This month’s Session is hosted by Joe and Jasmine of Beer at Joe’s, and their  topic of choice was Beyond the Black and Tan. Here’s what they had to say in the original post:

Most people have had a black & tan, which is a combination of two kinds of beer and think it’s pretty tasty. Most people have heard of a Shandy, beer with lemonade or soda added, and think it’s not so tasty.

But beer cocktails go far beyond these two famous examples… What’s your favorite beer cocktail (and yes, despite the title of this post, it can be a black & tan or a shandy)? Find a recipe for that or a new one, try it, and tell us why you did or didn’t like it–even if you think beer cocktails are nothing but a good way to waste a beer. Have fun and try something new!

I’ve had a few beer cocktails over the years, and find them to be a mixed bag. A few bad experiences has elicited such trepidation when I contemplate ordering an untried beer cocktail, that I invariable settle on ordering just a beer… unadulterated. But curiosity and shamelessness has rarely prevented me from suggesting such a cocktail to a trusting compatriot (read my wife). I must confess that when I take my consulting dues of a mouthful or two, I’ve found myself suspiciously impressed on more than one occasion.

This Session topic forced me to the decidedly awkward position of having to take risks.

Re-reading the last sentence and thinking of what that says about my person forces me to the awkward position of sounding thoroughly British. Horrifying thoughts such as these lead a sensible man to drink, and it might as well be a beer cocktail.

I wanted to attempt a beer cocktail from drinks and ingredients that I already have in the house. The idea here was to not spend extra money on a project I feared was doomed to failure, and I also wanted to see if I could construct something from scratch based on taste and intuition alone.

So I started by grabbing a bottle of New Belgium Sunshine Wheat Beer. This is a year-round offering from one of my favourite breweries that I’ll typically enjoy a few sixpacks of when the weather gets hot. It rather loosely falls into the Belgian Wit beer fold, sporting additions of coriander and caracao. As a well-fashioned, refreshing, but quite delicate wheat beer, anything I added needed to be subtle and delicate itself. In retrospect, this would be a wonderful candidate for a shandy if ever I saw one, but lacking lemonade and juice of any description, I opted instead for a gentle spirit. The Cragganmore 12 I consider to be one of, if not the most elegant, and delicate scotches I’ve consumed. I thought its floral nose and palate, with its subtle wood and hints of tropical fruit (rockmelon/cantaloupe) might just make a nice marriage with the New Belgium.

Well… I was wrong. Epic fail. The Cragganmore that I never drink after another scotch because it is so easily overpowered, consumed the Sunshine wheat like a fat kid on cake. It’s woodiness was amplified disproportionately, and all of its elegant beauty transformed into an insipid spicy alcohol, which I tossed after a few puckering mouthfuls. Thankfully my pessimism about the project prompted my using only about a third of the bottle, and I could wash the taste away with the unspoiled remainder.

Not wanting to end on a sour note, I thought I’d take one more crack. Instead of starting with a specific beer and building from there, I decided to start with a concept and see if I had the right ingredients to get there.

This time around I wanted to use items that were stable and strong in their own right, and also, if possible, to use more than two. When I think bold and drink, I want an espresso, a dark, strong beer, or a rich, Islay scotch. I couldn’t see a reason why at least a combination of a couple of these wouldn’t work together. Of course they have before, in the form of coffee stout, or oak aged beers, where the barrels have previously housed a whiskey.

Perusing the beer cupboard, I thought my best bet would be Rogue Shakespeare Stout as the base, with some fresh espresso for the next step. The beautiful, crema head of the stout certainly resonated with the espresso, and the sweetened dark chocolate aroma begged for coffee. I wasn’t sure about the grapefruity cascade that was so prominent on the nose however.

I started reasonably small, with a half glass of Shakespeare, and about 3/4s of a shot of espresso. Adding the coffee triggered a baking soda like effect, with a new head bursting forth, and forming a pockmarked, ravine striped landscape, reminiscent of images from the Voyager Mars probe.

The coffee aroma fit seamlessly, and the cascades took a magnanimous step back, allowing the sweeter scents to accent the espresso. Wow, this actually works! Using decent espresso coffee, and being careful not to over-extract prevents the bitterness from being too high, and the residual sugars in the Shakespeare round off the edges. The existing heavy roastiness of the malt certainly compliments the coffee too.

