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Beeradise Lost

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As a seasoned world traveler I know that different destinations offer their own plusses and minuses.  When I did my stint in Antarctica I was surprised by how many women bemoaned the loss of their favorite hair stylist or manicurist.  Or the fact that extreme cold makes nails break.  I however missed my guilty pleasure of hitting up Taco Bell after an evening of drinking.  But the plusses were palpable; beautiful vistas, the shock and adrenaline of negative fifty degrees, the camaraderie that comes with being stranded on the edge of the world.  Everyone had something they missed.  Everyone had something that they would miss when they left.  Which brings me to my current predicament, primarily, Beer.

The first time I stepped foot in Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, Costa Rica, I felt a liberating exhilaration.  The lazy pace of the people, the cool ocean breeze, the smell of jerked chicken, combined with being able to go topless on the pristine beaches left me feeling like I had finally found my home.  Indeed, I tried to make it my home, spent a year and a half in a tent on the beach until I had to leave due to extensive drug use.  When I arrived home in Medford, Oregon, my father took one look at my 90 pound body with scars and bug bites and for the first time, broke down and cried.  Coke is hell of a drug:  something I will write in a later post.  The plus side is that I seem to have developed an allergy to it, and even the sight of it leaves me nauseous.  That aside, I have developed another addiction that has put a slight dampener on my home town.  Again, Beer.

I fully blame my beloved boyfriend for my current dilemma.  I should have known, I met him in a beer store:  an oddly erudite and well dressed man with a curly handlebar moustache and a boyish smile.  I was a beer punk.  I wanted it cheap and preferably in a can I could crush on my forehead afterwards.  He introduced me to a line of high alcohol content beer, which was a plus for me because why drink if not to get drunk?  I slowly started discovering that I was put off more and more by the prospect of PBR.   When we moved in together in May of last year and the idea of moving to Costa Rica was raised one of the first questions he pressed was "What about beer?"  I was incensed!  How could he pose such a frivolous question when the purpose of life, we had both agreed, was to travel the world!  Beer, shmeer! I wanted to go back to Costa Rica and see it through sober eyes (coke sober, that is).  Now, after a year of him exposing me to the greatest beers in the world, I know what he meant.  Jerk.  If it were not for him I would not be sitting here craving an IPA or Stout, or Rogue's delicious Chipotle Ale.  If it was not for him I could sit with my ignorant bliss on the shore with an Imperial happily in hand.  Now I feel like I am forced to drink piss.  Ahhh, Beer.

We have found some gems, but all at ridiculously high prices.  Lindeman's Framboise is here, along with Duvel, Leffe, and Guiness Export Stout, a really delicious version of the usual we buy in the States.  The lack of taps is disappointing too, as an Imperial from the keg has got to elevate its flavor somewhat.  I haven't figured out the mailing system yet but as soon as I do, I fully expect my friends to send us some Dogfish Head, or even Nikasi, I need my hops!  So while loyal reader may be jealous of our stint in Costa Rica, know at least part of me is jealous of your delicious beer selection.  Enjoy one for me.  Beer.
To Whom it May Concern,

I am corresponding today to voice my extreme displeasure with respect to a recent experience at one of your fine dining establishments.

Only a few short weeks ago my offices dispatched a missive to your company in which I praised the mediocre perfection that is the Egg McMuffin, despite my better sensibilities. Those better sensibilities have finally won out: I withdraw my praise entirely.

I've been to McDonald's many times. As a child, I looked forward to McNuggets, McRibs, the quarter-pounder with cheese; when I traveled, it was McPork, McBier, "Oriental" McNuggets, and so on. Above all, though, I always had strong feelings for the Egg McMuffin.

Growing up, I lost my taste for your over-engineered food products and grew both weary and wary of your company. At last, I reached a point where I didn't like your food, or your ideology... but, I still loved your Egg McMuffin. It was like a dim-witted date who's kind of lousy at everything: pedestrian to the point of boring, inept, unattractive, generally unlikable, but sometimes just what the doctor ordered anyway. I couldn't help myself.

The superficial goodness of the Egg McMuffin sandwich is the product of careful balance between several otherwise utterly unappetizing components. It's a dance of opposites, a poem of contradiction, a still life that doesn't make any sense but is pretty anyway. It has an unholy, yet still divine synergy.

