I’ve long said that barley wines are my absolute favorite style of beer.  Since the beginning in fact.  The first beer that ever truly blew my mine was Stone’s Old Guardian.  And it was a barley wine.  I’d never heard of barley wines at the time–I think the only styles I knew of then were “Shitty Tasting,” “Shitty Tasting Lite,” and “Shitty Tasting with Lime”–but I immediately assumed it must be my favorite style and began to seek them out with a reckless abandon.  Stuff like Lagunitas Olde GnarlyWine and Brown Shugga, Sierra Nevada Big Foot, and Southern Tier Backburner were near-equally loved for their candy malted rich booziness, and I assumed I must like literally everything from the style.  For years I never passed a barley wine I’d yet to try without purchasing it.  But lately, I’ve been wondering if it’s still my favorite style, going so far to wonder if it’s an unsophisticated beer geek style that I’ve grown too old for.  A childish style you enjoy before “advancing” to the more adult imperial stouts and double IPAs and funky bunch sours.  Well, luckily, I had a few barley wines over the past few weeks that affirmed that I still very much like the style, even if it is probably no longer my overall favorite.

Thomas Hooker Old Marley

10% ABV bottled

Downtown Bar and Grill is an absolute enigma of a craft beer bar.  Firstly, it’s unquestionably the most brightly lit bar in New York.  The picture above was taken without using a flash of any kind.  It’s late night “mood” lighting is brighter than a Ruby Tuesday’s AFTER the lights have gone up at 2 AM and the junior high flunkies have started vacuuming.  Likewise, it’s seemingly run by a group of ambiguously Middle Eastern men that seemingly know absolutely nothing about beer.  Or the English language.  You ask them for something on tap and they stare at you like you asked if you could fuck their wives.  You point to a tap and make friendly conversation, “How’s that one, any good?” and they just pour you a full glass and hold out their open palm for $7.  You wonder what style a certain oddball beer is on the menu and they turn and yell something in Sanskrit to their buddies.  They’re not rude there, don’t get me wrong, they’re just…clueless.  I think.  It’s like the oddest practical joke being perpetrated:  these half-dozen Middle Easterners decide to open a simple “American” bar and then for some reason start getting shipped some of the best beers in the known world.  Who is the Wizard behind their beer curtain?

Without question, they have the best bottle list I’ve ever seen.  Unlike Spuyten Duyvil which is very skilled at writing on the wall a list of amazingly impressive beers–and then even more amazingly impressive at never having any of these in the back room–Downtown B & G actually has everything they list.  And I’m not kidding about everything.  Pretty much every vintage of every Brooklyn Brewery or Dogfish Head beer ever made dating back a decade or more, bottles of Sam Adams Utopias and Millennium, fuck, they even have Westvleteren 8 and 12 (for a mere monk-angering $50 a whack.)  Another great thing about Downtown is that they have the most interesting happy hour deals you’ve ever seen.  Whereas most bars have the pitcher of Coors for $8, maybe a bucket of Heinies for $15, Downtown will have something like…a beautiful plastic cork-plungered 25 oz. bottle of 10% barley wine for $10.  Yes sir, that’s how to get properly slobber-knockered on a Monday!  I’d been quite pleased with Thomas Hooker’s highly acclaimed dopplebock, so of course I gave this a whirl.  And it wasn’t bad.  Certainly well worth the Alexander Hamilton.  A tad cloying in a malty syrupy way, but still pretty tasty.  Aged in bourbon casks this has a nice little touch of vanilla and oaky smokiness.  Took me a full half of football to finish and made my evening’s canoodling a bit of a disaster.

B+

Mad River John Barleycorn (2008)

9.5% ABV bottled

My man Jay at Hedonist Beer Jive hooked me up with this beer I’ve never heard of from a brewery I’ve never heard of.  But that’s cool, I haven’t heard of a lot of shit.  Like the famous Irish folk song this beer takes it’s name from (fun Wikipedia entry alert!)  So glad Jay sent this my way though, because it was very solid.  A nice burnt dried malty sweetness.  Very caramel tasting, but perhaps a little too boozy.  A little too boozy?!  Am I growing soft?  (Did I just end a second straight beer review with an inadvertant e.d. barb?)

B+

Dieu Du Ciel! Solstice D’hiver

9.8% ABV bottled

Montreal’s Dieu Du Ciel! (the exclamation point is part of their name (!!!)) has become THE latest brewery that, if I spot a bottle of their’s I have yet to try, there’s absolutely no chance I will pass on it.  Their stuff isn’t exactly super-rare or anything, it’s just that New York isn’t exactly bursting at the seams with stock of it.  And, ever since I tried their legendary Peche Mortel, a strong contender for best stout in North America, I’ve been on a mission to have everything they make.  True, I have yet to find anything quite as good as Peche Mortel–then again, few beers ARE as good as that–but everything I’ve had from the exclamatory brewery has been quite swell, unique little twists on standard styles.  Their barley wine was no exception.  Boozy caramel tastes like a fine liqueur you get in a hotel bar, with a strong bitter finish with the hops coming through strong.  Would be a nice candidate for aging but for the time being a quite pleasant sipper.  And Dieu Du Ciel always give you pleasant bottle artwork to admire as you start slip slidin’ away.

A-/B+

5.7% ABV bottled

The Most Underrated Brewery Around

This is an era of hype and of overrating things.  Of proclaiming each new thing the “best” and the “greatest,” and constantly trying to rank things in an easily digestible top 5 or top 10 or top 100 order. Even I had thought of doing a list of the most overrated breweries in America.  Because, of course, everything in this world nowadays is overrated in some way or other.  In fact, it would seem impossible for something, especially something well-known, to be underrated.  But sometimes things just slip through the cracks.  And today I want to talk about the most underrated brewery in America:  Smuttynose from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

I’ve been guilty of underrating this fine brewery for far too long.  So has everyone else.  Why is that?  They have nicely named beers with great labels, their taps and bottles are ubiquitous on the East Coast and always at an incredibly reasonable price, and, naturally, all their beers are delicious.  But for some reason, I’ve never intentionally sought out Smuttynose beer, nor even reviewed a single one of their brews on The Vice Blog.  For shame, Aaron, for shame.  That’s all about to change with this post.