Next addition – Laphroaig 15 yo. Even when blending scotches, I’m hesitant to use Laphroaig, as it’s such a dominating and singular flavour – the 10 in particular. But I was really hoping the smoky quality of an Islay would add to my blend, and sadly without anoterh Islay option on the shelf, it would have to be this. So I started with a teaspoon, and worked up to a second.

More iodine than smoke came through on the nose, which wasn’t entirely unexpected given the aggressively peaty profile of Laphroaig. It doesn’t seem entirely foreign in the mix, but is still unembraced. Still, a delightful woodsy character appears that only a significantly oaked stout could hope to display.

On the palate it’s an interesting picture. The Laphroaig wants to play, and the smoky oak is welcome, but its seaweedy side is definitely an outsider. Not bad, but not where I want it. I figured at this point that I would experiment a little further, so I added a dash of cinnamon. I probably added slightly too much, but this addition did much more than I expected for the cocktail. Dulling down the iodine flavours and augmenting earthy notes it really lends a winter-warmer feel to the beer.

Were I to do this over, I’m thinking Ardbeg would be a better candidate as the scotch component – more smoke, less peat. An imperial stout with a more rigid structure and greater weight should make a better beer host – maybe Samuel Smith’s Imperial.

So where are we? This cocktail is far from earth-shaking, but its promising… even good. With some tweaking, I might even be on to something!

Evan Williams is no unfamiliar name to bourbon lovers, given that it is the second largest selling brand of Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey in the US. But those sales are largely on the back of their blended black label bourbon. But today we’re reviewing the Evan Williams Single Barrel 1999, their 14th vintage. The E.W. Vintage series claims the impressive distinction of being the only vintage dated bourbon. The fact that each bottle is drawn from a single barrel, rather than a blending of barrels, means that even within a vintage each bottle is likely to express a slight range of unique characteristics. Each vintage year also equates to a novel bourbon, with often significant characteristics marking one vintage from another. What doesn’t seem to vary is the success with which they are greeted year after year. They have a swag of medals and accolades against their name, perhaps most impressively the first ever Whiskey of the Year title awarded to a bourbon by The Spirit Journal. So, let’s try it and see what all the fuss is about.

Evan Williams Single Barrel Vintage 1999
Barrelled on 10.12.99
Bottled on 01.20.09
Barrel # 112
43.3% abv

Appearance: Deep, slick amber

Nose: Waxy on first sniff. Then caramel popcorn and warm dark spices – nutmeg and cardamom. A hint of rose, and after adding a few drops of water, charred oak really comes out, as does a little spearmint.

Body: Mid to full, a little oily, very smooth.

Taste: Wonderfully smooth and sweet. The nutmeg is there, and dark, overly roasted butterscotch. A very mature bourbon.

Finish: Spice and toffee, then a mellow woodiness that credits the 9+ years in oak. As all fades away, the impression of raw, crushed almonds. Complex!

Overall Impressions: This is one smooth, complex, and sweet bourbon without being cloying. While this is no great claim, I have no hesitation in labelling this the best bourbon I’ve sampled to date. Well worth seeking out, and I look forward to buying a bottle of each new vintage.

 Score: 86/100.

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Here is a clip from the unveiling event of the 1999 vintage. They were sampling cask strength (60-70%) from the first barrel. The clip is worth watching for the inimitable molasses drag of an accent of Parker Beam alone, their Master Distiller. (Parker is a seventh generation distiller and has worked at Evan Williams for over 50 years. His grandfather was the brother of a certain James Beam).

Take a look at this happy spread:

Left to Right: Evan Williams Single Barrel 1999 Vintage Bourbon, Bunnahabhain 12yr, Talisker 18yr, North Coast Brother Thelonious, Laphroaig 10yr, Highland Park 12yr, Pauvel Kwak, Arbeg 10yr, Avery Czar Imperial Stout, and Unibroue Quelque Chose.  Very much an island focused scotch adventure, but to my mind that’s awfully hard to beat.