Just in review, let's consider the essentials involved in a nearly-perfect Egg McMuffin:

        1) Mealy, yet slightly toasted and lightly steamed preservative-laden
        English muffin with butter flavoring (very preferably with a few charry bits);

        2) Sickly-sweet mostly-melted American cheese product;

        3) Thin rind-on piece of flavor-treated Canadian bacon that
        invites comparisons to shoe leather;

        4) Puck-like, overcooked factory-farmed chicken egg, slightly
        greasy, under-seasoned;

        5) Butterlicious "compound";

Change any of these elements, though, and instead of inexplicable yet sublime Americana perfection, one has a horror dreadful: a Thing indicative of corporate conditioning, low expectations, unimaginative blandness, and such spirit-crushing soullessness that its abyssal depths would be so shallowly plumbed in evoking a expletive miasm that I won't bother. In short, you get something so unspeakably terrible that surely its likes could only be described in that dread tome of Abdul Alhazred, the "Necronomicon"-- if even he could have done it justice.

I'm afraid that's exactly what happened to me on my last visit to your (for tact's sake rather than the lack of a better word) "outlet". Had I known how my life would change as a result of that experience, I'd have sequestered myself in a locked cellar, chewed multiple tablets of rat poison, and chased everything down with cheap peach schnapps for as long as it took; this would have been vastly preferable to what actually happened.

Oh, sure, it came in a wrapper clearly labeled "Egg McMuffin", yet what horror lurked inside! The same stale, soggy-yet-crunchy English muffin, the same glue-like cheese product,  the same unnaturally perfect disc of tough, chemical-ridden ham-- yet, the egg! Oh, dear god, the egg! It was hideous! Some sort of wet, flavorless, folded skin of what might have once-- in the Dark Ages-- have hoped to become a scrambled egg! And then, there was the smell.

Did my senses deceive me? No. They were working overtime to warn me away from danger. Fighting all my instincts, telling myself "it will be okay", I took a bite-- and fell from the guilty height of genuine anticipation into a chasm of near-suicidal depression in just one instant.

It was as if the absence of the egg puck had somehow damaged the Ether itself, and the Universe's equilibrium at the location of the McMuffin had created a ley-point of cosmic retribution for my culinary sin.

From that first unfortunate taste, my hopefulness turned into terror. The egg unfurled deeply and forcefully into my mouth, violating my guts like the tentacles of a slime-dwelling Deep One, as the McMuffin's uglier side come out: it turned mean and aggressive. Like Roberto Duran facing down a hapless chump, the sandwich was going to slam me to the canvas for sure-- but not before it had also mocked, molested, punished, and humiliated me so badly that I could never face it again.

Instead of playing its manufactured-yet-silky richness against the too-firm, yet also erotically hot, slick, slightly-yielding egg, and a drug-like hit of ham flavoring all texturally tempered with an absorbing, vaguely toothsome breadishness, that insipid cheese product worked itself into my mouth like stale hide glue. My tender palette was brutally scraped with harsh chunks of scratchy old muffin, the spaces between my teeth spewed with a gum-scalding, pasty mortar of factory-farmed pig parts and hot grease, leaving behind only the aftertaste of Capitalism gone wrong.

In place of what I'd expected-- firm, resilient chewing pleasure followed by the vigorous satisfaction of swallowing warm McMuffin perfection, the scalding, soppy, gummy mess I barely could force down left me feeling used and guilty for ever allowing myself to get hungry enough to let the Golden Arches dupe me again. It was wretched.

Nothing can ever erase that day, McDonald's, and nothing can convince me to take back the Egg McMuffin and forgive the sort of pain and especially betrayal this bilious experience has made me feel. I can't understand what I ever saw in that sorry excuse for an egg sandwich, or in the chillingly over-pleasant décor of your yellowed cafeterias to begin with.

This has made me reconsider a lot. I can't take things back, but I can move on. I am explaining why I'm never returning, in the hope that maybe there's someone at your company who might listen and understand what I've gone through. I'd grimace, but your marketing department's already thought of that.

If life's too damn short to deal with the King, it's too short to spend dining with a Clown.