The odd thing is, aside from their popular pumpkin seasonal beer, I’m not even sure if I’d ever even had a Smuttynose release until I tried their eye-openingly good Smuttynose Gravitation Quad at this year SAVOR event, finding it to be perhaps the best American quadruple around, and good enough to stack up with the legendary Belgians.  It was maybe my favorite beer at a festival that had dozens of rarer and more ballyhooed beers.

Now you would think my experience at SAVOR would have been a watershed moment for me and I would have begun to intentionally start seeking out Smuttynose beers.  But, dumbly, I still didn’t.  I still passed over the countless reasonably priced offerings for sale at my bottle shops, avoided their taps while tying one on, eschewed their offerings completely.  Perhaps it was the simple fact that I always knew I could get Smuttynose beers if I wanted to that led me to avoid them.  Like the slutty girl on your dorm floor that you never hook up with because you know you can always hook up with her if need be.

The next time I tried a Smuttynose offering was the next time I was forced to.  At a mediocre Williamsburg bar with all macro offerings save Smuttynose IPA “Finest Kind,” I obviously had no choice.  And so glad my hand was forced because this is one of the most unique beers I’ve had this year.  Far and away the most pungently bitter IPA I’ve ever had, on my first tasting I alternated between sips of “this is amazing” and sips of “this is absolutely wretched.”  But for the rest of the week I couldn’t get the beer off my mind, and with future tastings I came to adore it.  Finest Kind now stands as one of my favorite single IPAs that are readily available, and if I’m at a bar with a tap of it, I now always have to have a pint.  (A-)

Yet even with that experience I was still not a Smuttynose acolyte.  Next, while trying to find a beer my sister might enjoy, I gave Smuttynose’s Hanami Ale a whirl and I was greatly impressed by this spring seasonal.  A nice and refreshing beer, this is the rare fruit beer that isn’t too overpowering, nor does it have a phony, artificial syrupy taste like most fruit beers.  Hanami Ale is now one of my go-to recommendations to girls-that-claim-they-hate-beer-but-are-forced-to-drink-beer-with-me.  And, you know, they always love it.  (B+)

Later this very summer, while at Rattle ‘n’ Hum one Saturday afternoon, I noticed Smuttynose’s Baltic Porter as being the only beer on the menu I had never tried.  Interestingly, as much as I had ignored Smuttynose, I had been ignoring porters for even longer.  For some reason, I assumed them to be the red-headed step-brother of far superior stouts.  I’ve since learned that is very much not the case and, in fact, though they are similar and this is purely anecdotal, I’ve found, ceteris paribus, that I actually often enjoy porters more than stouts.  Whereas a bad stout can have that overly roasted, burnt taste like a Starbucks coffee, porters often have a more pleasant, sweet and malty taste.  Such is the case with this phenomenal Baltic Porter.  Big bold flavors of sweet dark fruits with just an underlying hint of chocolate, this is one incredible beer.  (A)

Shockingly, I still wasn’t on the Smuttynose bandwagon.  What the fuck did I need?!  Am I such a dope that I need a brewery to have multiple entries on the Beer Advocate Top 100, that I need them to have a slew of barrel-aged beers, that I need them to have countless small batch release parties and overpriced beers for me to hail their greatness?  I guess so, because, again, just this week while watching the Yankees clinch #27, I only ordered Smuttynose’s Star Island Single because I was forced to with nothing else appealing on tap.  Glad my hand was played again because this Belgian pale ale, Smuttynose’s newest regular lineup release, is imminently drinkable and quite tasty.  Strong tastes of banana Laffy Taffy-like esters, honey and a nice citrusy yeastiness, I could drink these all night.  And, in fact, I did for 9 innings.  (A-/B+)

Finally, after having liked, loved, and been blow away by five Smuttynose beers in a row, did I decide last night to intentionally purchase one, grabbing a bottle of their Robust Porter to enjoy with the “Mad Men” finale.  Of course, such as life, this was my least favorite Smuttynose beer so far, but it was still very solid.  Dry and roasted, with a nice coffee and chocolate taste, this is a no-frills beer that is quite drinakble.  (B+)

I feel like it’s taken me a full year, if not a whole beer-drinking lifetime, to “discover” a brewery.  A brewery whose beers have been around me since I first started tippling the good stuff.  I’m excited to now have tons of new beers I want to try from Smuttynose.  Their Really Old Brown Dog old ale and their Big A IPA and their imperial stout and wheatwine and barleywine and all their others I have yet to have.

I still don’t understand why Smuttynose is universally underrated, maybe it’s due to their odd name, maybe due to getting overshadowed by their sister brewery Portsmouth and their legendary Kate the Great imperial stout, but I will no longer underrate what has easily become one of my favorite breweries in America.  Nor should you.

