4.6% ABV on draught

Being arrogant New Yorkers and Yankees and Mets fans, we figured we could show up at a lackluster Royals game a few minutes before first pitch, hand over a sawbuck, and be sitting behind the plate within minutes. I am still surprised at how wrong we were. The drive from Arthur Bryant’s to the stadium was brisk, I’ve never seen such non-traffic for a professional sporting event. Kaufmann Stadium looks like America’s biggest minor league ballpark, it’s really unimpressive. What was impressive was how many fans the Royals actually have, or at least had on this night. I figured we’d be two out of maybe 18,000 in attendance, so few asses in the seats that on foul balls we would have this conversation:

FRIEND: Wanna go get that ball?

AARON: Eh…leave it.

And watch as a baseball just rested on a concrete third baseline aisle for several innings until some kid with a little gumption finally walked a few sections over to unenthusiastically retrieve it, yet another one for the collection.

But this scenario was nowhere close to what we encountered as we weren’t even able to get tickets and get into the park until the top of the third. Furthermore, I’ve seen very few sporting events in which a team’s fans were so completely covered in team apparel. And it did indeed take a lot of material to fully apparel these fatsos and their annoying children. It quickly became clear that everyone in Kansas City is fat from ages zero to 14, at which point the girls become stunningly hot (am I allowed to say that?) and the boys become ripped high school football players. Then everyone gets fat again from ages 19 to heart attack. We chuckled at the behomeths returning from the rare but overflowing concession stands lines with pyramids of countless foiled wrapped hot dogs and anything and everything covered in liquid nacho cheese. Still stuffed from the BBQ we didn’t eat anything or have a beer, but I did cool down with a very tasty sno-cone.

The most impressive–in fact the only impressive thing–about Kauffman is the “Crown Vision” scoreboard, a 105 by 84 foot monster that can surely be seen from space. We ourselves confirmed that it can be seen, and easily read, from several miles up the road on George Brett Superhighway*. It is said to be the largest scoreboard in the world and it is by far the most crisp, high-definition screen of any kind I have ever encountered. I’d rather watch that than the game. Unfortunately, neither the Royals, nor any other American or, as far as I know, international sports team has employed my greatest idea ever, one I will use the second I buy a team using all my Vice Blog royalties. You know the “Kiss Cam,” that lame but semi-compelling thing not-making-the-playoffs teams use during timeouts and between half-innings in order to drum up some crowd excitement, turning the camera on unsuspecting couples–and some non-couples–until they finally smooch? Well I am the copyrighted inventor of the “Second Base Cam,” aka the “Grope Cam.” I don’t think I need to explain it in detail or the excitement it will quite clearly generate.

After six innings we were bored with minor league baseball, the countless rubes that actually yelled “CHARGE!!!” at the end of the organ’s “duh, duh, duh, DUT, duh, DUH,” and the huge ignominy over the fact that there was no tribute to Bo Jackson anywhere on the premises. I mean seriously, you guys pay homage to the late Dan Quisenberry but not Vincent Edward Jackson?!

As we left the ballpark we learned two things that were special about this particular Royals game:

1. It was $1 hot dog night.

2. There was to be a fireworks display at the end of the evening.

Like “The Usual Suspects” or “The Sixth Sense,” everything I had seen in the previous two hours had to be immediately reevaluated as I now understand why so many Royals “fans” had shown up for the event. Hicks love fireworks and cheap dogs.

With it now 10:00 PM we planned to head back to the hotel to get a good night’s sleep as we had to get up bright and early to head to Manhattan, KS. En route though, while pondering what Jeter and Giambi do for post-game entertainment on three-game road swings here, we saw a most tantalizing site, The Isle of Capri, a riverboat casino. We swerved over a highway median, parking the rental car in a spare patch of grass to avoid the valet fee before heading in.