We also visited a fine pub in downtown Oklahoma City called James E. McNellie’s Public House. They had about 60 craft beers on tap (including about 10 Belgians and 15 Germans) and a further 323 bottled – yes, I did just run the numbers on their menu. The great majority of these were American micros, with more than a perfunctory nod given to the Belgians, a decent German representation, and a smattering of other beer countries making an appearance. Overall I was quite pleased, especially with their prices. I opted for a pint of the Ayinger Brau-Weiss on tap (they were out of the Tripel Karmeleit, which was my first choice), and followed that up with a bottle of 2007 North Coast Old Stock Ale. This set me back just $12 – quite nice for pub prices.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought over the last few days to ways I can make this blog more relevant and interesting for my readers. When I return home I hope to hit the ground running. I’ll be posting several reviews each week, increasing the number of scotch reviews, to give a little more balance, but I also have in mind writing a lot more non-review posts. I have some restructuring of the blog in mind too and am aiming to be much more consistent with my updates, and to generate more structured content under a variety of themes. Watch this space and I’d appreciate any feedback, ideas, or recommendations you may have. Cheers!

I’ll leave you with a couple of pictures I took yesterday:

  Chris’s yard through a glass of North Coast Brother Thelonious Abbey Style Ale

Elegant North Coast Cork

Aleister Crowley (1875 – 1947) has to be one of the more curious and peculiar figures of the last century. From rather unexceptional beginnings in Warwickshire, Crowley emerged as perhaps England’s most notorious and controversial personality of the time. An incredibly intelligent young man who studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, accomplished as a writer, poet, and social critic, it was his early embrace of occultism that achieved him fame and prominence.

In his second year at Cambridge Crowley immersed himself in the literature of  alchemy, mysticism, and magic. He was soon inducted into the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, a mystical order whose notable members included E. Nesbit, Bram Stoker, and William Butler Yeats. The Golden Dawn was rent by a schism in 1900, and Crowley pursued his study of the occult alone. In 1904 while holidaying in Egypt, he purportedly had a mystical experience while invoking Horus who told Crowley that he would be the prophet heralding in a new magical age.

The next month, still in Cairo, he penned the text Liber Al vel Legis, or The Book  of the Law – acting as scribe for Horus who dictated the text according to Crowley. This marked the beginning of his religious philosophy which he entitled Thelema, based on the foundational law of “Do what thou wilt.” (The word Thelema is a transliteration of the greek θέλημα, or will, a cognate of the verb θέλω – to will or to purpose).

Through his continued involvement with occultism, a famed feud with Yeats, annunciation of radical views of sexuality for his time, and prolific writing which more often than not was brazen and scandalous, Crowley received copious amounts of attention from the press around the globe. Much of his writing, particularly the mystical, was laden with metaphor for sexual imagery in which he used language denoting murder, cannibalism and victimhood that convinced a growing number that he promoted, if not actively participated in, human sacrifice among other things. This led the press to memorably dub Crowley “The wickedest man in the world.” Crowley often referred to himself as The Beast, a label his mother used when he acted out as a child.

So where on earth am I going with this? Interestingly enough, Crowley has a significant relationship to the beer industry, directly and indirectly.

The Crowley family lays claim to a long and significant brewing tradition, having run a brewery in Croyden, Surrey, for over 200 years. In 1821 Abraham Crowley (Aleister’s great uncle) and two of his sons procured The Brewhouse in Alton, from James Baverstock. It was in this brewery in 1768 that Baverstock through much experimentation with a hydrometer discovered he could determine the comparative strength of worts, thus laying the foundation for saccharometry, used by breweries and wineries around the world to this day.

The Brewhouse expanded under the Crowley management and began to offer beer and a sandwich at a cheap price, inventing, according to some historians, the pub lunch. They even get a mention from Charles Dickens in his weekly published journal as “providing a first-rate sandwich and a sparkling glass of Crowley’s Ale.” The brewery produced a fine range of offerings over the years, including a dark brown ale, oatmeal stout, old ale, ‘Alton Brew’ (unknown ale), brown ale, Family Ale, regular stout, and light pale ale.

