“The Boons of Beer” http://health.msn.com/nutrition/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100220712&GT1=31036

and this link to another, even better (older) article:

“Beer With Benefits” http://health.msn.com/nutrition/articlepage.aspx?cp-documentid=100197361

The latter has a great guide to some top-notch brews, with most of which I heartily agree. Gotta try me some of that He’Brew Origin Pomegranate Ale, if I can find it.

Happy Thanksgiving to all, and happy drankin’–hey, it’s good for you! (I figure… if two beers confer so many health benefits, it stands to reason that ten times that number would mean ten times the benefits! Hell, it may even create some sort of synergistic effect! Maybe such a synergistic effect that I would be unable to get out of bed the next morning or even reach for a glass of water due to so much healthy synergy!!!)

Well, one would think summer might have drawn to a close by now… I suppose it has, everywhere except Vegas that is, where it continues to hit 85 degrees nearly every ‘effing day. One would think one was in the desert or something. Actually, 85 degrees isn’t all that bad, and the evenings are extremely pleasant in the mid-70′s, but come on… it’s almost friggin Halloween! In any case, the pleasant afternoons afford ample opportunity to wring out the last of the summer brews. So here’s a quick take on an American knock-off to the German classic that, while not a total home run, comes, meh, pretty close.

In all honesty this is more of a post-of-opportunity, since I am writing based on my hazy recollections from last night, when Mrs. Tripel and I got to enjoy the open bar at a friend’s wedding reception held at the local Gordon Biersch. Actually, it was the wife’s friend, which to the Kolonel meant: [Bunch of weird strangers + Open bar = Pound]. Things got a bit out of hand after a couple rounds of Patron shots and when I ordered the 14-year Oban (don’t you hate people that do that when you’re buying the bar?), but the initial salvo was a round of beers from the Biersch selection.

Now, I love Hefeweizen. I love it so much that I can safely call myself a snob when it comes to distinguishing the classic German brews, with their complex blend of clove, citrus, banana, bubble gum, and wheat, versus the typical American version, which is basically cloudy beer that someone jammed a slice of orange on. My favorites from the first category include Weihenstephaner, Hofbrau, and Ayinger. If you want an example of the latter try Pyramid or Widmer (Widmer’s isn’t too bad, it’s just… well, there).

Gordon Biersch endeavors valiantly to re-create the experience of a true Old World classic. The color and aroma are about spot-on; bright straw yellow, moderate head, and definite hints of clove spice, citrus and banana in the nose. The flavor is a bit incomplete–the banana/bubble gum thing really isn’t prevalent in the taste up-front but re-appears a little in the aftertaste, and the citrus and wheat seem to take over a bit in general. The finish is light enough to make polishing off a 0.5L glass a snap. So, while not a true replacement for a masterfully-crafted import, I put it a step up from most other hefeweizens in its class, and its availability and price (save a buck or so) make it a safe bet, just one step down from Trader Joe’s Bavarian Style Hefeweizen. Right then, carry on.

Define the word “Devotion.”

Wait–no, stop, I’ll do it for you.

Devotion = desiring a glass specifically shaped and decorated for one type of beer so much that you’re willing to pay more for it in shipping and handling than the actual cost of the merchandise.

Note – this could also be the definition for “moron,” but that is beside the point.

 Yes, after a long hiatus, I have returned to post on another grand slam from the respected Quebecois artisans at Unibroue http://www.unibroue.com.  Long ago (mm, summer of ’98 I think), on a journey to the fabled northland–specifically Quebec City (mundane name… great town) with the family, I first tasted the sweet, intoxicating nectar of Maudite.  At the time, this beer–whose name literally translates to “Damned”–attracted my underage interest due to its 8% ABV… and the fact that it had a friggin devil on its label!!!  Now, I’ll admit that 8% ABV no longer floors me, having climbed my way up the Westmalle, Rochefort and Ayinger ladders (and then of course fallen back to earth, my head blunking like a xylophone off the rungs), to name a few.  But I still think the label kicks the ass.  Plus, let’s be honest… once you get above the 6-7% ABV range, you’re playing with fire–with regard both to risking too much “alcohol-taste” in the beer (which still reads funny even though I know what I’m trying to say) as well as an ”accidental drunk night.”