There’s no greater example of the retarded, hypocritical laws that govern America than the fact that you can gamble in some cities, and not gamble in others. That we placate the Indians by giving them crappy casinos on worthless acreage. Or that in certain places you can’t gamble on dry land but can gamble on what is ostensibly a boat floating “off-shore” on a body of water, but what is really just a boat-shaped object cemented to the riverbank via stilts and connected to the shore via countless walkways. Yeah, that makes sense. You’re really making the world a better place politicians.

The isle of Capri looks pretty decent from the outside, like something Mark Twain may have worked on and Maverick may have gambled on. However, the inside told a different story as a plume of dense smoke instantly bitchslapped me upon spinning through the revolving doors and entering. I assume using vacuumed sealed revolving doors in a place so rife with tobacco smoke and BO has something to do with a massive eugenics project at a local university.

Upon entering we had to actually apply for a special gambler’s card before hitting the floor. I hate nothing worse than when I have to go through a rigmarole before doing something I don’t have much interest in in the first place. It’s like look, I barely want to be in this dump, now you’re gonna make me present 15 forms of ID and fill out a long SAT form with a number 2 before I can enter? Get real. Nevertheless we did, watching in amazement as the desk clerk scrutinized our NYS driver’s licenses, even calling over an assistant, we no doubt the wealthiest patrons to ever enter this place. Guess they don’t want any Union money. Nevertheless, we put up with this bullshit, mainly because we saw no other place to get a “late night” (10:00 PM recall) drink in the greater Kansas City area.

Upon taking the escalator down to the floor, we were quickly returned to two billion years ago, coming face to face with a much lower form of humanity. For all you creationists out there–and I’m sure Kansas City has plenty–please go to the Isle of Capri and tell me that you are not a higher evolved species than what you see there. No God would create what we saw. Richard Dawkins need only point to this casino’s patronage to turn the whole world into committed Darwinists. What you see there at the Isle of Capri are people pondering how many stools it’ll take to support them, how quickly they can smoke a full pack of butts, and how briskly they can blow throw the month’s government assistance check. The floor was 99.9% slots and of those it was about 95% penny slots. Yet, these people played the games and pulled the levers as if they were about to become millionaires. These people were the absolute opposite of the “Bringing Down the House” MIT card-counting nerds. I’d love to hear these folks’ brilliant strategies for “beating the system” at penny slots cause you know they have some.

Not surprisingly, I saw the first cigarette vending machines I’ve seen since Reagan’s first term. Later we would learn that gamers are only allowed to lose $500 per 24 hours, a stat that is monitored on those stupid swipe cards we had to sign up for. That’s 50,000 penny bet pulls on the one-armed bandit, assuming you’re the unluckiest SOB in the world. And, you’ll have to believe me when I say that if there was an “Unluckiest SOB in the World” contest, the Isle of Capri could definitely submit a few title contenders.

I don’t really like gambling unless it involves betting nerdy kids how many _____ they can consume, or how many _____ they can do naked, or how often they can _____ while _____, so I went straight for the bar to canoodle with the vermin and watch the Opening Ceremonies. There, I was floored to see that every drink apparently comes default with whipped cream: daiquiris, margaritas, White Russians, it didn’t fucking matter. And, I’m not talking a dollop of whipped cream either. I’m talking one of those massive, swirling cones that looks more like soft serve and which empties out half a can of Reddi-Wip. I was starting to understand why every one was so fat. Fuck, in the morning my iced coffee was given to me topped off with some whipped cream that was taller than the cup the actual drink portion came in. Not particularly digging putting 1000 calories of pure fluff into my belly to start the day, I was forced to use my spoon/straw (the most popular utensil in KC) to wrist-shot the goop off my drink and onto the sidewalk. I’m kinda surprised that pure whipped cream isn’t drank in Kansas City.

