, a matter of respect to do so. More broadly, he duly observes that there is nothing in the convention about a beer being black.

Without getting bent out of shape about it — it is Friday, after all — I must agree wholeheartedly with not just Al’s words, but also what I infer is the sentiment behind them, specifically this obsession with defining new styles and “innovations,” even is such things involve only the addition of a bit of black malt. As Jon Stewart might say, “Brewers, come over and meet me at camera three.”

Listen, I understand that you want to make your beers stand out and that, in the wake of the “black IPA” juggernaut that is sweeping the land, using the word “black” in front of pretty much any traditionally blonde or amber style is one way to do it. But in so doing you are forgetting that the vast majority of the beer drinking populace doesn’t yet know all of the basic beer styles, much less the 100+ offshoots recognized by the Association of Brewers today. Thus, creating more styles, especially faux styles like “black kölsch,” makes matters more confusing for the beer buying public. In short, you’re not clarifying, you’re confounding!

I like new beers. I like weird beers. I like challenging beers. What I don’t like is the seemingly irrepressible need of some, perhaps most craft brewers to create a new beer “style” with every release.

Stone Brewing: A Beer and a Book

For the last several months, I have been of the mind that Greg Koch, Steve Wagner and Mitch Steele of Stone Brewing were collectively conspiring to tweak my figurative nose through the release of “Belgo” versions of their big beers. My distain of that term, which Stone uses to indicate a special batch of an existing recipe thathas been fermented with a yeast strain of Belgian origin, I will admit relates less to the Stone context than it does the Brewers Association’s insistence on so-called “American-Belgo” style categories. But still…

So, with the arrival of each new “Belgo” from Stone, my sense of personal affront has grown. And then the Stone boys go and do this: 15^th Anniversary Escondidian Imperial Black IPA.

Bless ‘em! Like they were psychically channelling this writer’s deepest beer style grievances, the brains behind Stone managed in one simple, drippingly sarcastic name to sum up the idiocy of the entire black IPA vs. Cascadian pale ale vs. it’s just a freaking hoppy and strong porter non-controversy. I couldn’t have named it better myself.

And it’s none too shabby a beer, either, with an almost oily viscosity – a thicker beer I have seldom encountered – and an aroma of black rye bread, tar, dried plum, raisin and soy sauce supporting a body of full bitterness, burnt citrus peel, roasted walnut, dark chocolate, grilled peach and roasted malt. Perhaps not the finest of Stone’s anniversary brews, but a most welcome one, if for the name alone!

And what about the book, you ask? Glad you did. That would be The Craft of Stone Brewing Co.: Liquid lore, epic recipes, and unabashed arrogance, coming soon to a bookshelf near you from Ten Speed Press.

If you have ever read a Stone beer label, it will come as no surprise to learn that Mr. Koch had great interest in writing a book. Hell, some of those labels are almost books in and of themselves! That he let others, from brewery partner Steve Wagner to past brewer Lee Chase and current brewer Steele, add in their two cents is testament to his self-restraint, or perhaps the stubborn persistence of contributing writer Randy Clemens.

(As a side note, I have no idea why so many brewers and brewery owners want to write books – I’m looking at you Calagione, Cowen, and especially you Oliver! Having just completed my seventh, I think I can fairly state that it’s a brutal process and one I’d be more than happy to never repeat, although of course I will. But I have an excuse: I’m a writer, and sometimes also an idiot.)

Divided into three parts, the book is less a detailed account of Stone’s development and history than it is a fun and sometimes frivolous romp through the years from when Steve met Greg to present day, including 36 pages on the brewery, 34 on the brewery’s beers – both real and imagined; the notorious Stone April Fool’s beers are also included – and 79 on recipes for both Stone beers and food from the Stone Brewing World Bistro & Gardens.

Overall, this is a light-hearted read, certainly imbued in parts with the Stone attitude but also at moments insightful and even touching. I got through most of it one just a couple of North American flights, and it delivered just what I wanted from it in that time. It’s not the Oxford Companion to Beer – and more on that later – but neither is it designed to be. It’s beerside reading, pure and simple.