The name “Maudite” derives from a French-Canadian legend about eight lumberjacks who made a deal with the devil to enable them to get home for Christmas. Said devil hooked them up with a flying canoe, which worked splendidly until one of the lumberjacks–we’ll call him “Dicky”–decided he’d had too much for his weak-sauce pious conscience to handle. So he invoked the name of God, which caused the flying canoe to take a Louganis out of the sky, wherupon our intrepid lumberjacks were never heard from again. Nice work, Dicky. We sell our souls to the devil to get home and you blow it for us. Now we get to spend an eternity in hell with no presents, no jingle bells, no figgy pudding.

So apparently Unibroue felt they needed to offset this ridiculous legend by crafting a ridiculously-good beer, and they most certainly pulled it off. The chalice pictured above is shaped in such a way as to allow the beer’s head to develop fully, releasing all of the rich aromas, which then funnel nicely up the curve to the lip, instead of dissipating. You still can drink it out of any glass, I suppose, but in general you want to shoot for something similar to this–I would even choose a nice big wine glass versus your standard pint.

The beer pours out with a rich, dark walnut hue, opaque but not thick. Poured correctly, the head should grow to about an inch of average-sized bubbles, which will release an aroma predominated by malt and yeast, but with a hint of spices… perhaps clove, with a bit of orange. Like someone (maybe… a damned quebecois lumberjack??) squeezed one of those holiday clove-studded oranges into the brew.

The body of the head dissipates rather quickly, but it leaves a thin coating of foam on the surface, which protects the flavor nicely. The overall taste is malty, caramel, slightly hoppy, but it’s in the subtleties that Maudite really delivers. If you take the time to swirl a sip around and let it breathe, you’ll detect hints of brandy, lemon, walnuts, that clove-orange thing… I mean, there’s seriously a lot going on here. The mouthfeel is heavy but not too heavy, and the aftertase lingers with a mildly hoppy sour/bitter finish.

I don’t expect everyone to rush out and buy a Maudite chalice. But go track down one of these (you can find it in both 330mL and 750mL bottles) and give it a ride. You won’t be disappointed. But if you ever decide to make a deal with the devil to get home, slap a muzzle on Dicky, for crying out loud.

The first is a pile-on to the General’s comments of a few weeks ago. He remarked about how freezing a jug of (distilled) water and then dropping the ice directly in your wort to rapidly cool it worked well, but urged caution when cutting the plastic jug off the frozen water. Well, I took it a step further and used a couple of plastic cups. That way when it came time to cool the wort, I just immersed the outside of the cups in some warm water to melt the outer edge of ice, then dropped that in. Less mess, and less chance of a knife mishap, especially if you like to combine brewing with drankin, as I do. This definitely saved 15-20 min of cooling the wort in an icebath, which is the most boring part of the whole process besides waiting for the water to boil.

The second is a [possible] solution to the Sgt’s recent clogged-airlock-fermentation-explosion disaster. If you do primary fermentation in a 5-gallon plastic bucket, as I do, try setting it in a big trash bag–one with a pull-tie at the top, then pull the bag up around the bucket and pull it tight around the top, leaving the airlock unobstructed, of course. That way if the foamy goodness gets out of hand and happens to clog the airlock, when she blows the top off the bucket, the destruction will be contained. Still probably ruin the batch, but hey, there are coats in the coat closet to think of as well. Monitor that airlock well during the first 24-48 hours and this hopefully will be a no-factor.

Right then… happy brewing, and happy drinking.

brou·ha·ha   / [broo-hah-hah, broo-hah-hah, broo-hah-hah] –noun

1. excited public interest, discussion, or the like, as the clamor attending some sensational event; hullabaloo: The brouhaha followed disclosures of graft at City Hall. 

2. an episode involving excitement, confusion, turmoil, etc., esp. a broil over a minor or ridiculous cause: A brouhaha by the baseball players resulted in three black eyes. 

[Origin: 1885–90; < F, orig. brou, ha, ha! exclamation used by characters repr. the devil in the 16th-cent. drama; perh. < Heb, distortion of the recited phrase bārūkh habbā (beshém ădhōnai) “blessed is he who comes (in the name of the Lord)” (Ps. 118:26) ]

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brew·ha·ha   / [broo-hah-hah, broo-hah-hah, broo-hah-hah] –noun

1. any event including the Captain, Kolonel, Sergeant and General, and associated significant others and guests, at which large amounts of beer (or cider, wine, scotch, etc) are consumed and extensive merriment ensues.

[Origin: 1998-2000; < F, orig. brew, ha, ha! Term used to describe jovial reunion of close friends, located in the grassy region behind a certain dwelling in Alexandria, VA. Now commonly used to refer to any domestic event involving alcohol consumption and storytelling]

Four days and counting until the Captain, Kolonel, Sergeant and General (and their companions) unite for a large weekend at the Kolonel’s abode in Vegas. Recommend those involved start hydrating now.