8.5% ABV bottled

It’s a workout being a beer geek!  Constantly researching the latest hot releases, scouring the city (if not the country (if not the world)) for bottles, walking aimlessly around town trying to find a bar with “acceptable” offerings for you palate.  You know, sometimes it just feels good to relax and drink with no expectations.  When I was at my friend DW’s house in Virgina recently, admiring his massive beer fridge, I saw two six-packs for two beers I’d never heard of from two Southern breweries I’d likewise never heard of.  The War of Northern Aggression seems to still have a lingering affect on the quality of microbrew coming out of the dirty dirty, but I’m always willing to try something new.  I asked DW if I could snag a bottle of each before I headed back to New York and he gleefully agreed, clearly wanting to get these brews off his hands.  I love to try new stuff and it’s great to test your reviewing skills on beers with absolutely no buzz–neither positive nor negative–that could taint your objectivity, but I still threw these two into my fridge expecting to use them as nothing more than 3-AM-last call-don’t-want-to-waste-the-good-shit-in-my-apartment beers.  I was, quite frankly, pretty wrong.  I actually ended up drinking Bell Ringer to kick off some early college football watching on Saturday.  It was a pleasant pleasant surprise.  I haven’t had many ESBs (Extra Strong Bitters) in my life and after this one I intend to try many more.  An ESB is kinda best described as a DIPA without the bitterness, oddly enough.  Bell Ringer was indeed hoppy hoppy hoppy sans bitterness, boozy but drinkable, well balanced and flavor-packed.  I wish I’d swiped more bottles from my buddy.  Don’t be scared to try this one if you live in the miniscule swath of land where it is distributed.  I believe this is the first beer I’ve ever had from South Carolina and in that regard, it’s the best I’ve ever had from the Palmetto State*.  (Whatever a palmetto is.)

B+

5.6% ABV bottled

Bell Ringer was a very pleasant surprise and Afton, Virginia’s pale ale offering was pretty darn enjoyable too.  Bursting with a nice Cascade hoppiness yet still fairly balanced.  A pronounced bitterness, yet quite drinkable.  Easily as quality a pale ale as some of the more “famous” breweries’ flagship offerings.  I would never be upset to do a little session self-shitcanning with Full Nelson if I lived in Virginia.  I need to quit being so reluctant to try all these “unacclaimed” beers out there in the world, because, as I just found out, many are quite nice.**

B

*Though I’d love to get my hand on some COAST stuff.  Any one?  Any one?

**Yankees in SIX!  Book it.

8.5% ABV bottled

What Makes Sammy Strip?

I was at a networking event which is interesting because I absolutely loathe “networking” and can’t think of a typically less interesting answer in the world than that to the question:  “So, what do you do for a living?’

Alas, the event had cigars, booze, splendid food, and a world-class skyscraper roof deck view to keep me sated.  Alack, the event was sans women in a “old boys club” kinda way, so I had no choice but to get loaded and talk to dudes.  How unseemly!

In fairness, it was a nice crew of upwardly mobile urban professionals dressed in nice clothes and living nice lives.  Most all with nice wives back at their nice (and owned) homes and apartments which meant the chicanery was at a lower–more “respectable” you might say–level than I’m accustomed to.

I was quiet and behaved, unable to speak much as the majority of conversation topics dealt with things I’ve never dealt with in my life nor may ever deal with:  seventy hour work weeks, nest egg creation, sweater vests, marriages, honeymoons, intended pregnancy.  I just sat back sucking down a Rocky Patel Ocean Club, a Holt’s Cigar company exclusive and a mini-masterpiece of a smoke, while tippling my second career beer from Canada’s brilliant Dieu du Ciel brewery, makers of the legendary Peche Mortel.  A “wee heavy” made with Quebec maple syrup, this brew has an unbelievable nose.  I expected greatness.  However, the taste is a little more muted.  Caramel malty and complex, but not an overwhelming explosion of flavors.  Nevertheless, an interesting and beautifully crafted winner.

I enjoyed my beer and smoke while enjoying the company, trying to learn a thing or two, decipher fancy business terms, acronyms, and unnecessary argot, vicariously living through these other men.  “Hmmmm…could I live this man’s life?” I wondered each time a I met a new, swell gent.

I didn’t think I could, but oh how quickly the sands go through the hourglass.  You never know.  Then, Sammy approached me.  A diminutive but jacked Indian, he was so aggressive in running up to me that I thought I was either being hit on, or that, more likely, Sammy was one of those hardcore networkers.  The kind of guy with a perpetual smile painted on his face, an overly happy demeanor oozing with artifice, an abundance of faux-enthusiasm that manifested itself in a lot of head nodding, “uh huh”-ing, and question asking.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.  What do you do?  What can I do for you?  Oh, how do you know him?  Do you know her?  Gimme a card.  Shoot me an e-mail on Monday.  Let’s grab coffee.  Let’s get lunch.  Let’s do business together.  let’s facilitate a relationship.  Let’s make things happen.”

But, Sammy wasn’t like that.  Sammy had just entered the world of suits and ties, cubicles and offices, meetings and conference calls and coffee breaks.  He found the world of business quite boring.  But that was great for Sammy.  Sammy liked that.  For you see, Sammy’s previous job, career, occupation, vocation was a little more…interesting.

Sammy had been a male stripper.

I don’t know how the topic came up, I don’t know how we began discussing it, but as you can imagine, a besotted transgressive like me had plenty of questions to ask the man, it was almost as if I was interviewing Sammy.  And lucky for us, he was quite forthcoming in the sort of blase way that shows you he is so unimpressed with himself that he is surely being 100% honest.

“It’s a standard rule amongst male strippers:  no coming.  For some reason, these women have no problems with rubbing a strange man up and down, fondling him, touching him, pleasuring him, but the second he ejaculates, it’s like the record scratching at a party in old TV shows.  Now all of the sudden, the women are quickly sober and disgusted.  Not with themselves.  But with me!”

So you just have an erection for hours on end?

“No, a man has his needs.  And I could only take so much.  So I just decided to break the industry rules and let it fly.  But never in the face.  Never in the face.”

How did you get into this…field?

“I was poor.  Poor as dirt.  Working a shitty job at a shitty restaurant.  I became friends with one of the bus boys and one day he’s kinda staring me up and down.  What the fuck?  ‘You have a pretty nice body, dude.  Muscular.’  Is he hitting on me?!  No, he’s recruiting me!  Invites me to join him that night for a bachelorette party.  I couldn’t believe the bank.  How much cash I left with that night.  I was hooked!”