In 1877 the Crowleys sold the brewery to the son in law of Abraham Crowley, and Aleister’s father re-invested his share in the sale into Amsterdam’s waterworks. His father was able to retire young on the profits, and when he died he left Aleister a considerable fortune which financed him throughout life and allowed him to immerse himself in his interests. So alcohol really is responsible for the anti-christ…

Part II tomorrow.

Nic made up his special spice rub to coat some pork chops which he barbequed out back with some golden butter potatoes, while Vanessa prepared salad, corn, and some salami and (I think) smoked gouda. I figured a bottle of North Coast’s Le Merle Saison would be the safest bet to pair with the pork, so we popped it open with the meal.

I’m not anti-social enough to record beer notes while a dinner guest in another’s home, so here are some brief jottings made postprandially.

Some apple notes lent themselves very well to the pork. Not quite applesauce, but still one of those timeless marriages.

Clove and peppery spiciness merged seamlessly with the seasoning rub, and the sharp acidity helped to alleviate the bite of the pepper. (I almost brought an abbey ale over thinking the sweet malt would go well with caramelised pork, but there is no way it would have handled the spice as the saison did so well). I was a little worried the citric elements of the beer would clash, but they worked decently with the spice.

The Le Merle does not offer as much intricacies as many of its counterparts, but it remains a good interpretation and is quite drinkable. And as you can see from the photo, it’s also a really attractive beer. Score: 6.5/10.

While I have Belgian beers on my mind, here’s a commercial for the Achel trappist Ales that I found pretty amusing. Thanks to The Barley Blog for the link.

In his introductory post he notes, “It’s the world’s most popular style of beer and can be found in abundance in almost every corner of the globe. For millions of people the word "beer" denotes a cold, fizzy, yellow drink — one which is rarely spoken of among those for whom beer is a hobby or, indeed, a way of life.

   So for this Session, let’s get back to basics… Don’t even think about cheating the system: leave your doppelbocks and schwarzbiers out of this one: I want pilsners, light lagers, helleses and those ones that just say "beer" because, well, what else would it be?”

For myself I must confess to a substantial degree of ambivalence with the topic. As a craft beer lover who admires  the high degree of knowledge, patience, and skill involved in consistently producing a quality brew, fair-mindedness demands I approach all beer styles with an open and appreciative mind. While harbouring firmly grounded penchants for particular beer styles, I’ve always voiced and at least intellectually ascribed to the notion that beers should be judged according to their peculiar styles and benchmarks, and not judged unfairly against disparate styles that by their very nature are more exciting or flavourable. But as the rubber began to meet the road and the time drew closer for this session I found that every fibre of my beer loving body repulsing at the thought of revisiting the limp and lifeless libations of yesteryear. The ubiquitous beers that strangle the counterspace of supermarkets and liquor stores worldwide, desperately elbowing at the slow but inevitable invasion of superior products.

So it was with more than a mild case of cognitive dissonance that I stared at rows of beer at my local bottle store. I eyed off the Australian representations, recalling my earliest beer drinking memories. The choice was sparse – Fosters on one side, and fine micro-brewed ales from Coopers on the other. For a fleeting moment I considered the Fosters. Thankfully a wave of sanity returned when I realised the store doesn’t sell singles, and there was no way I would drink a six-pack of swill that the average ocker back home would order only as a last resort.

Ultimately I settled on a compromise – Brooklyn Lager, an American microbrewed lager that is still produced in significant quantity and finds itself tapped at a number of bars in the northeast. I also decided to try a beer for contrast that I’d seen a number of times but would never have purchased except for this topic – Xingu Black Beer.

On to the tasting:

The Brooklyn Lager is the original and flagship beer of the Brooklyn Brewery, now in its 22nd year of production. Founders Steven Hindy and Tom Potter commissioned brewmaster William Moeller to create the recipe, and contracted a brewery in Utica, New York to produce it in their early days. Current brewmaster Garrett Oliver states in his excellent book The Brewmaster’s Table that he has made very few changes to that original recipe. Hearkening back to Brooklyn’s pre-prohibition brews (48 breweries thrived in Brooklyn prior to the prohibition, their combined production accounting for one in ten barrels of beer produced in the nation), the lager has clear Vienna style roots. But to call it a strict pre-prohibition style as the label suggests is a little generous considering the unusual addition of cascade hops in an otherwise noble hop bill. Still, this is a lager alongside the groundbreaking Sam Adams Lager, that has helped define the possibilities of the lager style for many a fledgling micro.