At the bar I ordered a Boulevard Wheat, sans whipped cream, but unfortunately plus a crummy little lemon slice. Boulevard Wheat is the beer that everyone in KC seems to think is the greatest brew on the planet. And, indeed, it ain’t bad. Light, zesty, wheaty, very refreshing. But just like the brewery’s Pale Ale, far too low in alcohol content. Wonder if that’s some arcane state law influencing things. Alas, it is a pretty good beer especially when the only other things on tap are shitty macros.

After a few plastic pints, far too much televised Yao Ming, and contracting full-blown emphysema, we headed home to clear our lungs and throw away our clothes.

C+

*I wish I was making a joke. [Pathetically small George Brett statue figurine pictured above.]

5.4% ABV

A long lost high school friend John found my blog the other day. He’s a Germanophile who’s lived in the country numerous times over the last decade and even has his own–far more successful than my own, damn him!–blog in which he pokes fun at the culture there. It’s a good read, I highly recommend it. Thus, John–who was actually in German class with me in school come to think of–was a bit aggrieved to see I only had reviewed three German beers.

He’s right to feel that way as Germany is maybe the most significant beer country in the world, producing and drinking both the 2nd most beer in the world. Having said that, and I hope the beer gods don’t hit me with a lightening bolt, but I find German beer kinda…well, kinda boring. I’d almost always rather explore Belgian and American beers.

Don’t get me wrong, any time I have a top shelf German beer, it is always without question good. It’s just, as a whole, German beers are kinda bland to my palate. I think it has to do with their whole Reinheitsgebot beer purity laws which state that beers can literally only be made with water, hops, barley, and yeast. I admire them for sticking with these recipes for so long, but I’m an adventurer and I like novelty in all aspects of my life. I like beers made with figs and bananas and oak-barreled and all sorts of other weird shit. Sometimes these beers are failures, often their successes. With German beers I know what I’m getting–usually a doppelbock or a hefeweizen, not exactly my two favorite styles–but with American beers, I feel like there’s so many things to explore. And, that excites me. Imagine only being allowed to use steak and potatoes to make a meal. Sure it could be great, but it gets boring after awhile.

Also, German beers have such long, cumbersome, vowel-laden names that you can never remember your favorites to reference later. “I think I like that one with nine e’s that ends with ‘er.’” There’s a reason the dreadful Beck’s is the best selling German beer in America. It’s the only one we can remember. Also, German beers have boring labels that all look the same. Again, making it difficult to recall which is your favorite for later purchase. It’s easier to just stick with American or Belgium beers that have cool names (Arrogant Bastard, Delirium Tremens, etc) and awesome labels.

I asked John to tell me his favorite German beers and I’d review them in his honor, but before he had a chance to email me back a response I went across the street to my supermarket for dinner and happened to notice that they had only one German beer–and I mean “real” German beer, I’m not counting St. Pauli Girl–stocked. Fittingly, it was from Weihenstephaner, the oldest brewery in the world dating back to 1040. That’s amazing.

This is one of the most fragrant hefes I’ve ever grabbed, very yeasty smelling. The lacing just sticks to the sides of the glass, it’s very impressive. Very tasteful too, creamy, buttery, taste of bananas. Of course, tons of wheat and malt too. A bit more carbonation than I’m used to in more American style hefes but this is a classic no doubt. A standard bearer for hefes. I typically enjoy stronger, more potent and more complex beers, but its hard to find much to complain about regarding this one. Maybe I should drink German brews more often.

A

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!)

5.2% ABV from a bottle

I’m the kind of sicko that upon visiting a friend’s house and being offered a beer, I don’t ask for a fresh bottle of some “normal” stuff just purchased the day before.  I’m more interested in digging way in the back of their fridge and finding those oddball beers bought a long time ago yet never drunk because the first beer from the six-pack was so heinous. Thus, when I was at my buddy’s house over the weekend, initially I turned down a few decent but normal beers in favor of some stray Michelobs from their “upscale” sampler. My friend warned me that they were terrible, but that only stoked my fires more. Tell me something is good and I’m intrigued. Tell me something is world-class terrible and I need to have it that second. See, I can believe something could be good or even great, but I’m always astounded by absolutely inferior products that enter the market.  How do they slip by quality testing?