How much were you making?

“This is Ontario mind you, not New York City, but I was pulling $600, $1000 even a night.”

WHAT?!  Then why the fuck aren’t you still doing it?

“It was far too humiliating.  Embarrassing.  All these gross old ladies slobbering over me.”

You gotta be drunk, right?

“I’d drink a whole bottle of Patron before I went out there.  The naked part wasn’t the worst part it was all the dancing to cheesy music.  So fucking embarrassing.”

But all these women want you.  Doesn’t that make you feel good about yourself?

“I tell you bro, it’s hard for me to respect women after all the shit I’ve seen.  Women blowing me mere seconds after meeting me.  Grandmas, mothers, wives.  Fucking fiancees sucking my dick one day before their wedding.  It’s disgusting.  I can’t trust any women after that.”

None?

“None.  I guarantee you, most all the women you meet have done the same shit before.  Think of how nasty us men are.  Well women are worse!  They are all disgusting whores.”

Did they ever have sex with you?

“They all want to.  But I never did.”

Why?  Morals?

“Economics.  You never have sex with a client because once you pop, then you’re done.  How you gonna keep making money dancing with a deflated balloon hanging from your groin?  Not to mention all the women you don’t fuck are going to be jealous of the one woman you did fuck and are going to want to spite you.  So you tease all of the women, make each and every women think that she is the one you most want to fuck.  You tease them, milk the money, let them milk you, but never have sex with them.  Unless they are mindblowingly hot.  And then, only at the last second before you leave, after you’ve maxed out your earnings.”

…

“Pretty fucked up, huh?”

Absolutely.  I’m kinda disgusted with the human race myself.  Did you ever feel bad the next day?

“No.”

No?

“I felt rich.”

Uh, so you want to go another bar and try to pick up some girls?

“No.  I don’t have one night stands.”

B+

5% ABV on tap

Tastes Like Beer

(inspired by the Drunken Polack)

I was drinking with a girl sometime earlier this summer who appreciated my appreciation of beer.  She was a beer appreciator appreciator.  But she didn’t really drink the stuff herself.  More of a cocktails and wine kinda gal, she found beer bland.  Fizzy, foamy, bloating, watery, and flavorless.  “Not what I drink,” I told her.

“Show me.”

I started with a bottle of the brilliant Boulevard Smokestack Saison-Brett.

“Tastes like beer,” she said.

But it has funky Brettanomyces in it!  Without question you have never had something with Brett it in before.

“Tastes like beer,” she reiterated.

I switched to a Trappistes Rochefort 8.

“Tastes like beer.”

But it’s a nearly 10% Belgian strong dark ale.  Packed with dark fruits and sweet malts you have surely never encountered before in the Miller Lights you’ve drank your whole life.

“Tastes like beer.”

I amped it up a notch with an Oak Aged Yeti.

“Tastes like beer.”

I’m stupefied.  The men who have bought you drinks your whole life have absolutely never given you a barrel-aged imperial stout as dark as squid ink.

“Tastes like beer.”

This was a derisive statement to her.  “Tastes like beer” was akin to “Tastes like shit.”  Which is funny, because most of the time when I give a man a taste of one of my “fancy” beers–say a barley wine or a nearly-flat 15% stout or even a real hoppy DIPA–I get a completely different reaction:  “Why this isn’t beer!  What is this?!”

So, I suppose, in that regard, I should be impressed that this women recognized these fluids as, in fact, beer, but distressed that she found them all to be just slightly different iterations of the same common garbage that is most commonly defined as “beer” in this country.  Fizzy, foamy, bloating, watery, and flavorless adjunct ingredient canned products.

I’d be curious whether she’d think the Cantillon Gueze Monk’s Cafe Cuvee just “Tastes like beer.”  Surely not.  How could she?  I had this beer on my first ever visit to arguably America’s most famous beer bar, Monk’s Cafe in Philadelphia.  Cantillon makes this special oud gueze specifically for Monk’s owner Tom Peters, and it is also only available at the bar*.  Nothing excites a dope like me more than buying something that is incredibly limited and rare.

“Would you like to try our special Cuvee de Dogshit, Mr. Goldfarb?”

“Gross.  No way.”

“This is the only keg of it in the country.”

“I HAVE TO HAVE A GLASS OF IT!!!  CHARGE ME WHATEVER YOU WANT!”

This special Monk’s Cafe Cuvee tastes nothing like beer.  No.  It takes like acid indigestion.  It is soooooo sour.  Puckeringly sour.  Burns the throat going down, punches your uvula like a speed bag, and hits your innards like a napalm bomb.  It sizzles inside of you like Pop Rocks.  That full pint glass was far too much for one little man like me.  But goddamn was it one of the more interesting beers I’ve ever had.  One of the more unique drinking experiences too.  And though I couldn’t finish a full pint, and never really want to have it again, I am so thankful I got to try it.  It’s truly one of a kind.

B+

*“Tom blended this gueuze at Cantillon in February of 2006. This is a one of a kind oude gueuze. Monk’s owner, Tom Peters and Cantillon owner & brewer, Jean Van Roy, tasted every cask of beer in their vast cellar in Brussels (it was a tough job, but I was up to the task). The 3 year old cask offered up the Cantillon House Character of barnyard Brett. The two year old cask offered a medium mouthfeel and a softer version of the house character but with some earthiness. The one year old cask offered considerable citrus, hop aroma and freshness. This is very softly carbonated. It offers citrus and lots of funky, musty, earthy, barnyard notes and it is certainly acidic. One of the most approachable Cantillons made, but it is not for everyone.