Appearance: Pours a generous head composed of large, volatile bubbles, with ample vestiges remaining from start to finish, a gentle stir returning it to life. Colour is sumptous tones of amber. (As a style, this beer is considered an American Amber Lager).

Aroma: An invitingly crisp and refreshing aroma. Caramel and biscuity malt meets light floral notes, and grapefruit and pine from the cascade hops.

Taste: For a newbie to the world of craft beer, I would fancy this beer  presents a bit of a shock were they to innocently order this lager at a New York bar. Perhaps in a positive way, perhaps not. The beer is resinous and citric hops upfront which cedes briefly to some biscuity malt, before the hops crash their way back in again. The feels is more battle than balance to my mind. A touch metallic.

As the glass empties, the effect of the dry-hopping is an accumulative and somewhat astringent bite that lingers on the tongue. There is plenty of flavour and movement in this lager, while retaining enough dry drinkability of a more traditional example. I do feel that the Viennese heritage would be better served by less hopping, particularly from the cascade.

Rating: The beer is much more exciting than your average over the counter yellow fizz, but the hopping to my mind is excessive for the style and detracts from its potential smoothness. I could drink a few, for sure, but after two the accumulative hops presence clinging to my tongue left me desiring no more. This defeats the purpose of a sessionable beer. Score – 6/10.

Beer 2: Xingu Black Beer

The Xingu is kind of a tough beer to classify, and the mythological and ambiguous account from its supplier provides no real assistance. It leans most closely to the schwarzbier style, and certainly holds nothing in common with the Chicha beers of the Amazon, including especially its colour. This has not stopped the marketers from claiming the beer is the result of search throughout Brazil for “a black beer to import that would represent a unique style of beer from the two cultures of that country, the natives of the Amazon rain forest and the descendants of the European colonial settlers.” I suppose we could loosely translate their commissioning of a never before brewed beer in a brewery far removed from the Xingu region and people the name and label invoke as a "result of the search”, but it is surely a rather well conceived marketing ploy. Michael Jackson provides some more information and his own tasting notes in his finer hand here. For now I’ll call it a black lager and leave it at that.

So, deception aside, what were my impressions?

Appearance: A fluffy, coffee crema head dominates a beer that in this case remains true to its name – black oil, nearly thoroughly opaque.

Aroma: Quite nondescript and unappetising really. Dusty malt and cheap vodka. No trace of hops, but a scent reminiscent of dark soy sauce emerges as the beer warms.

Taste: Much better than the smell implied. Sweet, rich clover honey leads and is joined by lush blackberry. (The comparison here is very loose and incredibly liberal, but it bears a tarnished resemblance to Trois Pistoles, sans hops, spice, and complexity).

Initial flavours flood the mouth, before an odd vacuum sucks away the body in an instant, like a blind elephant toppling from a precipice, leaving a diminished finish that at least affords some roastiness to control the final impressions, along with some slightly burnt brown sugar and an ever so subtle hint of nutty coffee. I can’t explain how strange the disappearance of body in the mouthfeel is, swallow in and swallow out.

Hop presence is next to non-existent. Completely undetectable to my nose, and very well concealed in taste. Body is thinner than its deceptive appearance and the initial flavour would seem to dictate, lending some credence to its status as a lager.

Rating: A very interesting brew that is surprisingly drinkable, even more so than the Brooklyn Lager which surprises me to no end. It is quirky and seems to exist in contradictions, particularly appearance and flavour to body, and aromatics to taste. I expected little and was offered more; I’d drink this again without qualms. Score 6.5/10.

Concluding Thoughts

The Beer Nut goes on to ask, “I want to know what’s so great about them, and what’s awful. Are we talking just lawnmowers, barbecues and sun holidays here, or is there a time for some thoughtful considered sipping of a cold fizzy lager?”