Belgian-Based Head-Shaking

This article in the Washington Post is a week old now, so some of you may have already seen it, particularly since it is not without its controversial aspects. But Joe just brought it to my attention, and so I’m bringing it to yours.

Or, rather, I’m bringing one line of it to your attention, from paragraph two and with emphasis added by yours truly:

The syrupy liquid was 10 percent alcohol and combined the dried-fruit flavors of a quadrupel, a traditional Belgian abbey ale, with the roasted-coffee notes common in American stouts.

No! No! No! There is nothing traditional about a so-called quadrupel, unless your definition of tradition stretches all the way back to 1991. And for that matter, there’s little “Belgian” about a beer invented in the Netherlands, which is where Koningshoeven/La Trappe created said beer in the aforementioned year of 1991.

This, as I have noted before, really gets on my wick. Because while it’s one thing to debate the vagaries of styles such as double IPAs and Imperial pilsners, it’s quite another to take a beer name coined two decades ago, invent a style out of it and then apply that style retroactively to beers that have been around for decades prior.

So stop it, please. Just…stop…it.

 

Double Imperial Whatsit

I swear, I’m going to have to start sending Martyn Cornell thank you notes. Or a Valentine’s Day card. Such is the regularity with which he unearths jewels of information from yesteryear.

Take his post from today, for example. In one collection of tidbits/titbits – read it and you’ll understand – he unearths British beer in Australia in the 1820’s, reveals a delightful-sounding beer cocktail and debunks Vinnie Cilurzo – sorry, Vinnie – as the original developer of the double IPA.

And speaking of “double” and “imperial” beers, please note that the beer being imported to Tasmania in the early 19^th century was Barclay Perkins imperial double stout porter. Strong and hoppy, one must presume, or else it would most assuredly not merit the use of twin descriptors.

Hoppy? How about “Extra Hopped India Beer” – surely the same as modern double or Imperial IPA – from, of all places, Scotland in 1868? Martyn has the evidence, and so we must return to rewriting our beer histories yet again.

Thanks, Martyn. Brilliant stuff.

My New Mantra

“I will not write about the new BrewDog beer.”

“I will not write about the new BrewDog beer.”

“I will not write about the new BrewDog beer.”

“I will not…”

The Kind of Beer That Makes You Say “Wow!”

The other day, Sunday to be exact, I enjoyed a most entertaining time being interviewed on The Brewing Network. During our chat — at least I think it was during that particular chat; I haven’t listened to the mp3 yet — I commented on what separates a good, solid, mid-range beer from an exceptional, that’s really frickin’ good beer. It is, to paraphrase myself, the “Wow!” factor.

I have in my fridge and cellar a number of beers from Squatters of Salt Lake City, Utah, that I am sampling my way through in preparation for a forthcoming book, The World Atlas of Beer, which I am co-authoring with Tim Webb. Tonight, I opened one of those beers, a tart ale aged 529 days in oak with pediococcus, lactobacillis and “wild yeast,” presumably Brettanomyces, then blended with younger, hoppeed beer and bottle-fermented wwith Champagne yeast. It’s called 529.

Wow!

On the nose, this beauty shows candied orange and lemon peel, vanilla, tart raspberries and oaky woodiness. The start is a bit sweet and berry-ish, but moves quickly to a tart and very oak-accented body — one in which the oak works very well, I might add — with notes of lemon and vanilla, cherry pit and mild nutty hop. Funky spice and a dry, moderately tart and lemony finish complete the picture.

Overall, this ale has great complexity, great balance and great flavour progression. Again, wow!

(Halifax) East Comes (Alberta) West

My friends at Delancy Direct tell me that some Garrison beers from Halifax are headed to Alberta, including the very fine Grand Baltic Porter I am now enjoying as the Blue Jays dismantle the Twins. It’s perhaps a bit fuller bodied and ale-ish,and  almost certainly more licorice-accented, than I remember it, but nevertheless it is a thoroughly enjoyable brew.

I wrote recently that since Garrison developed an affection for off-kilter styles like so-called “Imperial” IPAs and Baltic porters, they seem to have found their brewing groove. Albertans, get a case of the Baltic and serve it chilled late on a balmy summer night.