To begin this post, I would like to quote a stanza from the Byrds’ 1965 song Turn Turn Turn:

• To everything, turn, turn, turn
• There is a season, turn turn turn
• And a time for every purpose, under heaven
• A time to be born, a time to die;
• A time to clean up exploded beers, a time to finally find Hoegaarden in Vegas.

And so on. This afternoon I rolled over to Lee’s Discount Liquor (the last word is pronounced “Lic’ah”) for some of the Ayinger Brau-Weisse I had planned to review today (great hefe BTW, I’ll do it next). As I have done the past 69 trips to Lee’s, I forlornly scanned the shelves for a hint of that elusive Belgian Wit I came to love last spring in Florida, and have been unable to find in Nevada thus far. And what to my wandering eyes did appear, but four six-packs of the sweet sweet Hoeg, which I instantly snatched up and absconded with like Gary Sinise kidnapping Mel Gibson’s son in Ransom. On that note… what the hell, Mel? Seriously, what the hell?

Hoegaarden is what I would call your benchmark Belgian Wit (which means white, by the way, anyone who tells you it means wheat you punch them squa’ in the face and then steal their wallet and shoes). As mentioned above, I became a fan about a year ago when I was stuck in Florida for three months trying to learn how to fly a new airplane. Spring was blossoming all around and the workload was surprisingly light (“here are the keys to your new jet, don’t f#ck it up” kind of act) and I recall coming back from many a long afternoon run to a cool Hoegaarden (then another… and another) and thinking, this is just about right. Despite its 4.9% ABV, Hoeg is a beer you can get what I call Accidentally Drunk on. As in, “whoah… I’m feeling kind of drunk! When did… what did… how did that happen?”

Oh yeah, the review…. Hoegaarden arrives in a 330mL (11.2 oz) bottle, so if you’re stingy about that last 0.8 oz, reference my earlier comment about the definition of “Wit.” The beer pours a bright, springtime yellow, barely opaque and with a head that naturally seems to rise to just the right size. The aroma is fresh and crisp, just a touch of yeast and citrus fruit. The taste, like the scent, is crisp and refreshing. Lighter than many Belgian white beers but with plenty of complexity. You can definitely detect the bready yeasty flavor but it is not oppressive at all. Then there is a hint of coriander mixed with a splash of orange and lemon. The mouthfeel is light and the aftertaste is basically more of the same bucolic enjoyment. To sum it up, everything is balanced to provide the perfect, refreshing brew for springtime, or any time. And it is finally mine… again.

I can’t believe it. I can’t f%&#ing believe it. I can’t F%&#ING BELIEVE IT!!! They all blew. THEY ALL BLEW! THE WHOLE G%#DAMN CABINET!!!

It is quite possible that I have discovered a source of energy that is renewable, organic, has the potential to free us from the grip of foreign oil, and will get you drunk. If, that is, we can find some way to control its destructive force. I… have not.

Where to start with this one? You’ll recall a few months back (last year, in fact), when I posted regarding the violent explosion of one of my new Tripel homebrews? I lamented the loss, gave thanks to my pet rabbit for alerting me to the carnage (by thumping), and asked a small prayer that such an occurrence would never happen again. Remember that?

Fast forward to two weeks ago. The Kolonel is breaking out one of his now three-month-old Tripels for a taste (and carbonation) test. The wife happens to be standing close by, which helps the situation none. For about three seconds after I open it, nothing. Then the carbonation lying dormant in the sediment at the bottom of the bottle “wakes up” and, like a GI trying to unload a live handgrenade (full of beer), I race the impending geyser to the sink to let it off-gas. After a few seconds I figure the worst is over, so I re-cap it with one of those reusable wine stoppers and leave it alone it to think about what it has done. 20 min or so later I return to enjoy it, assuming by now it will be smooth drankin. Again, with the wife standing by. As I release the lever on the stopper I am greeted by a burst of overpressurized foam that blasts me right in the face (so to speak). At this point I dump the rest down the drain and grab a Fat Tire. But I swear… I thought I heard… laughter… as the potent brew slipped away to oblivion….

Two nights ago the rabbit started thumping again.