Carl and I arrived by car late.  Around 7 or so on that particular Friday evening.  The huge cabin was already packed with every single other person we would be sharing it with that weekend.  Most had arrived early in the morning and immediately launched into the festivities, which were still underway.  And by “festivities,” I mean near-suicidal drinking of keg beer and cheap rum.

We were at a cabin in the middle of nowhere, the kind of place so removed from the rest of society that you don’t even quite know where you are on the map.  You find yourself continually asking those around you, “So where exactly are we?  What state are we in?”  New York?  Pennsylvania?  West Virginia perhaps?  Eh, it doesn’t matter, could be any one of them.  The nearest major city hours away.  The nearest town some twenty dirt road miles away and all that’s there is a gas station with pumps that still have analog numbering like a 1960s alarm clock and a single diner whose hours are 7 AM til noon, Monday through Thursday.

Upon entering, Carl and I were immediately handed a Solo cup of beer and urged to accept the two empty slots for an upcoming game of Flip Cup.  Which I thought was a little gay–not a word I use often–being that the game consisted of all men.  In fact, the cabin visitors were all men save one, who I will discuss just one paragraph from now.  Flip Cup is a coed drinking game for reasons twofold:  1.  men play drinking games of actual skill (beer pong, quarters, uh, I guess that’s it…) because they have actual skills.  2.  men play drinking games of no skill such as Flip Cup because it gets women drunk, and quickly, and thus turns them libidinous.  At least we think it does.  When we’re younger.

But the one woman at the cabin for the weekend was not playing Flip Cup.  Nor did she appear particularly drunk as she slowly sipped on a rum and generic diet cola in the corner, staring at the window.  Kathy was really attractive in a bit of a bohemian manner.  Long curly hair and a knit mosaic shirt but with Nikes on her feet.

Back then, in the first few years of this century, I really didn’t know how to attract a woman.  How to seduce her.  My gamplan was pretty much:  be around her, and near her, more than any other competing man was around her.  Or near her.  I think that’s the same strategy bonobos employ and those chimps gets laid a fuck ton.  Well I didn’t back then, but, surprisingly, that passive strategy worked on occasion.  Especially if alcohol was involved.

So we’d grill up some burgers and hot dogs on the patio.  And I’d stand beside her.

We’d hike through the woods.  I’d hike next to her.  Our arms or bare legs occasionally, accidentally, brushing each other.

We’d canoe and I’d be in the oar position behind her.

Beer pong in the cabin, I’d be her teammate.  Give her overenthusiastic, a little too long, high fives when she sank a shot.  “Yay, we won!” lift her off the ground hugs in victory.

And when we roasted s’mores around midnight, I sat on the very same log with her.  Chivalrously helped her thread her marshmallow onto a twig.

My strategy was not without opposition though as seemingly every other man on our trip was pursuing Kathy.  And I couldn’t guard her at all times!  I’d go to piss in the woods and come back to find Steve playing horseshoes with her.  I’d take a quick shower and return to find Tony teaching her how to shotgun a can of beer.  Help start the campfire and now Mikey was side-by-side her in a game of Flip Cup.

To be fair, only one of us men was not pursuing, more like not harassing surely from her eyes, the great Kathy.  Only one man seemingly had no interest in her.  Carl.  No, Carl was too busy getting wasted.  He was polishing off a beer seemingly every ten minutes and was well lit up as darkness rolled in.  Bumbling and stumbling in the cabin and around the cabin.  Talking nonsense.  Singing to himself.  Laughing and joking solo.  He was wasted but active.  Bursting with energy like he was hopped up on something.  By now we were pretty much ignoring him.  He wasn’t annoying us by any means, but he had just become a ubiquitous camp jester, always in sight.

Did I think I had a shot with Kathy?  Eh.  Who knows?  Back then I truly got “lucky.”  Nowadays, assuming I’m not too drunk and too out of sorts, I can quickly and easily assess a situation.  Whether a girl is disinterested in me, just toying with me for an ego boost, whether she wants to take me home, chastely make out with me in the corner, fuck me all night long, bear my child, etc.  Sure, there’s the occasional surprise, erratic behavior, sexual Black Swan Omega 3 event, but I pretty much always know.

But back then, I had no fucking clue.  Was Kathy grinning at me because I was staying stupid drunk shit?  Or because she was imagining me naked?  Was she patting my back because she thought I was choking?  Or because she wanted my dick in her mouth?

I had no idea.  Nor did I have any idea how to transition from me, her, and half a dozen other drunken dudes sitting around a campfire at 2 AM, to just me and her being in my small bedroom-for-the-weekend on the third floor of the cabin.

If it was just us two, surely I wouldn’t bungle it, I could do a mild gamble, make somewhat of a move, feel out the sexual situation, but in this situation, I had no idea how to separate her wheat from the chaff of my friends.

So I would just have to wait them out.  Stay up later than them and hope she did too.  Unfortunately, my friends were as inept as I, and had the same terrible plan as me.  Like those “Hands on a Hardbody” competitions at hick county fairs, our incompetent attempts to get laid by a most-likely unwilling and unwitting participant continued.  Whereas at the fair, a half-dozen men in cut-off jorts, sleeveless shirts, and Dale, Jr. hats tried to see how long they could keep their hand on a cheap pick-up truck in order to win it, we all tried to outlast each other to hopefully, before day break, get to have our hands finally on Kathy’s hardbody.

First Mikey broke.  Then Gerry.  The end was nigh.  I was getting a second wind.  My ability to not get too sleepy from alcohol has always been a great attribute and now it was a God send.  And Kathy was going strong too.  Sitting under an Afghan with me to stay warm.  “Stay warm.”

Steve dozed off where he sat.  Tony went to piss and never returned.  Gary, a defeated look in his eyes, called it a night.

And finally, sometime around 4 AM, it was just me, Kathy, and Carl.  Victory was mine!  Just as soon as Carl had the dignity to pass out.  But this motherfucker simply wouldn’t!  Like a rhino with five tranquilizers darts in its ass that inexplicably keeps charging, Carl with thirty beers in his system kept dancing around, acting all silly, chatting our ears off.

