10% ABV from a sixer

Everyone knows if you want to make a long road trip bearable you’ll need to drink en route. But if you want to make it highly entertaining, you’ll need to bring some non-twist-off beer bottles and accidentally forget an opener. This happened to me, Gary, and Dan on our recent trip up north. And before I go any further, I just want to prevent MADD from protesting my blog–though that would help my traffic numbers soar!–by noting that our sole driver Gary never drank once nor even planned to. So, please, only MADP (Mother Against Drunk Passengers) is allowed to give me shit.

Our journey to Canada started off at my friends’ house in Jersey City where after beating both of them in a combined 19 out of 19 games of ping pong we headed to the liquor store to stock up for the car ride. In the parking lot, I pondered whether New Jersey has any breweries. Shit, I couldn’t think of any. How weird, one of the biggest, richest states in the union with no notable breweries*. And, indeed, BA only lists the Garden State as having a pathetically paltry seven, none of them acclaimed. I mean, seriously, New Jersey! There must be no need for beer, what with all those Jersey guidos only drinking gay shots and “Goose” on ice when they hit da club.

Surprisingly, though, this Jersey City liquor store had an actual line of beer from New Jersey — River Horse. Never heard of it, but I’ll give it a whirl. We opted for a six pack of their tripel. Any brewery brash enough to attempt a Belgian style tripel must be at least halfway decent.

We waited to begin drinking til we were well outside of the metro area and nightfall had hit. We aren’t so cavalier as to overtly drink beer in daylight while going up the Westside highway or something. Once it became dark, however, we quickly realized the shit we were in — no opener and these we some well-sealed bottles. And, unfortunately–in this one case only–none of us three are the kind of repressed former frat boys that still carry a Heineken ring bottle opener on our key chains.

Lacking an opener is usually not a problem when you’re at an apartment or someplace indoors as there are two opener-less tricks that typically work quite splendidly. The easiest is to just put the edge of the cap flush with a table–one you don’t mind possibly nicking up a bit–and then slamming your open palm down on it. Of course, cars don’t have coffee tables so this was out. The second easy trick which I’m fairly accomplished at is putting two bottles parallel to each other yet a foot or so apart, then briskly moving the bottom one up and the top one down toward each other with a great force, ultimately colliding the cap of the bottom bottle with the underside of the cap of the top to create a blunt influence which usually pops the top bottle’s cap right off.

This move was risky in the car as often some foaming occurs out of the bottle. And the last thing you want is your car to smell like a potent Belgian tripel if you get pulled over. Alas, that move did not work either and our concerns were rendered moot.

I took Gary’s Blackberry and googled “opening bottle without opener” and got an onslaught of tips. I looked at several sites and here following are some of what Dan and I tried next:

1. Seatbelt clasp — I suspect this would work on most cars, but the clasp of Gary’s Audi was incredibly small and atypical of what most cars have. The neck of the bottle couldn’t enter the clasp’s square opening and thus no attempts could even be made.

2. Belt — We all removed our belts from our waists to see if we could use the buckles to pop the tops, but this didn’t work either. Not even close. And I think I’d rather a copper pull us over and find tons of beer in the car than find three men with belt off their waists. He’d think he’d found some S&M auto(mobile)-erotic weirdos.

3. Dollar bill — Hard to believe, but according to numerous websites one can:

• Take a dollar bill and roll it tightly like a joint, then fold it up several times over until you’re left with a tightly-compressed V-shaped piece (two folded bits that meet in one sharp, tight corner).
• Take the “V” and wedge the corner of its fold into the bottle cap.
• Jerk the bill up as hard as you can, which will result in the cap popping off.

This came nowhere close to working and caused the first open wound of the evening to form on my hand. And it also ruined a single.

4. Golf tee and keys — There was some tees in the car from a recent golf outing and we jammed these under the cap’s ridges to try and pry it off but that did not work. Likewise, the same attempts with keys of all shapes and size also failed.

5. Car’s bumper and other edges — Too much rubber and plastic, not enough hard surfaces. You quickly learn how cheaply cars are made when you try to use them as two-ton bottle openers. At one point, Dan tried to use the window shade latch to pop the top and it seemed to work as a loud explosion took place. He confidently handed me back the bottle, “Your beer, sir.” I was stunned when I looked down to see the cap still on. All he’d done was break the latch off the ceiling of the Audi.