This time I let it go, and he stopped after a bit. Yesterday morning I woke up, in kind of a hurry to get to an 0700 debrief, and as I walked out of the bedroom was greeted by the sweet smell of… beer! Ahhh, glorious, I thought–followed immediately by ahhhh, s#!+ as I walked into the kitchen and beheld a LAKE of beer, strewn with tiny, jagged islands of broken glass (If a barefoot burglar had come in that night through the kitchen I would have been all like “ha ha, joke’s on you, sucka”). I’m talkin beer clear across the kitchen and under the fridge.  So, as any good man of the house would do, I walked into the bathroom where the wife was getting ready, informed her that a lot of beer had exploded all over the kitchen, and that I was late for my debrief and had to roll. She took it well. We have our first meeting with the therapist scheduled for Tuesday.

In all honesty, amazement is the emotion foremost in our minds. Now, when I say they ALL blew up, that wasn’t exactly true. I had a second batch of the Kolonel’s Tripel in a different cabinet, and those survived. However, in the offending cabinet, EVERY one of the Tripels went. That’s between 12 and 15 beers. Glass blew over the inner wall and into drawers three shelves over. I’m wondering if Mythbusters or Smashlab or someone would like to do a bit on it, cause I would love to watch one of those super-slow-mo replays to see how the force from the first explosion transfers to the next beer, and so on. Did they go one after another, or was it an expanding, exponential blast (hence the nuclear reference)? We’ll never know. After 2 hours of cleaning last night we now have a relatively glass-free abode and a cabinet whose insides bear the scars (no kidding) of a million glass shards flying at incredible speed. 

So, what did we learn? First off, life is unpredictable. Who would have thought it would take 3 months for such a buildup? (By the way, I “retired” the rest of the Tripels, while wearing heavy gloves and a paintball mask, by gingerly opening them in the sink. Yeah… they were ready to blow too). Second, even in life’s unpredictability, things DO happen for a reason. I screwed this one up right from the beginning. With a beer of this gravity you absolutely NEED a secondary fermentation to clarify the mixture, or else you end up bottling it with a lot of food left for the yeast (and hence, a lot of CO2). Then, in some cockamamie moment of idiocy, I thought adding a pinch of fresh yeast just prior to bottling would give it that extra touch of flavor and character. Basically I poured gasoline on the fire, then poured gunpowder on top of that, and threw it in the cabinet to age. Duhh. But finally, the greatest lesson of all is to learn from our mistakes. My carboy arrived in the mail last night and I transferred my belgian wit from the primary into there, and this batch looks and smells great. I added extra coriander and some orange peel to the spice bag, and I can tell the final product is going to be phenomenal.

You remember a couple posts ago when I talked about how I was kinda moving on from tripels? Well, they had the last laugh. Tripels… I salute you.

I am actually posting again. Yes, the prodigal son returns. You know, whenever I hear of the “prodigal” son I always think of the word “prodigy,” which is totally not what that parable is all about. Because if your son was a prodigy and came home, you’d be all like “Sweet! OK then, Mr. Smartypants, how bout you use that genius brain to unclog the downstairs sink!?!” When really the parable is all about accepting someone even after they go out and squander your fortune but then you forgive them, yadda yadda. I’m just saying that sometimes you can get off on the wrong tangent.

Which, in a sense, is what this post is all about.

Back when I joined Hall of Beers, nigh on four dog years ago, I knew I wanted to focus on the fine beers of Belgium. Since the tripel (trippel, triple, et. al.) is generally the strongest of the Belgian brews, and I felt I needed to flex nuts, I went with that as my moniker. What I have since discovered is that, while I still crave the sharp, tangy, foamy pleasure of the tripel, my heart truly lies with the dark, earthy, seductive delights of the abbey double. It’s why I love New Belgium’s Abbey. Why I’ll pick a Chimay Red over a Chimay Cinc Cents any day. Why I choose the succulent drumstick over the dry, boring breast. When eating chicken.

Case in point: Bornem’s Triple is a good beer. No question about it. Now, as you can tell from the picture, she got away from me a little on the pour. The head came out with large, almost soapy bubbles, and slowly dissipated into a miniature mountain range of foamy peaks and valleys. Very poignant, but I tend to prefer the thicker, finer consistency in my beer top. The color is light blond, cloudy but not totally opaque. Mouthfeel is light for a tripel (particularly compared to my homebrewed variety, which you need a fork–and a bomb suit–to consume). The flavor is characteristically tangy, predominated by sour green apples and a hint of lemon. The aftertaste is also the typical dry, bitter finish that comes from adding candy sugar to the boil which, incidentally, blew my mind when I made my own batch. Bornem’s 9% ABV is pretty standard for a tripel, but it does not dominate the flavor. Besides that, nothing jumps out as unique about the brew, but don’t take that the wrong way; this is good drinkin, perfect for a warm spring/summer afternoon, say, right after you mow the lawn and now your brand new white sneakers are stained green but that’s cool because I got me a Bornem Triple and the birds are singing and the bugs are buzzin and it’s all good. Except for the damn itchy grass rash.