First up was the oddly and literally named Bavarian Style Wheat. It’s very malty, very yeasty. Tastes like a fucking loaf of rye bread. If this beer included some corned beef, swiss, and a schmear of spicy mustard then you’d have a great sandwich.  More plainly put, this is one of the worst hefes I’ve ever had.

D+

(I had several other offerings from the Michelob sampler, most un-notably the Smoked Porter, but I found them all so forgettably mediocre that I’d just rather never have to revisit them in review.)

4.7% ABV bottles from a sixer along with an OLIVA SERIE V Churchill extra cigar

My oldest childhood friend Matt was getting on my case earlier this week:  “You don’t write about enough different vices!” he proclaimed. He thought I should touch on “vices” such as a bad crank habit, LSD usage, Charles Barkley-levels of gambling, porn addiction, Miami Vice, the Vice Lords, and maybe even the U.S. Vice-Presidents. Believe me, nothing would tickle me more than to have nice critical reviews of the crystal meth in Utica or the mushrooms dispensed at Bonnaroo or the BDSM hookers in Chinatown, but unfortunately, I don’t really do drugs and, though I think it should be legalized across the board, I have never paid for a lady of the night. (Perhaps I’ll use the vast funds from my Vice Blog empire to hire a guest blogger to tackle those things.)

However, Matt is absolutely right. I do have tons more vices than craft beers. Cigars for one. I fucking love a good smoke. In the summer, I try to have a toot once per week and in the winter I try to smoke whenever I can smoke inside. Which usually means I’m lighting up less than once a month, what with the increasingly anti-libertarian, draconian, nanny state laws pervading this nation. Nowadays, smoking cigars has almost become less about pleasure and more about exercising one’s inalienable rights to freedom!

I don’t want to sound like a poseur, but I don’t 100% enjoy cigars for how they make me feel. Yes, they taste great and are relaxing and are a great way to laze away a few weekend hours, that’s a given. But they also feel manly. The great Winston Churchill was wrong. A cigar is never JUST a cigar. Perhaps in his day, but not now when if I light up in Central Park I get everyone within a 50-foot radius glaring at me, the most passive-aggressive souls tsk tsking me, and the outright stereotypically rude New Yorkers coming up to me and calling me an asshole. An asshole? For indulging in pleasure? I’m fucking outside! I NEVER smoke within 10 yards of another human, and even then I casually ask those around me for permission. I likewise never smoke within sight of babies, children, or animals. I may not like those creatures but I’m no WC Fields!

I think the biggest problem sniveling little over-educated no-good-nik “goin’ green” yuppies have with cigar smoking is that it is manly. It evokes images of fat cat capitalists that like to eat steak, drink bourbon, fuck women, go golfing, and earn money. And we all know those things are bad because they kill animals, hurt livers and vulvas, clear out disgusting wastelands in order to build beautiful fairways, and they make people rich.

Or maybe a cigar IS simply just a cigar and these folks are just worried about second-hand smoke. Despite the fact that it isn’t even dangerous, fuck you The Truth and your annoyingly catchy sophistic commercials (”It musta been a typo!  A typo!  A typo!”  SHUT UP!).

OK, this wasn’t meant to be a crazy libertarian screed…let’s get to the reviews.

You know how you could take a class PASS/FAIL in college? That way you could be a lazy fuck, barely go to lectures and understand the material, achieve at an absolutely miserable level, and so long as you got a D+ you’d get a “PASS” on your report card and no one would know the wiser? Well, I don’t know as much about cigars as I know about beers, but I do know what I like. And, thus, my cigar reviews will be on a PASS/FAIL system.