6. Soda machine coin return — This is another one I think would work at a typical soda or candy machine, but the ones we encountered all had odd coin return slots that were far too big to fit the bottleneck into.

All these left me and Dan with were scraped up and heavily jostled bottles and bloodied (seriously) and battered hands.

Oh, have I neglected to mention that we were both wasted too? Yeah, by this point we were halfway through a bottle of Stoli we’d been passing back and forth the hole time. What, you didn’t think six beers would last two grown boys a six-hour car ride didja?

Now in hour three of trying to open these damn–and now warm–beers, we finally stopped at a shitty reststop where we were certain to find a souvenir bottle opener amongst all the trinkets and knick-knacks. There were Aaron, Gary, and Dan miniature license plates, porcelain spoons, and even collectible snow globes, but alas no fucking bottle openers to buy.

However, we did find a pickle in a bag.

God did I want to buy that filth and review it for you dear loyal readers, however Gary and Dan were too scared to have that thing floating in the car with them for the rest of the weekend.

Finally, after five hours of trying we were forced to call mercy. The bottle had defeated us. I’m not sure if they are the best sealed bottles ever crafted or if we are just retarded or were drunk. One hour outside of our final destination, we stopped to pick up one of Gary’s childhood friends who had with him an opener.

Ahhhhhhhh! We could finally drink the beer. And we needed to drink the beer now that our vodka was killed.

My god was the River Horse tasty. Hit the fucking spot. No masterpiece but a solid tripel. Nice malt and banana taste with a spicy sweetness. Vanilla esters and a lot of yeast. Not too complex but some good bite. A bit too unbalanced of alcoholic finish and some biting carbonation are its demerits.

I think I’ll now become one of those detestable ex-frat boys that always has his Zeta Beta Tau bottle opener holstered and ready for action. Would have saved us all a lot of pain and misery.

What tricks do you use when you don’t have an opener handy?

B

*I guess in retrospect that shouldn’t be surprising. They have no good college sports programs either.

4.2% ABV

I was sitting at the Secaucus Junction train station on Friday afternoon listening to Bowie’s “The Prettiest Star” on my iPod when my dad called to tell me my grandma had just died. This was not unexpected as she was old and had been bedridden for a few years after having suffered a stroke. And, quite frankly, I wasn’t even that close to her, probably having spent less than a month’s combined time with her during my lifetime. Nevertheless, I broke down for an ever-brief second or so, not quite long enough for the slobs and perverts that hang at a train station to ogle me, to think me the “weirdo,” but long enough to feel something come over me.

I spend too much fucking time at train stations. Waiting. Waiting as my life passes me by. No one lays on their death bed reminiscing about the 25%* of their life that they sat waiting–their life in standstill–depending on countless other people and events in the universal ballet to get their train there, to free up a snag on the highway so they can move, to have a crowd of fatassed tourists part so they can continue on down the sidewalk toward their destination. To not have their life slowed down by uncontrollable others, to let their life fucking continue on to the “important stuff.”

As my grandma lay dying in a cheap hospital bed, I sat on a cheap wooden bench wedged between a sleeping bum and a fat retard in a Carlos Beltran jersey seemingly dying the same death. I will never get those minutes back. No matter how smart, rich, educated, handsome, flirtatious, or powerful one is, time is not something you can acquire more of. In fact, it is the only thing one can’t acquire more of**. As Aurelius said, “Yesterday a blob of semen; tomorrow embalming fluid, ash.”

Nothing is more a kick in the ass to “carpe diem” than the absolute madness of sitting alone in a train station. It’s like a goddamn coma that you are fully conscious of being in. What can I do? A crossword, a little light reading, learn who Jennifer Aniston’s currently spreading her legs for, listen to a podcast, dick around on my phone, eat some Pringles, doodle?

This is no life.

Which is why, what is the first thing a person says after a long and hectic train/bus/airplane/car ride?

“I NEED A DRINK.”

A drink to get their comatose life kickstarted again. The alcohol acting like the jumper cables to your heart and brain. Allowing you to reenter the world of emotions and feeling, pain and happiness, want, desire, horniness, and plain old living.