I simply could not outlast this motherfucker.  My friend was agitating me.  He would surely go all night.  I know his marathon drinking abilities.  Finally, I had to make a closing salvo to claim my prize.  A histrionic yawn.  An overdramatic stretch.

“Oh boy am I tired.”

“Me too,” she said.

I looked Kathy in the eye.  Trying to accentuate just the right words.  “I think I’m going to bed NOW.”

I stood.  Expecting, naw, hoping, Kathy would catch my drift, would be into my drift, and would follow.

“OK, goodnight.  I’m gonna go in a sec but you know, it’s already 5 AM.  Might as well watch the sun rise.”

From somewhere off in the darkness, I heard a drunk Carl calls out, “Yah!  Great idea, count me in!”

I walked slowly to my room, looking back at Kathy several times.  Angry at Carl for ruining a sure thing.  I lay in bed, having already gone all in and failed I couldn’t change my mind and watch the sun rise.  Now that would be humiliating.  But I could still hope Kathy would come into my room after she did.  However, I was out like a log before the sun ever popped up.

The next morning, that very morning I suppose, just a few hours later, I awoke, tired as hell.  Groggy and grumpy.  Entered the kitchen to find Kathy making some coffee.  We could barely grunt at each other in good morning.

I was too tired to make any effort toward Kathy and just went about our day of “fun,” coffee instead of beer now always in my hungover hands.  The rest of the group was tired too.  Kathy had turned us into sexual zombies in our attempts to land her.  At least we weren’t in Carl’s boat, vomiting and rolling around in agony all day, we barely saw him.

Hungover, unproductive days pass by amazingly quickly and all of the sudden, “Oh shit, it’s 7 PM?!  We’ve done nothing today!”  And by midnight, everyone was asleep and I was finally feeling well again.  I love how tiredness and hangovers always dissipate in time to drink and get hungover again.  That is the truly beautiful version of circadian timekeeping.

Again, I found myself with Kathy, in a hammock, passing a bottle of wine back and worth.  Finally alone.  This time, it was so easy.  Drinking, hugging, rubbing, kissing, “I never do things like this,” in bed, whoa!  It was great.

She must have snuck out of my bed sometime in the middle of the night.  Perhaps to again watch the sun rise.

In the morning, we all said our goodbyes, shook hands, each man gave Kathy a kiss of defeat on the cheek and we got into our separate vehicles.

On the car ride home I felt like a legend.  I had defied the odds.  In a demolitan derby of male-female pairing I had outlasted all of them.  But I kept it to myself.  For awhile.

But I was young, braggadocios.  If no one else knew something happened, then it didn’t!  In my mind.  And I couldn’t let Carl not know.  I was still mad at him for having stupidly wasted my Friday night and postponing it to Saturday.  I kinda wanted to rub it in.

But subtly.

“That was weird, huh?”

“What?” wondered Carl.

“All of us dudes and only one girl.”

“Yeah, I guess that was kinda strange.  She was cool though.”

“She was.  Lotta odds to defy, you might say.”

“Odds?”

“You know, to the one victor goes the spoils.”

Carl looked at me and smiled.  “Not bad, huh?”

“Yep.  It was not bad at all.”

“How did you find out?”

“How did I find out?  How wouldn’t I have?!”

“You know what happened?”

“No.  Wait, do you know what happened?”

“What are you talking about, man?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Carl?”

“That I hooked up with Kathy.”

“No, I hooked up with Kathy.”

We stared at each other confused.

“You did?”  “You did?”

“I did.”

I groaned.  “I did too.  But when?”

“Friday night after everyone went to bed.  You?”

“Saturday night.”

That was the last words of our drive.  We stared straight ahead the rest of the ride home.

Wipeout IPA

7% ABV from a bomber

Picked this up at the great Monk’s in Philadelphia for a reasonable $9.  Its smell is a wonderful blend of citrus and fresh pine but the taste just doesn’t quite stack up.  Nevertheless, still pretty good.  Five different hop varietys create a nice little bitterness with a smooth malt backbone.  Easily drinkable and solid, but certainly not world class.

A-/B+

3rd Anniversary Double IPA

10% ABV from a bomber

Yet another DIPA from Port, this I received in trade from San Diego’s finest Jesse the Hutt.  Just like the Wipeout I found the smell wonderful.  Very fragrant and fruity but, again, somewhat dead and bland in taste. Very bitter and boozy. Could use some malt sweetness to round it out.  Nevertheless, another solid effort, though if only these two DIPAs from Port tasted as good as they smelt, we’d have some major, major winners on our hands.

B+

8% ABV bottled

Last Friday would prove to be one of the greatest extended drinking days of my life, and when all was said and done, I had polished off eight top 100 beers, five of them in the top 25, and three in the top 10.*  The centerpiece of the day being a much-anticipated blind tasting between the two best quadruples in the world:  Belgian trappist beers Westvleteren 12 and Rochefort 10.  Now these beers are often said to be nearly identical.  Rochefort 10 considered a worthy and accessible proxy for the rarer Westvleteren 12.  In fact, many people think the 11th rated Rochefort 10 to be every bit as good as the “best beer in the world” Westvleteren 12, save for the fact that it can pretty much be bought in every Whole Foods in America while the Westy is only able for purchase on a few days a year and straight from the source, the Abbey of Saint Sixtus.  I’d had one bottle of each beer previously, given each an enthusiastic A+, and though these tastings had been separated by several months, in my mind I believed that Rochefort 10 was the better beer.  In my notes I had thought it boozier and with a more pleasant candi taste that the muted Westvleteren 12.