I want to be honest and to resist sounding like an ass at the same time. We’ll see how that works out! What’s good about them? If a cold fizzy lager is thought of as Bud, Coors, Miller, VB, Fosters, etc, then I’m inclined to say not much. The positives I associate them, like facilitating social engagement, and ease of approachability can be provided by superior lagers that taste good. The relief they provide on a hot day is undeniable. But being chilled, crisp, refreshing, smooth… all this can be better served by a bottle of water at zero calories. The strength of a good lager is that it can be all of those things without giving up flavour and character. The characteristic dryness can meld with almost limitless complexity to match a variety of food in ways some other styles and beverages cannot, but that sort of lager is not what this session seemed to be taking aim at.

There is well deserved, timeless place for lagers, but I’m far from convinced such a drink is best found in a 24 pack slab on special at your corner Kum & Go.

Thanks to the Beer Nut for hosting and for selecting such a frustratingly legitimate topic!

The first was a special release for a German soccer event – Lorenz Bier Geschmack Crunchips. That’s right, beer flavoured potato chips! What particularly tickled me was the way several beer bloggers evaluated the chips in the same manner they critiqued their beers. This blogger was less than impressed:

“Der grosse Vorteil von diesen Chips ist dass man nicht viel davon essen will – der Nachteil besteht darin dass sie alkoholfrei sind… Fazit: bäh – nein danke.”

The greatest advantage of these chips is that one doesn’t want to eat many of them – the disadvantage exists in them being alcohol free… Conclusion: Yuck – no thankyou.

He described the aroma as “floury chicken (battered chicken?) with a little beer”, and the flavour as “salty and somewhat smoky – not nice.” Fair enough!

Another beer blogger was a little more positive, ultimately suggesting his readers give them a try. His impression was that while it takes several chips to get there, the flavour of spicy Pilsner eventually appears, albeit a salty one. Can’t say I’m sold.

One of the more interesting and humorous blogs I came across was a German beer blogger living in Japan. In one post the intrepid reviewer sampled a Japanese Kinderbier – or Kodomo no nomimono: Japanese beer for children. Watch the commercial below. Apparently it tastes like German Fassbrause, or keg brew, a non-alcoholic drink made from fruit and spices that tastes of apples and not particularly like beer at all. Got to love the Japanese!

The final clip that caught my eye was on the same blog and is comedic skit from the Los Angeles based husband and wife team at LivFilms. At a quarter of a million hits I’m surprised I hadn’t seen this one pop up before. They do some funny, if a little edgy stuff.

And back to study I go.

“The wine opens with a windsong of spice and freshly foraged truffle on the nose, with a final whisper of red fruit that coos in the glass; the taste is a ponderous expression of currants, Godiva milk chocolate, Tasmanian honey and a soupçon of gooseberry that pirouettes on the back end of the palate.”

I’m rather fond of this description: “an attractive minerality that speaks of stones and fresh rainwater and sometimes an oddly characteristic chalky note
that’s oddly reminiscent of clean seashells on an ocean beach.”

Let’s call these for what they are – unfettered flights of fancy cluster bombing pornographic combinations of well-endowed verbs and swollen adjectives (tongue planted firmly in cheek). But is the answer to diminishing an elitist drinking or culture, or to prevent something similar transpiring in the craft beer world to eliminate tasting notes altogether?

I’ve been interested reading a number of thoughts that have boiled over from the Symposium and into the blogging world. [Thanks must go to Stan Hieronymus for several of the links found in his discussion of Asimov’s speech.] Wine writer Alder Yarrow has generated a great discussion on his blog Vinography. Like Yarrow, I think Asimov has some valid critique and concerns about wine culture, but the idea that tasting notes should be relegated to the graveyard seems hyperbolic at best.

Tom Cizauskas blogging at Yours for Good Fermentables, sees a danger of  beer falling to formalism and elitism, especially through “overwrought beer descriptions”, similar to wine notes. He linked to an interesting program called Cyclops developed in the UK for bar-staff and beer suppliers to communicate characteristics of beer. The basic principles are that a beer’s appearance, aroma, and flavour are described using a maximum of three words each, aimed at the average drinker. This premise, I think, is a good one for the express context of selling over the counter beer. It allows for bartenders or sales clerks who may never have tried the beverage in question to provide some very basic descriptors to an average customer.