There is no time to scrutinize the offering, the drink. No time to select something “special. ” You just take what’s fucking given to you and enjoy it. In my case, I entered my friend’s house at the end of a long and arduous trek up the eastern seaboard and was handed a Wachusett Summer. Nice. I’d never had it before.

And it was one of the better summer beers I’ve ever tippled. Spicy with a good, rich body of lemon and wheat flavors. I detest most so-called “summer” beers because they are citrusy and thin little offerings. Just cause it’s July doesn’t mean I need to slug down watery piss. Now, while Wachusett Summer doesn’t have much ABV to speak of, it’s still a quality brew. In fact, I’d say it’s almost as good as Sam Adam’s terrific summer offering. I’ll certainly have it again on my next once-a-decade trip into New England.

Thus, I said a silent cheers to my grandma and began trying to enjoy my life again courtesy of glorious beer.

B

*Made up stat.

**Save maybe a few more inches at the end of your cock (though I hear medical technologies can do wonders nowadays!)

4.7% ABV on draught

The usher took his job far too seriously and despite the fact that inclement weather had left the close LF bleachers completely empty, Batch and I were kicked out of the section where Derek and Whitey’s real seats were.  Our tickets fucking sucked so there was no way we were sitting there.  Luckily, Vice Blog Ambassador Batch knew about a sit-down bar nearby where we could get loaded for three hours while kinda keeping our eyes on the diamond in case anything interested happened.  Even better, we had table service like we were at some hot club.  That is if a hot club served nachos and chicken fingers.

I scanned the bar’s lackluster beer menu, keying in on some house beer called “Homerun (sic) Ale.”  I’m such a dumb sucker for house beers which are essentially just crappy macros dressed up with colorful names that usually relate to the venue they’re being served at.  (So a hospital might serve O.R. IPA, a bowling alley 7-10 Split Lager, and an Applebee’s could have a house beer called Wooden Burger Pilsner.)  Unfortunately, our waiter Donte had to report that the Homerun tap was kicked.  In fact, every single tap in the bar was kicked save two–Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat (no surprise, it’s fucking terrible) and some local Virginia beer called Dominion Ale.  Derek had told me earlier that Dominion was actually good so I gladly ordered one.

As with most of his picks, he was correct–Dominion was good.  Rich, dark, flavorful, drinkable.  Nutty, malty, with some good hops.  Plastic Nationals cups are probably not the best vessel for drinking craft beer, but you make do with what you have.  I suppose the best review I can give of Dominion Ale is to say that I quickly dispatched with my first one.

Eagerly wanting another, I signaled for Donte with the international sign for another round.  With sad eyes he came over to report that now Dominion was tapped and all that remained was the dreadful Sunset Wheat!  It was only the 3rd inning!  The Presidents Race hadn’t even occured yet!  Of course we were not going to drink Sunset Wheat for six more innings–we have some standards–so we gave Donte a credit card and asked to tab out.  No surprise, the stadium’s credit card machines were not working.  Christ.  Get your shit together, Nationals.  Good Lord, I’ve seen fucking freshman keggars run better and more efficiently.

I thought we should make a sprint from the bar and just not pay these incompetent boobs, but Batch is nicer than me.  He exited to get some cash, leaving me alone in the bar as collateral.  I had nothing to do but watch Nats/Orioles baseball.  Yuck.  I chose instead to stare in slack-jawed awe at the fellow bar patrons around me.  I’ve always thought that NYC attracted the most despicable yokel tourists but perhaps that crown actually goes to DC.  I was the only man in the bar with pockets on my pants!  Jorts were too classy for these folks who mostly sported shorts made of mesh or sweat material.  Or maybe these people simply can’t find pocketed lowerware for people this obese.  I had to be the only person in the area under three bills.   The only person that had actually seen his genitalia in the last decade.  I truly believe that some of these people came to the game simply because they loved the food there!

I highly suspect some of these customers had had a conversation like this earlier in the evening.

INT.  SHOPPING MALL FOOD COURT - AFTERNOON

Fat Husband:  What ya’ wanna do for supper?

Fat Wife:  Chili cheese fries with a side of Dippin’ Dots?

Fat Husband:  You thinkin’ what I’m thinking?

Both in unison:  Ballpark!

(heavy wheezing ensues)

FADE OUT.