I don’t have many cigar-smoking friends, and very few of them are in New York, so when I’m out of town with smoke-friendly pals we always have to allot an hour or two for a cigar. Usually this occurs on the golf course, but sometimes you’re lucky enough to find a friend with a balcony. Like my bud Batch. We needed to kill the time between breakfast and the-appropriate-hour-for-hitting-the-bar on Saturday and we knew that nothing would be better than a smoke. We’ve both becomes fans of most all of Oliva’s blends so we grabbed some. The smokes were enormous, definitely making us look like classic over-compensators. But I like a huge cigar that you can really get to know in the hour or two you pull on it.

The Oliva V has a great draw and the smoke comes easy. Very flavorful with tastes of coffee. Not too heavy so you don’t have to have your stomach full of cheeseburgers in order to not keel over from this one. A great little spiciness too. I can taste it on my tongue as I write this.  It was a perfect selection for a lazy Saturday of smoking, drinking, and philosophizing.

PASS

Before smoking we went to the supermarket to find the perfect beer to “pair” with our smokes. That’s always a tricky proposition. First of all, you don’t want something too powerful. A nice Scotch or bourbon always works but we didn’t want to be wasted by nightfall. Back in college I actually found a certain kind of root beer that went terrific with a cigar. But we needed some beer this time. We figured two or three lighter beers would be enough to get us through the cigar and feeling fine. Looking through the huge coolers I found nothing that intrigued me.

And then I saw it!

The cutest little bottle of beer. A bear with sunglasses juggling pomegranates! The label made me incredibly happy so we grabbed one–no better make it two, Batch–six-packs of the beer.

I’m being coy but I actually have a long history with this brew and it holds a warm place in my heart.  Last summer I was upstate visiting my sister for a little BBQ and I bought a six-pack of the Pomegranate Wheat on a whim.  And it fucking blew my mind!  I told any one that would listen how great this beer was.  Only problem was, I couldn’t find it anywhere once I got back to Manhattan.  I could find dozens upon dozens of other styles of Saranac, but never the Pomegranate Wheat.  So this would be my first time to have it since then.

Maybe I’d talked it up too much, maybe I had over-idealized it over the last year–who knows–but it didn’t blow my mind again.  I’m not even sure if you can have your mind blown twice by the same thing, but I certainly didn’t.  The beer was still good, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not even sure if I could call it great.  It was still tasty and flavorful and still eminently drinkable, but simply not world class as I had once thought.  Nevertheless, the beer got much better as the day went on.  This beer demands being drunk from a glass so that your nose can inhale all it’s wonderful fruity, wheaty, and pomegranate smells.  It’s quality stuff and I hope I don’t have to wait another year to have it again.

I may have not revisited a classic.  I may have discovered this beer’s flaws (not quite alcoholic enough, a little too thin, oddly not pomegranatey enough).  But, I did select a near-perfect beer for daytime drinking as we smoked and talked away the afternoon.  And, yes, we both polished off a full six-pack by the time our Olivas were smoked to the nub.

B+

5.8% ABV on draught

Before going to the Nats game, my friends and I hit some Capital Hill bars, wanting to throw back a few quality pops before going to the stadium. The first watering hole didn’t have that great of selection but they did have a free taco bar because I guess they like giving their patrons the shits. Correction, the bar actually had mini-tacos. They were like fucking taco sliders! Awesome. Every food tastes better when it is miniaturized and allows a man to feel like Goliath. I won’t say they tasted great and they kinda creeped me out in the same way the free buffet at a strip club would, but they still hit the spot.