Well…let the blind tasting speak for itself:  Westvleteren 12 absolutely humbled Rochefort 10.  The Rochefort–how can I put this?–smelled vomitous.  I thought I had a dirty glass at first, but no, it was certainly the beer.  And The Captain agreed with me.  Did we have a bad bottle?  No, I just suspect the Westy was so damn good it had rendered the Rochefort 10 worse in our mind.  Admittedly, though, the Rochefort’s taste was fine, even good.  Boozy, a little uneven, a dry maltiness and minimal candi taste.  The superior Westy though was sweet and incredibly smooth, liquid silk, with tastes of dark fruit, Belgian candi, and toffee.  And, this time, the semi-mocking quote marks came off and it was truly THE BEST BEER IN THE WORLD.  On this day at least.  I had never had a better single beer.  Which is what makes great beer interesting.  A different batch, a little more aging, a little less aging, and even the same beer can be eons different.  Perhaps the next time these two venerable quads face each other the results will differ, but on this one day in July, 2009, Manhattan, New York City, Westvleteren 12 was the ungodly victor.

Later, I got my first crack at little brother Westvleteren 8, a dubbel.  I can now proudly say I have had 21 of the top 25 BA-ranked beers in the world, only lacking four hard-to-obtain tap-only offerings.**  And, just like Westy 12, Westy 8 would quickly replace Westmalle as the best dubbel I’ve now ever had.  A creamy yeast and malt combination with some raisins, plums, and just a touch a smooth booziness.  Thinner mouthfeel and a tad more carbonation than Westy 12, which is to be expected.  Perfectly constructed.  Simply sublime.

A+

Westvleteren Blonde

5.8% ABV bottled

Finally, I got to complete the trappist troika with Westy Blonde, the low-ABV “table beer” for the Saint Sixtus’s monks.  This beer is obviously not meant to knock your socks off, and it doesn’t, especially since I don’t believe monks wear socks, but it is still quite solid.  Tart, fizzy, almost a little sour like a subtle Brett beer.  Just nice craftsmanship.  This is a very good session beer and a nice little bottle of “liquid bread.”  Don’t trade the farm to acquire some, but an interesting beer curio for sure, and I am happy to have had it.

B+

*R-L:  Three Floyds Dark Lord, Rochefort 10, Lost Abbey Angel’s Share bourbon and brandy barrel-aged, Westy Blond, Westy 8, and Westy 12.

My day would also include, among others:  Stone Imperial Russian Stout (on tap!), Goose Island Night Stalker (on tap!), AleSmith YuleSmith, and Brooklyn Locals 1 and 2.  Wow!

**For the record:  Pliny the Younger, Dark Lord Vanilla Bean, Dark Lord Oaked, and Founders Canadian Breakfast Stout.  I wonder if I’ll ever locate these bad boys or attend the rare events where they are tapped.

8.5% ABV bottled (#08516 of 11925)

Boulevard hadn’t really impressed me in the past, especially on a last summer trip to Kansas City, but their highly acclaimed Smokestack Series would surely change all that.  My friend Taco Town Dave was visiting from Oklahoma and he asked if there was anything local I’d like.  “Any and every Smokestack possible,” I implored him.  I was most excited when he delivered the Saison-Brett, currently Beer Advocate’s #2 saison in the world with a remarkably meteoric rise to garner that lofty position.

Everything about this beer is just flawlessly crafted.  The taste is so balanced.  A blend of those classic saison flavors of orange peel, coriander, and spices, mixed with the wild yeast.  Earthy yeastiness, bitter yet still a touch sweet.  It’s not as funky as I expected but I suppose that’s because I’ve come to expect modern brewers to make Brett beers as stinky and tart as possibly.  Not this one.  This one uses the Brett to perfection.  Awesome and tasty to the extreme, I’m floored at the high ABV because I feel like I could, and I very much desired to, greedily throw down several of these magnums in a night. Truly top notch.

I’ve had many of the top saisons in the world this summer, fermented luminaries such as Saison Dupont, The Bruery’s splendid offerings, and Lost Abbey’s Carnavale to name a few, but I got to say that this one trumps them all.  I wish I had it in stock at all times, it is absolutely glorious.  One of my biggest drinking pleasures of this summer so far.

A

Let’s compare the above to Boulevard’s regular Smokestack Saison.  I’m not sure if this contains the exact same ingredients as the Saison-Brett–simply sans Brett–but it simply isn’t as good.  Coming in at a lower and yet more drinkable 6.2% ABV, this brew is yeasty as hell, spicy, fruity, but unfortunately not that complex, nor that tasty.  Still not a bad summer drink, but don’t trade the farm for it.

B+

And while we’re at it, Taco Town Dave provided me with one other Smokestack as well, The Sixth Glass, their attempt at a quadruple.

I knew my friend The Captain absolutely adored this beer, so I had lofty expectations, but unfortunately it didn’t quite deliver for me.  It’s tough for most quads to ever fully deliver when many of the best beers in the world are also quads, so like National League first basemen or Western Conference forwards, it’s a stacked playing field where even a great, great one can appear to be nothing more than an also-ran.

The 10.5% ABV Sixth Glass is somewhat muted in its typical quad tastes of dark fruits, biscuits, and malts, but it’s pretty solid.  I mean, what can I say?  It’s not Westy 12, Rochefort 10, or St. Bernardus 12.  But, then again, what is?  Still worth trying.

A-

Was lucky enough to get to try the two newest releases from Goose Island’s Reserve Series, and here are your reporter’s humble findings.