Before I was completely disgusted with humanity–but not before I’d noticed some 400 pounder in an Alonzo Mourning Nets jersey and tried to figure out when Zo actually was a Net–Batch returned with the loot and he was able to bail me out of the bar prison.  We quickly went to find Derek and Whitey so as we could get the fuck out of the ballpark and back to civilization–and quality beer.

B

6.5% ABV

To keep from getting bored, man needs novelty in his life. That why I will always try a beer I haven’t had–and even know nothing about–over the same old, same old. It’s how I discovered Long Hammer. There’s a bar in my neighborhood, Conker Hill, that I wouldn’t call myself a “regular” at, but which I go to enough that the bartenders know my name and hook me up. I like Conker Hill because–though they don’t have an outstanding beer list–it’s kinda like hanging out in your one rich friend’s pimped-out basement. They have comfy booths, darts, Big Buck Hunter, several plasma screens, and one of those computerized Bose jukeboxes that have like 100,000 songs on it. Plus, very few people go there, so it’s incredibly chill. A good place for a relaxed evening of shooting the shit, drinking beers, and playing bar games.

As I said, when I first started going there they didn’t have much of a beer list. Long Hammer was the only draft beer they had that I had never tasted so of course I ordered it. And, liked it. And, it became the one and only beer I have when I’m at Conker Hill. Only later would I learn that it’s a fairly potent “session” beer at 6.5%. Maybe that’s why I always get shitcanned when I drink it.

I finally found the beer bottled, and it tastes just the same as it does on draft, but I don’t quite enjoy it as much. That’s because if I’m drinking it bottled it means I’m not at Conker Hill, probably not hanging with a big group of friends, definitely not getting free buy backs from the generous Irish bartenders, and most certainly not playing my beloved Big Buck Hunter. Oh well.

This is a solid enough IPA. Goes down easy. Alcoholy, but not as complex as your typical IPA. I guess you could call this a “beginner’s” IPA. But there’s nothing wrong with that. When I’m drinking it on draft, paying more attention to friends, women, sports on TV, and bar games than savoring the beer in hand, it is perfect for what it is. A tasty enough, highly drinkable beer. This is the kind of brew you want to get fucked up on during long drinking sessions.

B

5.2% ABV on draught (Valhalla is too motherfucking dark to take pictures in)

My final beer of the night on my recent visit to Valhalla.  And, yes indeed, you better make a fruit beer one of your final beers of the night.  I had already built up goodwill and established my drinking street cred by making my first two beers of the evening a 9.5% ABV Belgian strong dark ale as well as a giant 7% ABV strong ale served in an ice cream sundae-sized snifter.  And much like the Easy Company during World War II needed to accumulate 85 “points” before they could leave the European Theatre and head home, one should probably put together at least 15 percentile points ABV-worth of drinking before ordering a fruit beer.  At 16.5 percent, I was in the clear.

This one smells terrific, maybe even better than Blue Point’s effort, surely the blueberry beer par excellence.  This one is incredibly fruity tasting.  If you want something that only has a hint of blueberries, then avoid.  If you want a blueberry drink that has only a hint of beer, then this may be for you.  It’s very good, but something about it just doesn’t seem to have the overall “oomph” that Blue Point Blueberry has.  Whatever the case, I’d like to try it again in the privacy of my own home.

One final thought…there’s nothing better than a blueberry beer burp.

B

7% ABV

I’m the guy that’s always trying new things out, looking for something better in this world. When I’m out of town I’m searching for obscure little holes-in-the-wall to dine at. When it comes to movies I want to find the most obscure foreign ones to watch. And, of course, I’m on a constant Ponce de Leon-like canvassing of the globe for new and exciting beers to try. My lifestyle is one reason I live in New York — because I know I will always have a bevy of new restaurants, bars, and other establishments to take a gamble on. It’s my insatiable thirst for finding the Elysian Fields of everything.

However, most people aren’t like this and even I will admit that there are positives and negatives to living both my way of life and its antithesis. If you just like to consume the mass-produced things of culture you will generally be happy. Stuff like “Iron Man,” Chili’s, and Budweiser is good enough I suppose, and certainly not “challenging.” At the least, you know summer blockbusters, chain restaurant food, and macro beers are NOT going to be mindblowingly heinous (except for Corona I guess. Oh, and Stella. And most light beers suck too. Ah, but I digress). But, when you go out on a limb and try something obscure you could find a homerun, but sometimes you can also find a total dud, and the scale is more tilted toward the latter I’ve come to find. Being complex and “going for it” is the only way to reach greatness and create masterpieces, but it’s also the only way to sink to abject failure. I’m willing to go for it though.