But this is hardly useful for a beer geek, or wine enthusiast who really wants to get a handle on a drink. And in its current state I would argue the Cyclops program still has weaknesses aplenty. Let me give you an example or two. Since it currently caters only to British beers, I looked up some more common examples that I’ve consumer on multiple occasions – Wychwood Hobgoblin, Adnams Broadside, Fullers London Pride, and Wells Banana Bread. The results varied considerable.

The Broadside it described as red, amber in appearance. Fruitcake and almond for smell, and full, rich, smooth for taste. Interestingly it broke its rule of “do not use distinctive terms such as orange, chocolate, toffee unless the beer is a flavoured beer.” It also seems to conflate the idea of taste with mouthfeel, in this instance offering nothing close to concrete for flavour.

Better was the Wychwood Hobgoblin: See – Dark, Ruby. Smell – Toffee, slight citrus, chocolate. Taste – Toffee, dry, biscuit. Once again breaking the aforementioned rule, but arguably offering something more useful in doing so.

But then we had much worse. Fullers it describes as: See – Tawyny. Smell – hops, malt. Taste – balanced malt bitterness. Imagine that, a beer that smells of hops and malt, and tastes of, well, hops and malt. Utterly useless.

And then we have the inspiring analysis of Wells Banana Bread: See – Dark amber. Smell – bananas. Taste – bananas. It’s not the most complex of beers, granted, but is that seriously all it merits?

Let’s return to the question of tasting notes. I want to argue that Asimov and some others in decrying complex tasting notes, are creating a one size fits all response to a much broader set of concerns. This is really a question of context.

Firstly, to whom is the tasting note addressed? To a drinking newby? Then damn straight, push your half page description aside and offer the generic basics. But to offer such austere descriptions to a seasoned scotch enthusiast, or fellow beer blogger would be useless and inappropriate.

And what of recording your own tasting notes? For those of us who return to our notes to refresh our memories on what we’ve tasted, or perhaps to compare one vintage to another, the note can be quite autobiographical, almost a diary entry. The richer the language and details, the more readily memory of the experience is recalled. The more detail, the easier it is compare the beers we’ve tried and to also provide avenues of exploration for other drinkers to broach. Here I will geek it out unabashedly – I love losing myself in the complexities of a fine drink. There is nothing formal or elitist about whole-heartedly throwing yourself into your passions. But if I’m drinking a few over a football game with some friends, it would be absurd to have my head stuck in my notebook. Again, equally enjoy yourself in a specific context.

I’ll finish my rather disjointed thoughts on the topic with a brief reflection on what many criticise as the major problem of any sort of tasting note – the problem of subjectivity.

Here I think it’s so important that we openly and undefensively admit to the nature of the endeavour. Tasting is unequivocally a subjective experience and our notes will inexorably reflect that.

We are not making truth claims about the constitutive flavours and aromas intrinsic to the drink. That is, we are not saying the flavour of this stout is liqourice. Instead we are saying there is a flavour in this stout that reminds me of liquorice, and we adopt methods of shorthand to facilitate the thought (eg, I taste liquorice). Can we do better any better than this? I don’t think so, nor should we aspire to. Even as science further unlocks the secrets of scent and flavor compounds, its findings will not translate to taste experience. The explanation that linalool found in both bergamot and muscat wines may account for floral or tea characteristics in some muscats does nothing to guarantee the detection of these aromas or tastes by a consumer not equipped with a chemistry lab. What we are attempting to do as we make notes is to gesture at our experience with the flawed medium of language, hoping to cast at best a decent reflection. This should not frighten us away from making or using tasting notes, but instead to take them for what they are – an interpretive portrait, not a high definition photograph, of the drinks we love.

Any thoughts on this topic folks?

While some significant skepticism remains in me for canned beers, I must admit that my repulse reflex is weaker on this count than a lot of craft beer lovers. I think that stems from the fact that one of my long-standing favourite beers is Kilkenny, an Irish red ale that is sold in large nitro cans. The aesthetic value of bottled beer will always reign supreme in my mind, but the protection from light and oxidation cans provide, and the impression on the nose of freshness when it’s poured is compelling to say the least.