Juliet

6.7% ABV on tap

It had been a real struggle to find this wild ale that’s been getting magnificent reviews, so when I learned that the very much underrated UWS beer bar George Keeley’s inexplicably had the only keg in the city, I decided to start Happy Hour at 2:00 PM and head up there.  So new, a tap doesn’t even exist for it–that’s just a computer label hastily scotch taped onto the handle–Juliet has an absolutely tantalizing description on the brewery website:  “Fermented with wild yeasts and aged in Cabernet barrels with blackberries, Juliet is a tart, fruity, complex ale. Notes of wood, tannin, dark fruit and spice make Juliet an ideal beer to suggest to Pinot Noir enthusiasts and beer drinkers who are fond of Belgian sour ales.”  Alas, I found that description a tad more erotic than the beer itself, though, don’t get me wrong, this is a very, very good beer.  Somewhat lacking in flavor upon first sip, the wild yeasts eventually came through strong, stinging my uvula with every sip for I have neglected to mention that I was nursing a sore throat.  It went down harsh but the taste was still great.  I probably should have just gargled and spat to prevent the intense throat pain.  But that wouldn’t be fair.  Oh, what I do for you guys, playing through the pain.  I truly am the Willis Reed of beer reviewing.

A-

Sofie

6.5% ABV bottled

The Captain secured this bottle for me, Goose Island’s wild yeasted and aged in wine barrels saison.  Wow is it fizzy, foamy, and effervescent.  Tingly on the mouth like champagne, a slight sourness from the wild yeast.  Tastes of citrus and pepper, this a solid enough saison though perhaps a tad boring.  Just like this review.

B+

And thus, my final overall rankings for the Goose Island Reserve Series:

1.  Matilda
2.  Juliet
3.  Pere Jaques
4.  Sofie

But they’re all quite swell.  Goose Island continues to make some pretty great to even mindblowing stuff and prove they are one of the Midwestern’s finest breweries.

9% ABV from a bomber

Almost any time I saunter into a typical BYOB party, a six pack of craft under my arm, some wiseguy sipping a Stella always has to look me up and down, a sneer on his face.  “So, what are you?  One of them beer snobs?”

How is this something to mock?  And why does drinking good beer make one a “beer snob”?

If I’d walked into the party with an attractive women on my arm would the same chap have queried me:

“So, what are you?  One of them pussy snobs?  Can’t be content just fucking boring, average women?  Need to get your dick wet on something a little more sexy, huh?  Yeah, I see.  Snob.”

Luckily, last weekend’s July 4th party was hosted by a beer “snob” just like me and further luckily he’d just returned from Chicago with one more suitcase than he’d flown into town with.  That new suitcase packed to the gills with Three Floyds bombers.

I’m embarrassed to admit I’d never even heard of Blackheart, but an employee at the (what I understand) is amazing Binny’s, had all but shoved a bomber of this in my friend’s cart and said it was a must buy.  So glad that man did, because this beer was silly good.  Named after their parlor and with a sick label by San Fran tattoo artists Tim Lehi and Jeff Rassier, this is one aromatically robust IPA.  English IPA for that matter which I, honestly, can’t really differentiate from our Yankee IPAs.  This is probably the most flawlessly balanced IPA I’ve ever had.  The perfect amount of pine, grapefuit, hops, and malt.  It’s not a “bomb” of any sort, just dangerously easy drinking deliciousness.  I almost wept when the split bomber was finished.  We were slurping it back like Gatorade after five sets of tennis.

Why is this beer not more “famous”?  I honestly think its better than Three Floyds’ much more regarded Dreadnaught. Hell, I think this is one of the best IPAs I’ve ever had.  Exquisite and not to be missed.  Stock up.

A+

Three Floyds Broodoo

5.5% ABV from a bomber

Next we went with Three Floyds’ “harvest ale” Broodoo which is actually just a typically hoppy IPA.  Solid, no question, but it quite frankly pales in comparison to the Blackheart.  It almost felt unfair to drink anything after the glory of Blackheart but Broodoo had to be the sacrificial lamb.  Though I did like this beer, I could see myself enjoying it scads more if it were my first or only beer of the night.  A tasty biting and spicy hops bitterness that tickles your tongue, this beer still remains remarkably drinkable (seems to be a theme with 3F stuff and I’m not complaining!)  Then again, at a mere 5.5%, this one felt a ton more boozy than the Blackheart.  A little too over-carbonated as well.  But these are minor quibbles and this is a nice, expertly-crafted brew.

B+

Popskull

10% ABV from a bomber

My final brew from my impromptu Three Floyds Weekend troika was actually a collaboration beer with Dogfish Head.  Doesn’t your dick get hard just hearing those words?  Two of my favorite brewers, two of America’s finest brewers.  I’m such a sucker for collaboration beers even though these gimmicky brews are usually nothing special, and in fact, with rare exception–off the top of my head I’m thinking of Collaboration Not Litigation and Stone’s collabs with Mikeller, Nogne O, et al–most are just mediocre.  And, I hate to admit it, but such is the case (somewhat) here as this “Threeheaded Floyddog Production” is nothing special.  It’s a flavorful but not really mindblowing brown.  With less hype and fanfare, I’d call this a very solid example of an (imperial?) brown ale.  It’s very drinkable, has a nice little sweetness, tastes of roasted and sweet malts, a hint of vanilla.  It didn’t really taste that complex to me despite the wood aging.  Which, speaking of, makes me just realize that I would much prefer to simply have Dogfish Head’s own Palo Santa Marron, a truly exceptional brown ale.  Seems that in the beer collaboration world, too many cooks spoil the broth.  Eh, but I’ll keep on buying them nevertheless.  A sucker may not be born every minute, but I’m unable to control myself when it comes to over-priced, over-hyped collaborations.  (Now when are Miller and Coors going to team up for their special collaboration beer????  AMERICA IS WAITING!)

(And, yet another hat tip to The Captain for grabbing me one of these bottles on Dark Lord Day.)

B+

So what did I learn over the weekend?:

1.  “Snobbiness” is very sexy.

2.  Adults that still ooh and ahh fireworks are fucking morons.

3.  And Three Floyds is clearly one of the best brewers in America.