I “paired” my taco sliders with Bell’s Oberon Ale, the only beer on tap I hadn’t had before. I don’t know much about the Bell’s Brewery as we don’t have much distribution of the brews in New York. I certainly wouldn’t call DC a better beer city than New York, nor a better drinking town, but they probably get a more diverse selection of beers from across this country. Each state’s “best” brewery seems to be well represented in the District. I would assume this to be because each state is well-represented by humans in the area, each of whom want to feel like they’re back home by drinking the brews they were weened on. My DC friends tell me that Michiganders consider Bell’s God’s gift to beer-drinkers. And, I must admit, the only previous Bell’s I’d had, their Two-Hearted Ale, was pretty solid. My friends further revealed that Michiganders seem to consider the Oberon the pinnacle of the brewery’s line. They told me that if talk beer with someone from The Wolverine State, The Great Lakes State, The Automotive State, or the Water-Winter Wonderland (why does Michigan have so many fucking nicknames?!) they would yak my ear off about Oberon and punch me were I to criticize it.

Well, get your knuckle sandwiches ready, Michigan. I didn’t love the Oberon, despite the fact that because I’m a huge nerd that plays bar trivia I know that the beer is named after the outermost of the major moons of Uranus which is actually named after a fairy character in Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Of course, it was served with fruit, one of my beer pet peeves. I found it lacked smell and was overly light in taste. Citrusy, but not much else. A little spice and a little hops perhaps. I’m actually shocked the ABV is so high. It’s better than macro shit like Blue Moon or Shock Top (though slightly different styles of course), but not much better, and it’s certainly worse than a Sam Adams Summer wheat. It goes down well though and I wouldn’t actually mind day-drinking outside with a few on some weekend. But inside, at a bar, give me something with a little more taste and bite.

C+

4.2% ABV

Some people push their bodies to the limit with extreme sports, climbing the highest mountains, swimming the longest bodies of water, running fucking marathons and competing in all sorts of things that end in -athon and -thlon. I push my body to the limit by spending my weekend with some out-of-town friends.

Went down to the DC area to hang with buddies Derek, Batch, and Whitey, drink a lot of highfalutin beers, and pretty much just act like a profligate.

Ignoring pure cash purchases, here’s what my online debit card statement looks like after the weekend.

06/27 WASHINGTON NATIONALS C WA… Debit -$14.00

06/27 PARADISE TOO, LLC WASHING… Debit -$34.10

06/28 BOURBON WASHINGTON DC Debit -$18.80

06/28 OLDVIRGINIA TOBACCO C … Debit -$13.97

06/28 TAQUERIA POBLANO 2400 MT … Debit -$20.86

06/29 THE LIBERTY TAVERN LLC … Debit -$14.72

06/29 THE LIBERTY TAVERN LLC … Debit -$22.89

06/29 BAR LOUIE DC WASHIN… Debit -$22.54

06/29 THE LIBERTY TAVERN LLC … Debit -$22.89

More concisely put, we engaged in lots of vices: smoking the kinds of things that will get you leered at in public, eating the kinds of food that will make you need angioplasty at a young age, and drinking some glorious beers. I think my friends and I are the only people around that have weekend long benders using expensive and rare beers, scotches, and bourbons. Let the serfs get cocked on Budweiser and Captain Morgan’s, I’m drinking Allagash or Stone! In the last three days I drank countless “A” beers that I can’t wait to review in the upcoming week. But, today, I’m going to start my recap by reviewing the shittiest beer I had all weekend: Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy.

You may recall I have quite a hated history with the brewery. True, I do enjoy their Berry Weisse, but every other Leinenkugel I’ve drank in my life has made me determined never to drink another one. And, I thought I would never, until I went to a Washington Nationals game Friday night at their beautiful new stadium. The beer selection there was abhorrent. Batch and I checked out the “micro” porch bar. There, the only beers available were decidedly not micros. Mike’s Hard Lemonade, your standard Buds and Millers, and many beers from the Leinenkugel line. Why has this brewery seemingly exploded so much in the past year? My friends know my hatred of Leinenkugel yet taunted me to try the sissy Summer Shandy. It actually sounded appealing and inspired. Lemonade mixed with beer? It’s like an alcoholic Arnold Palmer. And, of course it had a nice-looking label, which I’ve come to find out is often the best part of a Leinenkugel bottling.