 Appearance: Nice dark beer – a warm mahogany, covered by a dense, tan head reminiscent of a light coffee crema. Dissolving, the head leaves a thick layer of lace on the side of the glass.

Aroma: This an incredibly malty beer. Caramel and brown sugar notes flood the nose, with a waft of peach (of all things!), dried fruits, a hint of smokiness, and some alcohol as the beer warms. This beer contains one impressive malt bill – seven different malts according to the website, including some beechwood smoked grains imported from Bamburg, although it plays a limited role.

Taste: Hops are very much in the backseat, as they should be in this style, allowing caramel and milk chocolate flavours to dominate. A little edgy bitterness reminds you that hops are there to balance, and they also lend a slightly herbal, leafy touch – like fresh tobacco. There is some biscuity qualities too in the malt, brown sugar, and some dark grape juice. Wonderful richness and juiciness and the finish is all brown sugar. Carbonation is light and spot on, but the body is a little thinner than I’d expected. Alcohol at 8% is well disguised.

Rating: Most scotch ales, for better or for worse, leave me with the feeling that I couldn’t drink too many – a combination of the sticky, density of the brews and the high abv. The Old Chub, on the other hand, while rich and strong doesn’t come across as too filling. I could, and indeed did, drink several, enjoying them all. While not perfect, a very good Scotch Ale that I’ll return to again and again. 7.5/10.

We stopped in at Central Market in Fort Worth for dinner on the way to the  airport hotel, and I spent a good amount of time perusing their wares in search of the ever important final beer to share together. There were several that beckoned warmly, but I settled on the recently released Red & White brew from the inimitable Dogfish Head brewery out of Delaware.

The label says this is a “malt beverage brewed with coriander & orange peel with Pinot noir juice concentrate added with 11% aged in Pinot noir barrels and 89% aged on oak barrel staves.” While not explicitly stating it, this is a belgian wit on steroids (10% abv), with the unusual addition of pinot noir juice and mixed wooding.

I found the artwork on the label especially pleasing. Oil painter and Delaware local Sarah Lamb was commissioned for the artwork. As you can see the still life depicts a mound of hops, orange peel, a bowl of ground coriander, and a glass containing the actual Red & White ale. I think it’s gorgeous on the matted label. Sarah partners with her husband who is responsible for the artwork on the Black & Blue ale.

It didn’t seem quite right to pour this beer into plastic Super 8 cups, but beggars can’t be choosers I suppose!

Apperance: Significant carbonation educed a lively head from a timid pour, and a continuing effervescence channelled the yeast particles around in circular currents. The head settled to a slim but thick and creamy cap atop the pumpkin coloured brew.

Nose: The predominant aroma of coriander and orange peel let you know instantly this is a Belgian wit. Subtle berry scents emerge, especially some strawberry, which hint at the presence of something else in this ale. There is a greater sweetness than you detect in your average wit – a candi sugar reminiscent of strong belgian ales.

Taste: Although the nose was enticing and let me know from the onset that this was going to be a good beer, it in no way let on to the rich complexities of the palate. And wow, what a creamy taste and mouthfeel. I was most surprised to taste an orange cream flavour that brought back memories of Weis bars back in Australia. Some spicy notes mingle with the fruit, at one point approximating a pumpkin pie flavour, sans pastry. Hop presence is subdued (in a DFH beer!), but maybe some Saaz expressing itself in the finish? It is also in the finish that barrel aging truly reveals itself. The oaky tannins have a drying effect on the tongue that belie the sweetness of the brew. I suspect this ale will offer fresh insights with each tasting, and I’d love to grab another bottle.

Rating: I wasn’t sure what I would make of this beer when I bought it. Dogfish Head is a wonderful, groundbreaking brewery and they rarely disappoint. Elegance and finesse are not, however, the words usually reserved for this outfit whose head brewer is famed for experimentation and extreme brewing. But elegance is exactly what describes Red & White. It reminds me of a good belgian triple, rich in flavour with a layer upon layer of complexity. I love the dialectic between red and white, young and old, juicy and dry. I give this an 8.5/10.

And now I drink another beer and pine after my sweet wife.