Thus, after a scorching round of golf on Saturday, we headed to the liquor store where my friends Graig and King Otto went for several six packs of Bud Light. I grabbed a sixer of Southampton’s Double White. “Do you like that beer?” Nope. I’d never had it before quite frankly. My friends were correct to question me on the whimsical acquisition. Like always, there was a terrific chance that after a single sip of beer number one I would regret my purchase (see: The Great Leinenkugel Debacle of Last Weekend). So why try it? Some insight to my thinking: well…firstly it was the only beer in stock that I’d never had before, exempting ciders, girlie malted beverages, and near beers). Plus, I’d heard good things about the brewer. I’m not exactly a huge fan of many white ales but I’m a sucker for New York state beers and any time you see “double” (or better yet “triple” or “quadruple” or maybe some day “quintiple”) on the label you know you’re going to have a brew with some pop. I like pop. My six Southampton Double White Ales equal 42% of total ABV while my friends’ six Bud Lights total 25.2% ABV. Wow, that’s pretty stark when the numbers are laid out in front of you. Now I’m starting to realize why I’m always the friend getting in trouble, making scenes, and losing my cell phones and dignity when we go tie one on. When you are drinking quality beer and matching your friends and their pisswater round for round, you are on a nitro-infused racecar headed for asshole-dom while they’re cruising along in the pace car.

Of course, I was mocked for the rest of the day as being a beer snob for simply not being normal and grabbing a mass-produced American beer, but, eh, what can you do about it? Maybe I should mock my friends for drinking weaker beer than me. I was really torn on this beer. It has a nice smell and is incredibly spicy. One of the spiciest beers I can ever recall having. Thinking back on it now I almost feel like I really enjoyed the beer, but the fact of the matter is that I didn’t find it a complete success. Some sips I was loving it, others I wasn’t. It’s very carbonated but still goes down well. I didn’t know the ABV as I drank it and was guessing it around 6% so it has that going for it. I wouldn’t say this was a great beer, but for a light summer beer around the BBQ it ain’t half bad. And it’s certainly unique. It’s very flavorful and packs a punch. I would maybe try this again. My friends will definitely try their Bud Lights again. And again. And again, and again…ad nauseum. Which fittingly enough is Latin meaning “to the point of nausea.”

B

4.7% ABV

Aaron, you are so weak. You probably take back girls that treat you like shit and walk all over you with their Nancy Sinatra boots. You probably return to restaurants that forget your reservations and serve you undercooked food. And you probably keep rooting hard for your shitty college sports programs that let you down every goddamn year (”This is OUR year!!!).

Just four days ago, after my debut sampling of a Leinenkugel brew–their Sunset Wheat–I called it one of the worst beers I’ve ever had, giving it a big fat D. Yet, here I was today at the store searching for a beer or two to wet my whistle while watching the NBA Finals and what beer started calling out my name? Fucking Leinenkugel and their Berry Weiss. I’m so weak. Fruit beers are my kryptonite. God, it sounds so refreshing. Not strawberry or blueberry or raspberry but simply fucking “Berry”–as in those aforementioned ones and many more exciting berries (boysenberry, blackberry, cranberry, mulberry, and even fucking loganberry)–all crammed into one single wheat beer. It sounded like the Fruity Pebbles of beer. Oh, and it had such a beautiful label, the metallic magenta of it reflecting in my eyes. I didn’t want to do it. I looked around amongst the selections for any other beer available to bail me out. But none called for me. So, I sucked it up and grabbed a beer from the brand I thought I might never touch again. And then, to add insult to injury, I grabbed the brewery’s Honey Weiss too!

Wow. This is a very nice beer. It pours a color rarely seen in nature or the beer world–almost like the kind of fluorescent neon pink you usually see advertising “Girls! Girls! Girls!” or “Nudes! Nudes! Nudes!” or, quite frankly, anything scandalous in triplicate. A very, very fruity smell like a lambic. Tastes great too. More on the fruity side than the wheaty side. A tad sour in a bad way and the finish and aftertaste isn’t stupendous, but those are minor quibbles. Very carbonated like a soda. I could drink tons of these. I regret that I only bought one.