Some hillbilly at the bar with a mouth sans teeth and Nats t-shirt sans sleeves commended me on my selection. At that stadium, just like at any others, they don’t give you the bottle because they think you’ll get drunk and heave-ho it over the railing at underperforming players. Thus, I had to embarrass myself by asking the cashier if she could please bring me the bottle back so that I could take a picture of it. She not only obliged, but was duly impressed that I had a craft beer blog. Overhearing us, and seeing me take my pictures, the hillbilly was likewise in awe, further commending me on my awesomeness.

“I only drink microbrews, y’all,” he whistled through his open jaw, toasting me with his Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat, the beer with hints of toothpaste.

“No, my good sir, you only drink shit.” If Leinenkugel, the 7th oldest American brewery, now owned by Miller, America’s 2nd biggest brewery, is considered “micro,” I can’t imagine what he considers the size of his dick.

As for the beer, it’s fucking heinous. I would have rather just had a legit Arnold Palmer. It tastes like weak light beer mixed with a cheap lemonade powdered mixture you might get from a giant tub. Again, I will say that a bottled beer/lemonade mixture is a fairly inspired idea, but the execution here is terrible. I wouldn’t mind if a decent beer-maker gave this a go, not that they would. Summer Shandy is simple shanty.

D+

4.7% ABV on draught

Attended a weekday happy hour event where all tap beers were just three bucks. Unfortunately, the limited draft beer menu chalked onto the wall looked something like this:

STELLA
MILLER LITE
HEFEWEIZEN
COORS
AMSTEL LIGHT

Ugh. It was as if the owner of the bar was a faithful reader of my blog and had created his beer menu by simply putting all my D- and F-rated beers on tap. What a despicable array. There was obviously only one beer I could possibly order, but I needed to know what it was. As most all people know, Hefeweizen is not a brand of beer, but rather a style. It was almost as if the beer menu looked like this:

ALE
LAGER
HEFEWEIZEN
STOUT
PORTER

I had to inquire with the bartender. I called the dunderhead over.

Aaron: “Hey, what’s the hefeweizen?”

Doofus: “It’s like, uh, a German wheat beer.”

Aaron: “Yes (dipshit), I know, but what kind is it?”

He must have thought I just couldn’t hear him over top the cackling hens seated near me cause he simply repeated what he said just a little bit louder.

Doofus: “IT’S A GERMAN WHEAT BEER!”

Fine. I ordered it. I was upset that I would inevitably have to walk my fat ass all the way across the length of the bar, tell some finance poseurs to part for this Jew like they were the Red Sea as I learned between them to ogle the tap, then nerdily scribbled the name down on a cocktail napkin. Yeah, not the coolest move when you’re at a bar and hoping women will find you dashing.

However, I was excited that I was going to get to sample a beer without knowing what it was. I thus couldn’t be bigoted. I don’t try to be biased when I review beers but much like even if Scorsese puts out a stinker people are gonna give him decent marks, sometimes if you drink a bad beer from an esteemed brewery you can’t help but overrate it. I had no idea whether this beer was coming from the finest German brewery in the world or from some basement beermaker from the Bronx.

This mystery hefeweizen was solid. Refreshing. Though I had just walked 50 blocks to get to the bar, so I would have been happy to have a Gatorade on tap. This hefe ain’t too complex, not too lemony either (that’s a good thing). It could use some more maltiness and bite, it’s pretty low in alcohol, but then again most hefes are. Also, it’s a little salty. It could use some more spice, but not salt that’s for sure. I enjoyed this beer less and less between my first sip and my last. Sour finish with not the greatest aftertaste. It’s like an American macrobrewery’s version of a hefe. Not much else to say.

Once I was finished, a second bartender, looking a tad brighter than the first but still not exactly like a MENSA candidate, came over for my next round.

THE “HONOR” STUDENT: Ya’ want another?