Sincerely,

_Jesse Williamson ;-};

HUB-Secession.jpgI was fortunate to receive a bottle of Hopworks Urban Brewery's relatively new Secession Black IPA.  Now, I don't want to talk too much about the hubbub surrounding the name of this style, but H.U.B. makes a clever nod to the Casdadian Dark Ale camp with a nice map of Cascadia on the bottle.

Secession pours a lovely black with hints of ruby when held up to the light.  The head is thick, tan, and displays excellent retention and very nice lacing.  Its floral, grassy, hoppy nose also contains a few fruity yeast notes, and promises a tasty draught.

Black IPA (or IDA or CDA or what-have-you) is swiftly becoming one of my favorite styles, and this beer is a great example of it.  Chocolate and coffee play seesaw with piney, citrusy hops, and it is an enjoyable balance.  Lurking in the back are some ester flavors from the yeast that add a wonderful finishing touch to this great beer.  I would strongly recommend the Secession Black IPA for those interested in this emerging style, and would certainly suggest having one with a cigar, a heavy, spicy meal, or just an afternoon in the sun.

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The other day I went to the local tobacco shop and picked up a handful of cigars.  I was looking for something cheap but still not horrible, so kept most of my purchases under $4.  Today I'm reviewing the Vista de Cuba by Oliveros, which is a medium-sized belicoso with not the most attractive wrapper.  It's sort of a lumpy cigar, but it burns surprisingly well and keeps a nice, even ash.  For the price, it's really remarkably tasty, and I think might beat out my previous favorite cheap cigars.

I'm keeping this short, because I'm not sure a cigar this inexpensive deserves a deep analysis.  But I think I can safely say that at $3.00 a stick, the Vista de Cuba is really, certainly worth the price.
Boulevard-Saison_Brett.jpgLast week we had the pleasure of sampling the Smokestack Series from Boulevard Brewing Company.  This brewery, while well-known in some parts of the country, is just beginning to make its way to Southern Oregon, so I was quite excited to sample their beers.  Because my sour beer palate has finally begun to develop, I was particularly looking forward to their Saison-Brett, which is not the same as the Saison listed on their website.  We also had their Double-Wide IPA, Long Strange Tripel, and Sixth Glass Quadrupel to sample.  All four of these beers came in 750mL basket-corked bottles.

The one thing that struck me as curious about all four of these beers was the style of carbonation.  I was able to pull a nice head on each beer, but never anything thick and meringue-like, and neither did they have the champagne effervescence of, say, Meantime London Porter.

We tried the IPA first, and it poured a cloudy, unfiltered gold with a nice off-white head.  It struck me that it had sort of an old malt flavor, probably indicative of a little bit of age, and strongly astringent hops.  It was not as hoppy as a Pacific Northwest IPA, and had a nice complexity to it.  But I am not much of an IPA guy, and was eager to move on to the other three beers.
FSW-DBA.jpgDown at Elements I was happy to find Firestone Walker Double Barrel Ale on tap.  This is a great English-style ale from a very interesting brewery that recently won the World Beer Cup for the third time.  They are, it seems, the overachievers of the beer world at the moment, and for that, I praise the beer gods.  Unlike so many other breweries, they have not been putting forth gigantic hop bombs and sugary extreme beers (their website, for instance, calls 38 IBUs "medium-high"), but instead produce a line of really excellent pale ales.  Those I have tried are all wonderfully drinkable, pair great with bar food, and make me long for a second pint.

The DBA pours an unassuming amber-brown with a pale, whitish head.  There was not a lot of retention, as you can see in the photo, but there was some very nice lacing.  It has a clean, faint aroma that just barely hints at its 32 IBUs worth of hops, and promises a mellow, malty happiness to the eager palate.

Indeed, this beer has a nice, sturdy body with notes of hazelnut and a malty smoothness that work well together and do not overwhelm the palate.  There is a slight fruity flavor accompanying very mellow hops and a tiny amount of dryness.  Overall, it is a well-balanced, highly drinkable beer that made me yearn both for fish and chips and a second pint.  This is a great beer to pair with brisk spring days, a bushy moustache, or spinning fantastic yarns to your pals.  Highly recommended!