Negatives are that it’s not particularly complex and doesn’t exactly taste like a beer. This would be a good brew to give to your fourteen year old daughter if you were trying to get her into drinking.

Here’s to second chances. You’ve won me back Leinenkugel. At least for the interim. Now excuse me, I need to go call all my ex-wives and see if they’ll take me back. And I may visit that restaurant that served me a steak covered in pubes last week. And then I’m gonna drink my Honey Weiss.

B

4.75% ABV from a bomber

The flagship Sam is maybe America’s most underrated beer. I think your average beer guzzling yahoo sees it as nothing more than a macro (not that he would know that condescending term), and an overpriced and snobby one at that. “No twist off cap?!” “I’ll need a bottle opener for this beer?” “That soooo European.” “I thought this beer was named after some American president.” Meanwhile, I think your average stuffy beer snob doesn’t like Sam either–but it has nothing to do with taste. Most beer snobs have probably never drunk a Boston Lager. “It’s advertised on television for gosh sakes!” “It’s soooo cheap!” “You can find it in pubs.” *shiver*

It’s nothing if not a victim of its own success. On both extremes. Heck, I’m not sure if I’ve EVER met any one that calls Sam their favorite beer. And that’s weird, especially since there are people that probably call stuff like O’Doul’s and Mike’s Hard Lemonade (Strawberry flavor) their favorite “beer.” I must admit that even I forget to drink Sam as I’m a much bigger fan of the brewery’s terrific seasonals and, of course, their Utopia is an all-time legend. We take this beer for granted. But it’s a damn fine brew. And just about the cheapest and most readily available craft beer you can buy in this country.

Good smell, nice and light. Nothing too complex, but tasty. You could drink these all night and you could definitely do worse. One small gripe is that it could probably use about 0.5% more ABV kick in it.

A good, solid beer and that’s hard for a New York-born and living die hard to admit. I’m supposed to hate all things Beantown. Typically I do. This is the rare case where I don’t. But don’t tell that to my Boston friends.

B

5.1% ABV

My love of fruit–not fruity, fruit–beers is fairly well documented. Now it might be considered quote unquote “gay” to like fruit-packed brews, but when you’re often also throwing back 12% ABV bombers with abandon, I’m not sure you need to prove your drinking mettle. In fact, a lot of these so-called fruit beers pack a bigger punch that a Budweiser. And ain’t no one gonna call that truck driver at the end of the bar drinking Buds some sort of sissy.

If I buy any sort of beer on a whim, it’s gotta be fruit beer. Oooh, raspberry hefe? Sign me up. I’m a sucker for a fruit beer, the stranger the fruit the better (I love Saranac’s Pomegranate Wheat but really struggle to find it). The only problem with most fruit beers is that they simply aren’t fruity enough. I’m not asking to be pelted with fruitiness like from a Lindemans or even a Kastel Rouge–though I adore both of those–but I still want to taste the frikkin’ fruit that is supposedly in the beer. A lot of these fruit beers just taste like a bad ale with like a single, puny berry squeezed into them.

That’s not the case here, however, this one tastes like a delicious, juicy raspberry. Although, I wouldn’t call the beer mind-blowing or anything. Not really wheaty at all. Though considered a hefe on it’s bottle, I’m loathe to even categorize it as one. This is most clearly a fruit beer. Probably smells a little better than it tastes. Worth giving it a shot though. I’d like to mix one up with a Blue Point Blueberry and make the gayest berry berry beer cocktail evah!

B

(Hopefully you’re not as big of dope as me. I’d seen the UFO label on certain Harpoon beers for ages. I just assumed it was cool little name for a certain line of their brews. Uh uh. It actually is an acronym for UnFiltered Offering. Hey, good to know.)

7.5% ABV on draught.

Another Tria selection.

What can I say, I didn’t love this beer. It’s good, but when you’re in a place like Tria, this beer is nothing to write home about. Or, as my friend Derek would say, thinking that famous maxim should be adapted by now the year 2008: “It’s nothing to blog about.”

And, thus I won’t. Like a weaker Leffe Blonde.

B