AARON: Sure, but what is it?

THE “HONOR” STUDENT: It’s a hefeweizen. Like a German wheat beer.

AARON: CHRIST. I know. But what fucking brand is it?!

The bartender actually walked the length of the bar, eyed the tap handle like it was written in Sanskrit and then returned to me.

THE “HONOR” STUDENT: Uh…it says like Whyd-marr brothers or something. Vid-mer maybe? Vide-mar?

That was enough. I knew what he was talking about. I ordered something else.

C

4.9% ABV

You pressed your luck, Leinenkugel. Or, rather, maybe I pressed my luck with the brewery. Just ten minutes ago I’m raving about their Berry Weiss and I should have just called it a beer-drinkin’ night. But, nope, had to go roll the multisided die and press my luck. Oh, and what should my roll get me but another terrible beer. Firstly, let me state that I can’t get the goddamn taste of the Berry Weiss out of my mouth. It’s not a bad taste or anything–in fact, I kinda enjoy it–but it feels like I licked on a few Blow Pops in the last hour and now I have a purple tongue and will have a sweet taste in my mouth for the rest of the evening. And, no, I haven’t checked the mirror to actually see if the Berry Weiss gave me the first purple tongue in beer-guzzling history, but it amuses me to think that I currently have one. Any how, I tried my best to get the berry taste out of my mouth so as to not taint my tasting and appreciation of the Honey Weiss, but it didn’t matter, it’s terribleness penetrated through the sweetness film over top my taste buds, hitting them like a battering ram breaking down a crack den’s door.

This is a real crummy beer. I don’t taste honey at all. It’s bitter and goes down harshly. I make a highly histrionic face every single time I take a sip of this beer. If I was actually with someone while drinking it, they would see my repulsed reaction to each sip and be like, “Come on! It can’t taste that bad! Stop overacting.” “Oh yeah, motherfucker, then you give it a sip.” And then they would and immediately sprint to the bathroom like they’d just accidentally drank some curdled milk. It’s sour, it’s over-carbonated but not drinkable at all, and it singes my tongue. This beer taste like the first time your “wacky” friend tries to brew his own beer and this is the shit he gives you. All proud of his first beer, oh, and he’s even printed out labels for the brew on his HP laser printer. Even though the beer sucks you want to be kind to your bud so you finish the whole bottle. Well, I have no one to be kind to but I want to be drunk so I likewise finish this whole disaster of a drink. Having said that, I think this is the first beer to give me a hangover while I’m in the midst of drinking it.

The label says this is “brewed with real Wisconsin honey.” Remind me never to celebrate Rosh Hashanah in Milwaukee.

D-

5.2% ABV on draught

I’ve made clear my disdain for “summer” beers several times in the past, continually claiming I will never drink one again. Alas, I found myself out of town and at a Philadelphia Phillies game last weekend, shocked to see the nice, new stadium had the most meager of beer selection. In fact, Sam Adams Summer was the only craft beer on tap in the entire joint as far as I could tell. Alas, I decided to give summer beers one more whirl. I’m glad I did. I’m certain I’ve had Sam Summer in the past, but I don’t recall it being this good. While most summer beers seem to be brewed for little sissies that don’t like the taste of beer and want the lowest of ABVs in order to not risk getting any alcohol poisoning, Sam still packs a bit of a punch. In fact, I kept asking my buddy, “Are we sure this is Sam Summer? Is it possible the tap was screwed up?!” It’s darker than most all pisswater yellow summer beers and actually has a nice, complex taste. Summer beer usually equals pussy beer (wouldn’t that be a great bottling, “Sam Adams Pussy”?) but not in this case. I don’t know if this is “how” you make a summer beer, but it’s how you make a tasty beer. Thus, based on a exceedingly small sample size and one single plastic cup draught at a ballgame, I will declare Sam Summer the best summer beer in the bid’ness.

B+