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Oskar_Blues-Gubna.jpgI got a call the other night at around 11PM from Bert, the owner of Bear Creek Beers.  "Erik," he said to me, excited, "Have you tried the Gubna yet?"  I tried to explain that I was trying to go to sleep, but he kept going.  "I think it's going to be the next Pliny the Elder!  I swear, it tastes just like Pliny!"  He has a reason to be excited, of course.  Pliny the Elder is very hard to get in Southern Oregon, and every time Bear Creek Beers gets it in stock, it sells out in hours.  It is hard to see all of those sad hop-heads lusting after their Pliny, lurking outside the doors to the shop day after day.

So anyhow, at that point I had only had a couple sips of the Gubna Imperial IPA from Oskar Blues, and hadn't really given it a lot of thought.  I realized I should go back and take another look at it, so I did.  I have to say, it's a pretty good imperial IPA, but it's still not quite Pliny the Elder.  Where Pliny hits the nose with a fresh, grapefruit-laden blast of hops, Gubna tends more toward a grassy, floral smell.  And even though Gubna is 100 IBUs, I didn't find that the hops really stood out as strongly on the palate as they do in Pliny.

But do not be fooled, for Gubna is a hop bomb.  It has a nice medium body, and a good maltiness that helps hide its 10% ABV, and it's far easier to drink than I'd assumed it would be.  It pours a golden-copper color with an off-white head, but the head tends to be thin and difficult to coax from the can.  The hops, though big, are balanced nicely against the malt, and overall I found this to be a nice imperial IPA.  Not too sweet, far too hoppy (which is how they're supposed to be, of course), and easy---but not effortless---to drink.

****
33Beers-BeerJournal.jpgOn Friday I was very eager to get to my post office box, because I was certain that I would find waiting for me a packet of beer journals from 33 Beers.  "O frabjous day!" I chortled, upon finding the package.  "Callooh!  Callay!" I laughed as I tore it open, to find a packet of three lovely little journals.  Each is a 32-page journal with space for recording information on 33 different beers (the inside back cover also has a beer record on it).  The journals are printed in Portland, Oregon, on 100% recycled paper, using soy-based ink.

I gave away two of the three journals, and the receptions were almost as happy as mine.  Nobody else had the indecency to butcher Lewis Carroll, at any rate.  So the three of us immediately started pouring beer into us and recording our impressions.  One of the great things about these journals is that they really give you the ability to discuss a beer on common ground by comparing notes on the flavor wheel.  We found that we all taste things a little bit differently, which should not be too surprising.
McMenamins-Schwarz.jpgI haven't been able to find any information on the web about the muddy brown lager I had at the McMenamins Roseburg Station Pub & Brewery the other day.  On the special draft board, I think it was called the "Get Up Your Schwarz Lager", but I could be wrong.  I always want to like McMenamins so much more than I do.  They have a great aesthetic and do great things with historical buildings, and that makes me really love them.  But their beer so often fails to impress that it's hard for me to get excited about visiting their locations except to enjoy the weird art and creative vibe.

The photograph does a pretty good job of showing off the murky brownness of what was described to me as a dark lager.  It really looked like watery mud, but it tasted all right.  It had a slightly astringent note, however, and was perhaps a bit too heavy on the roasted flavors, but overall it was a passable dark lager.  In reality, this was a Braunbier instead of a Schwartzbier.

On another note, while searching the McMenamins website for information about this beer, I was tickled to see that one of their navigational aids, though badly designed, was a clever homage to Pieter Bruegel's Tower of Babel.  Check it out below.

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Last weekend, our intrepid beer sleuths (that's Vera and I) managed to visit eight Oregon breweries in four days.  This isn't such a huge feat if you're in Portland, but we didn't travel within 100 miles of that fine metropolis.  First we visited Newport, and then Eugene.

Newport is home to Rogue Ales, perhaps one of Oregon's most famous larger microbreweries.  Their beer is incredibly popular, and after tasting over a half-dozen of the varieties they had on tap, our favorites ended up being the smokey, slightly spicy Chipotle Ale and the remarkable estate beer, Dirtoir Black Lager.

In Eugene, we met up with New Belgium Beer Ranger Ryan Stahel, who gave us plenty of tips on breweries to visit, beers to try, and things to see.  It being just a little over a month after the KLCC Microbrew Festival, everybody had their KLCC Collaboration Beer on tap.  This beer is an incredible Cascadian Dark Ale made with four varieties of hops, a portion of rye, and a Belgian yeast.

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