Is this a mid-life beer crisis? Or is it simply a step in my journey of beer life? Only time will tell.

You never think it will happen to you. Sure, there’s the occasional boilover, the incidental spillage during bottling, the random skunky beer. All risks that are inherent to the homebrewing trade. But until last night, I’d never experienced the worst of them all… the catastrophic beerplosion.

Now, I’ll admit I was asking for this one. Adding fresh yeast to an already extremely high-gravity beer is a risky proposition at best. But I persevered, and for three weeks, I HAD it man! No exploding bottles! Cripes, even the ones I had specially flown to VA (by my wife, professional beer-mule that she is) made it in one piece! Three weeks! I was in the clear.

Then, at 4:30 this AM I was awakened by a muffled but still quite powerful {THUMP} sound from the kitchen. Apparently my rabbit must have thought there was another bunny thumping in the cabinet or something, because he immediately started thumping in response too, which is in fact what finally drew me out of the bedroom to lay some smackdown. Little guy saved the day… [sniff]. For there, on the kitchen floor, was the broken glass and spilt brew of a bottle that had apparently gone out like that one dude’s cranium in the movie Scanners. The cabinet door was closed–this little homey had enough force to blow it open. So, after procuring suitable eye protection (in case my suicidal friend had given any of his neighbors ideas… or structural damage), I set to work cleaning up the sad remnants of a young beer that had once held so much potential. The biggest piece of glass left was about the size of a quarter. I put most of the remaining brews into a plastic tub that will hopefully contain any future beerplosions, but let us hope this is an isolated incident. Cause otherwise I’m just gonna have to drink them all at once before it gets any worse. And then I will be not just sleepy as I am now, but massively intoxicated.

Here’s a toast to one fine bottle of beer that will never have the chance to go down, down into my belly. Vaya con Dios. But… no more like that, hmm?

The Kolonel has been AWOL from posting for the past couple weeks, but now it’s time to offer up another fine selection from the magical monasteries of Belgium. The Abbey of Grimbergen is not one of the certified Trappist monasteries, but these monks nevertheless know how to craft a solid brew. As their label states, they’ve been doing it since the early Middle Ages, which means they either have their act down, or else nobody bothered to tell them their beer sucked. This inspires me to present a brief yet epochal dialogue between some local peasants and a Grimbergen monk:

…Sometime in the mid-13^th century…

Peasant #1: “Hey… you wanna tell those Grimbergen bozos their beer tastes like Count Happablap’s privy?”

Peasant #2: “Naw… let’s keep this going awhile.”

…800 years pass…

Monk: “Dammit, you jerks! Why didn’t anybody tell us our beer has the flavor and mouthfeel of a manure pile???”

Peasant #1’s distant descendant: “We all thought it was kind of funny.”

Monk: “That’s not funny.”

Ahh… theatre. Anyway, at about $9-$10 for a six-pack, Grimbergen Double (6.5% ABV) is a reasonably-priced selection. The label provides a nice description of the history and characteristics of the brew, which is always a nice bit of pre-drankin’ lore to take in. Sets the mood, eh?

The Double pours a rich, dark amber, but does not have the opacity of many similar brews. It’s actually somewhat refreshing to see light sparkling through the effervescent bubbles of such a sturdy concoction. The head is medium body, and dissipates at a normal rate. However, the aroma is fairly faint. One can definitely detect the barley malt, and perhaps a hint of chocolate, but you have to really jam your nose into the glass to find it, which entails the risk of the dreaded… foamy schnoz.

Fortunately, the flavor is much more complex than the aroma. In addition to the typical molasses sweetness and mouthfeel of the double variety, there is definitely a chocolate undertone and a very well-balanced tanginess that makes it more refreshing than other similar offerings. The nice clean finish leaves you ready for another hit.

Overall: quite similar to New Belgium’s Abbey, which costs a buck or two less per six-pack, if you can stand the ignominy of drinking an American (American, b’gosh!) knock-off of the medieval classic. Nevertheless, Grimbergen’s Double is a strong choice if you’re in the mood for a rich, historical Belgian brew that’s not too heavy and not too pricey.

As a footnote: my bad about the blurry picture. By the time I realized it was kinda fuzzy I’d already drank the beer and… well… yeah.